Though thirteen thousand miles of foamDivide us from the landThat bred our sires, yet we their sonsWith you united stand,And in this year of warring strifeFrom over all the earthWe haste to help the grand old landThat gave our fathers birth.From inland plain, from mountain height,From city and from coast,From divers ends of all the earth,From the dear land we boastOur proud descent; and never whereOur language may be spokenShall the strong tie that binds us toOur mother land be broken.All round the world we live in landsThy enterprise has won,And when the day with you is pastWith us the rising sunBrings light to carry on the workBequeathed to us by Thee;We make and shape an Empire thatExtends from sea to sea.The same clear head, the same firm treadAnd independent airThat made all other men seem meanWho with thy sons compare;The same cool, prudent common-senseAnd strong decision thatConquer with the tools of peaceOr weapons of defence.Nor Greece, or Rome, or France, or SpainHad at their highest hourOne-half thy Empire, half thy wealthOr world-embracing power,And not to any race that livesIn History's wondrous storyHas ever been vouchsafed on earthSuch universal glory.And we thy sons as much as thoseWho stay at home with thee,All seedlings planted far awayFrom the ancestral tree,Breed true and show in branch and sapThe same old sturdy merit,And plant our British customs inThe lands that we inherit.And now from all your distant landsWith haste we come to showWe do not wait for you to askOur help against the foe,But gather round thee pleased to haveThe opportunityOf proving to the world in armsOur splendid unity.
Though thirteen thousand miles of foamDivide us from the landThat bred our sires, yet we their sonsWith you united stand,And in this year of warring strifeFrom over all the earthWe haste to help the grand old landThat gave our fathers birth.
From inland plain, from mountain height,From city and from coast,From divers ends of all the earth,From the dear land we boastOur proud descent; and never whereOur language may be spokenShall the strong tie that binds us toOur mother land be broken.
All round the world we live in landsThy enterprise has won,And when the day with you is pastWith us the rising sunBrings light to carry on the workBequeathed to us by Thee;We make and shape an Empire thatExtends from sea to sea.
The same clear head, the same firm treadAnd independent airThat made all other men seem meanWho with thy sons compare;The same cool, prudent common-senseAnd strong decision thatConquer with the tools of peaceOr weapons of defence.
Nor Greece, or Rome, or France, or SpainHad at their highest hourOne-half thy Empire, half thy wealthOr world-embracing power,And not to any race that livesIn History's wondrous storyHas ever been vouchsafed on earthSuch universal glory.
And we thy sons as much as thoseWho stay at home with thee,All seedlings planted far awayFrom the ancestral tree,Breed true and show in branch and sapThe same old sturdy merit,And plant our British customs inThe lands that we inherit.
And now from all your distant landsWith haste we come to showWe do not wait for you to askOur help against the foe,But gather round thee pleased to haveThe opportunityOf proving to the world in armsOur splendid unity.
Events have followed each other during the last week in such rapid succession that it is impossible to give more than a short epitome of the engagements at Karree Siding and Waterfall Drift. The cavalry reconnaissance to Brandfort showed that there was a considerable concentration of the enemy in that town, and as the Intelligence Department had information that a large force of Boers, re-equipped and remounted, had come down from Kroonstadt, it was deemed necessary to occupy the clump of kopjes in which Karee lies.
The enemy forestalled this move, and on 27th March the hills round Karee were reported held. As both flanks of the Karee position presented ground over which it was possible for cavalry to work, a plan of operations was made by which it was hoped that our occupation would result in the capture of the enemy's advance guard.
With this object a Cavalry division under General French, a brigade of Mounted Infantry and an Infantry division under Lieut.-Gen. Tucker concentrated at Glen on April 28th. On the following morning the Cavalry made a detour round the right of the enemy's position, the mounted Infantry under Lieut.-Col. Le Gallais making a similar movement round the left. The object of this operation was obvious. The mounted Corps were to be prepared to come into action at the rear of the Boer position as soon as General Tucker delivered his Infantry attack.
At 10 a.m., having received heliographic communication from Gen. French, Gen. Tucker put his division in motion—he advanced it across the four miles of plain leading to the foot of the range of kopjes in echelon of battalions, Gen. Chermside's Brigade on the right, General Wavell's on the left. The position which he essayed to attack, in the vicinity of Karee, may be roughly termed three parallel ridges with a stretch of valley between each.
Contrary to all expectation, the first ridge was found unoccupied and the infantry advanced without opposition, until the leading battalion (Lincolns) reached the foot of the second parallel. Here they were fired into by a patrol, which itself fell back at once. Under cover of a few rounds from the guns which came into action on the left of the advance, the second range was occupied. Beneath this lay the plain of Karee, a flat of about 2,000 yards, the station standing in the centre.
At first it was not evident that the third parallel of hills was held. But as the Norfolks, Lincolns, and six companies of the King's Own Scottish Borderers scaled a considerable kopje which commanded the left of the final parallel, shrapnel was burst over them from a field gun which appeared to be in the valley below. The rest of Chermside's brigade, covered by a few of the C.I.V., were pushing across the open. The mounted men and two companies of the K.O.S.B.'s advanced to within 200 yards of the final position before the enemy declared their presence by opening fire. The reception which the advanced line received from the marksmen lining the hill east and from individuals ensconced in the bushes on the slopes of the hillswas so sharp that the line was checked and part of it forced to retire. The three field batteries then came into action against a high tableland kop which formed the right of the held position, the advance remaining checked the while.
A battery was detached to aid the right, as the K.O.S.B.'s were suffering from a well-directed and well-ranged shrapnel fire. This battery was not able to come into action, as the teams were unable to bring the guns up the slope of the position chosen. But three of Wavell's battalions were brought across the open and an assault was attempted on the main kopje.
Matters practically remained at a deadlock until four p.m., when the sound of French's guns was heard in the rear of the enemy's position. Three shrapnel burst on the nek connecting the left and centre of the Boer position. The Mauser fire stopped as if by magic, and the enemy vacated. The whole line then advanced and occupied the enemy's position, the latter retreating across the plain in the direction of Brandfort, taking their guns with them, which they unlimbered at intervals to shell the cavalry.
Lady Edward Cecil and Lady Charles Bentinck are here on a visit.
An amusing incident occurred the other day at the Glen. An officer of one of the Guards Battalions, whose name resembles that of the station, was found bathing in the Modder by a flying sentry stationed there to prevent the men from bathing. The sentryknew his duty, and unceremoniously ordered the delinquent to come out of the water, whereupon the gallant captain, in all his nakedness, approached the bank and indignantly asked the man, "Can't you see I am an officer?"
And this suggests a few remarks about the much-discussed Treatment of our Sick.
The editorial in the number of April 6th was written by me, with the assistance of Mr. Kipling, who aided me in phrasing concisely and with force the declaration of British principles in the body of the article. The manuscript was set up and "proved" while he was with us, and then was sent to the Residency in order that the authorities might look up some one capable of translating it into the Taal language. It was the first of our editorials to be printed, like Lord Roberts's proclamation, in both tongues. In English it was entitled, "to the People of the Free State," and this line was paralleled in our columns with this counterpart in Taal:
Aan Het Volk van Den (? Oranje) Vrij-Staat.
Dr. A. Conan Doyle, who has since written so excellent a book upon "The Great Boer War," had recently arrived in Bloemfontein, and enjoyed his first welcoming dinner with the editors ofTheFriendat the Free State Hotel. He took a keen interest in our strange newspaper venture, and willingly wrote for us when we asked him to do so. The ringing, sturdily-phrased article, "A First Impression," which appeared in this number of April 6th, was by him.
But he came at the head of the Langman Field Hospital, and was, at first, busy in establishing that most excellent, much-needed institution on the cricket-ground; then busier far in looking after the enteric patients who passed under his care in numbers startling to record. It fell to me to write a notice of his arrival, in which I said—and from my heart—"We welcome him to the British Army. We had hoped to welcome him to the staff ofThe Friend, but, in view of the humane and philanthropic work which busies him night and day, we cannot betray such selfishness as to express any disappointment over this loss.
"So true a talent as his compels him to write, whether he will or no, and he has promised us a thought or an observation, now and then, out of his golden store. Perhaps at the end of the war he may give to the world a companion book to his undying 'White Company.' If it is called the 'Khaki Company,' and deals with the exploits of Englishmen of to-day, there will be, thank God, no lack of deeds of valour as stirring, courage as calm, and warfare as enthusiastic as he found to electrify the pages of the earlier work."
A first ImpressionIt was only Smith-Dorrien's brigade marching into Bloemfontein but if it could have passed just as it was, down Piccadilly and the Strand it would have driven London crazy. I got down from the truck which we were unloading and watched them, the ragged bearded fierce-eyed infantry straggling along under their cloud of dust. Who could conceive who has seen the prim soldier of peace that he could as quickly transform himself into this grim virile barbarian. Bulldog faces, hawk faces, hungry wolf faces—every kind of face except a weak one. Here and there a reeking pipe—here and there a man who smiled—but the most have their swarthy faces leaned a little forward, their eyes steadfast, their features impassive but resolute. Baggage waggons were passing, the mules all shin & ribs, with the escort tramping beside the wheels.A Page of Dr. Conan Doyle's "Copy."
A first Impression
It was only Smith-Dorrien's brigade marching into Bloemfontein but if it could have passed just as it was, down Piccadilly and the Strand it would have driven London crazy. I got down from the truck which we were unloading and watched them, the ragged bearded fierce-eyed infantry straggling along under their cloud of dust. Who could conceive who has seen the prim soldier of peace that he could as quickly transform himself into this grim virile barbarian. Bulldog faces, hawk faces, hungry wolf faces—every kind of face except a weak one. Here and there a reeking pipe—here and there a man who smiled—but the most have their swarthy faces leaned a little forward, their eyes steadfast, their features impassive but resolute. Baggage waggons were passing, the mules all shin & ribs, with the escort tramping beside the wheels.
A Page of Dr. Conan Doyle's "Copy."
All who were in Bloemfontein spoke as highly of the Langman Hospital as I have done, and in the same—even in a more ardent manner—had we all praised the Australian Field Hospital, which we got to knowbefore Lord Roberts took command. Especially did we exalt these institutions in our mind, because of the way in which we contrasted them with the outfits of the R.A. Medical Corps. We could not then see why it was that private individuals and colonies should surpass the richest nation on earth in their equipments for the care of the sick and wounded, or why the richest nation on earth should have to rely on these outside establishments, and beg of the Red Cross agents and of the people of South Africa for the means to complete the equipment of her own field hospitals.
It is not a pleasant subject. It does not force itself into a book upon "the brighter side of war" by reason of any especial harmony with that title. But it suggests a story which England needs to know—which England must wish to know if she means to keep her place among the fighting powers by the only means by which that status can be maintained—which is the stopping of every source of weakness and the reform of every evil in her army. As I said when I was urged to testify before the Commission which inquired into the subject, I did not study the matter when I was with the army. I was conscious of the general belief that the hospital service did not meet the demands of the situation either after the awful losses at Paardeberg, or, later, when enteric claimed between 5,000 and 7,000 victims at Bloemfontein.
Death was thick in the air. Nearly every correspondent and officer counted more friends who were sick than he had known to be wounded or killed in battle. The rains had set in. The veldt was like a marsh. The nights were bitterly cold. The dead intheir blankets pursued us in the streets of the town and on every ride we took upon the veldt. My concern for my son took me daily to the Volks Hospital, where the doctor and nurses said that enteric in Bloemfontein took on so mild a form that they should "consider it a lasting disgrace to have a patient die of that disease," and yet every time I went to that hospital I heard from other visitors how many were the deaths in the army hospitals. I heard, too, how bad were the sanitary arrangements, how inefficient were the often untrained "Tommy" nurses, how dreadful were the risks the patients were obliged to take (in some field hospitals) in obeying the commands of nature.
Now that I have returned to England I have had a high official of the Medical Corps say to me, "It was known beforehand that the service must break down in war because it was undermanned; it was never made familiar with its work, it had too few reserves to draw upon; when it was distended by the sudden and extraordinary demands of war it had to grow on paper, but not in fit and properpersonnelormateriel."
Here, then, is the basis for what must, sooner or later, be exposed to all the nation. Knowing that things were amiss, and that they could not have been otherwise, the people need not wait two or five years for all the facts, or for the creation of a mis-applied "sensation." Let them doggedly and firmly insist that the loudly promised reform of the army shall be certain to include the establishment of a properly trained, equipped, and proportioned R.A.M.C., and that the lingering prejudice of the regular army officer against this most useful, economic, and essential corps shall vanish before the will of the people as stubble is swept up by a prairie fire.
Mr. Gwynne wrote the obituary notice of Archibald Forbes, Mr. Fred W. Unger wrote a descriptive article called "The Inexpressible Veldt," and we were rejoiced once again to publish a contribution in verse by Mr. A. B. Paterson, of Sydney.
THE FRIEND.(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
No. 18.]
[Price One Penny
BLOEMFONTEIN, FRIDAY, APRIL 6, 1900
Monday or Tuesday, a pair of Field Glasses, a pair of Wire Cutters, and Leather Pouch. Please return same and claim reward.[16]
The time by which Civilians have to be in their houses is extended to 9 p.m. on Sundays, to enable them to return from Church.
B. Burnett Hitchcock, Lieutenant,Asst. Provost-Marshal to Military Governor.
April 6th, 1900.
'Twas in the days of front attack,This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it,That every "front" has got a "back,"And French is just the man to turn it.A wounded soldier on the groundWas lying flat behind a hummock;He proved the good old proverb sound,"An army travels on its stomach!"He lay as flat as any fish,His nose had worn a little furrow,He only had one frantic wish—That like an ant-bear he could burrow.The bullets whistled into space,The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,The four-point seven supplied the bass;You'd think the Devil's band was playing.A valiant comrade crawling nearObserved his most supine behaviourAnd crawled towards him, "Eh! what cheer?Buck up," says he "I've come to save yer!""You get up on my shoulders, mate!And if we live beyond the firing,I'll get a V.C. sure as fate,Because our blokes is all retiring."It's fifty pound a year," says he,"I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.""No," says the wounded man, "not me,I won't be saved; it's far too risky!"I'm fairly safe behind this mound,I've worn a hole that seems to fit me,But if you lift me off the groundIt's fifty pound to one they'll hit me!"So off towards the firing-lineHis mate crept slowly to the rear, oh!Remarking, "What a selfish swine!He might have let me be a hero!"
'Twas in the days of front attack,This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it,That every "front" has got a "back,"And French is just the man to turn it.
A wounded soldier on the groundWas lying flat behind a hummock;He proved the good old proverb sound,"An army travels on its stomach!"
He lay as flat as any fish,His nose had worn a little furrow,He only had one frantic wish—That like an ant-bear he could burrow.
The bullets whistled into space,The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,The four-point seven supplied the bass;You'd think the Devil's band was playing.
A valiant comrade crawling nearObserved his most supine behaviourAnd crawled towards him, "Eh! what cheer?Buck up," says he "I've come to save yer!"
"You get up on my shoulders, mate!And if we live beyond the firing,I'll get a V.C. sure as fate,Because our blokes is all retiring.
"It's fifty pound a year," says he,"I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.""No," says the wounded man, "not me,I won't be saved; it's far too risky!
"I'm fairly safe behind this mound,I've worn a hole that seems to fit me,But if you lift me off the groundIt's fifty pound to one they'll hit me!"
So off towards the firing-lineHis mate crept slowly to the rear, oh!Remarking, "What a selfish swine!He might have let me be a hero!"
The British have come to stay.
Our students of political economy have taught us that the constitution and laws of the old Free State were as nearly perfect as any that could be framed for a democracy.
The basis of the British Government is that of an enlightened and progressive democracy.
It is therefore certain that British rule will not bring any violent or revolutionary changes to the conditions under which you citizens have been living.
What are British principles?
The absolute independence of the individual, so long as he does not interfere with his neighbour's rights.
Prompt and equal justice, before the Lord, to all men.
A natural and rooted antipathy to anything savouring of military despotism, in any shape or form.
Absolute religious toleration and freedom of belief for all peoples.
Prompt and incorruptible justice to all men in every walk of life.
The right of every man to make his home his castle.
In view of these things and of the unalterable fact that the country has passed under a new rule, why should burghers hesitate or delay in making friends with the new situation?
We are your friends. We have never felt unfriendly toward you; for even in war we realised that you were deceived by unwise and selfish leaders.
Let us, then, repeat the new motto of the Free State, printed at the head of the newspaper, "All has come right," for we are certain that as soon as your people realise what is to be the new rule under which you are to live, you will know and acknowledge that the right has prevailed, and that never again shall you stand in fear of a military oligarchy like the Transvaal; or of tyranny or injustice in any form.
It was only Smith-Dorrien's Brigade marching into Bloemfontein, but if it could have been passed, just as it was, down Piccadilly and the Strand it would have driven London crazy. I got down from the truck which we were unloading and watched them, the ragged, bearded, fierce-eyed infantry, straggling along under their cloud of dust. Who could conceive, who has seen the prim soldier of peace, that he could so quickly transform himself into this grim, virile barbarian? Bulldog faces,hawk faces, hungry wolf faces, every sort of face except a weak one. Here and there a reeking pipe, here and there a man who smiled, but the most have their swarthy faces leaned a little forward, their eyes steadfast, their features impassive but resolute. Baggage waggons were passing, the mules all skin and ribs, with the escort tramping beside the wheels. Here are a clump of Highlanders, their workmanlike aprons in front, their keen faces burned black with months of the veldt.
It is an honoured name that they bear on their shoulder-straps. "Good old Gordons!" I cried as they passed me. The sergeant glanced at the dirty enthusiast in the undershirt. "What cheer, matey!" he cried, and his men squared their shoulders and put a touch of ginger into their stride. Here are a clump of Mounted Infantry, a grizzled fellow like a fierce old eagle at the head of them. Some are maned like lions, some have young, keen faces, but all leave an impression of familiarity upon me. And yet I have not seen irregular British cavalry before. Why should I be so familiar with this loose-limbed, head-erect, swaggering type; of course it is the American cow-boy over again. Strange that a few months of the veldt has produced exactly the same man that springs from the western prairie. But these men are warriors in the midst of war. Their eyes are hard and quick. They have the gaunt, intent look of men who live always under the shadow of danger. What splendid fellows there are among them!
Here is one who hails me; the last time I saw him we put on seventy runs together when they were rather badly needed, and here we are, partners inquite another game. Here is a man of fortune, young, handsome, the world at his feet, he comes out and throws himself into the thick of it. He is a great heavy-game shot, and has brought two other "dangerous men" out with him. Next him is an East London farmer, next him a fighting tea-planter of Ceylon, next him a sporting baronet, next him a journalist, next him a cricketer, whose name is a household word. Those are the men who press into the skirmish-line of England's battle.
And here are other men again, taller and sturdier than infantry of the line, grim, solid men, as straight as poplars. There is a maple-leaf, I think, upon their shoulder straps, and a British brigade is glad enough to have those maples beside them. For these are the Canadians, the men of Paardeberg, and there behind them are their comrades in glory, the Shropshire Light Infantry, slinging along with a touch of the spirit of their grand sporting colonel, the man who at forty-five is still the racquet champion of the British army. You see the dirty private with the rifle under his arm and the skin hanging from his nose. There are two little stars upon his strained shoulders, if you could see them under the dirt. That is the dandy captain who used to grumble about the food on the P. and O. "Nothing fit to eat," he used to cry as he glanced at his menu. I wonder what he would say now? Well he stands for his country, and England also may be a little less coddled and a little more adaptive before these brave, brave sons of hers have hoisted her flag over the "raad zaal" of Pretoria.
When you've done your meat and jipper—when you've 'ad your go o' beer—When your duff 'as filled the corners of your shape—P'raps you'll kindly spare some sympathy, and drop a silent tearFor a gentleman in khaki at the Cape.'E's an absent-bodied beggar—as it's needless to relate—An' 'is most frequented pub'll fail to find him,For 'e doesn't get a chance to chalk 'is drinks up on a slate'Cause 'e's left Three-thick and Drug-'ole far behind 'im.Lime-juice mixed with water the colour of mud(Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we),Bully beef and rooty, and where shall we find a spud?Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!Now we falls in of a mornin', an' we knows there's work to doSimultaneous with the risin' of the sun;We can see 'em on the kopjes, and their numbers isn't few,An' it's more than rather likely there's a gun.When we get within "fixed sights" it's ten to one the blighter's gone,And an absent-bodied beggar we shall find 'im,For 'e mounts 'is 'orse an' offs it when 'e finds us comin' on,An' e' never leaves a drop o' drink be'ind 'im.Pile arms! Lie down! Now let the Transport come!(Am I 'ungry and thirsty? Wait till I let you see!)Bully beef and rooty, and somebody's pinched my rum.Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!There's a chap called Wilfrid Lawson as is always on the squeak,An' 'e turns the liquor question inside out;But a bloke can do a gallon—if the tiddley's fairly weak—Without actually going on the shout.But the absent-bodied tippler feels a temporary checkWhen 'e tastes a kind of something to remind him,There's a Boer up the river with a stone around 'is neck'As a filter what old Cronje's left be'ind 'im.Fill mine! Mine too! (Smells like a bloomin' drain!)Fill at the nearest water, spite of the M.F.P.Bully beef and rooty, and something's give me a pain,Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!Don't you fancy I'm a-grousin'. You can look me in the faceAn' judge if I'm a coward or a cur,When I tells you 'ow I scrambled up each blood-an'-thunder placeWithout any 'esitation or demur.Still, your absent-bodied comrade's got a thirst what's run to waste,And 'e'll show you in the future, when you find 'imBack in Wellington or Chelsea, as 'e's not forgot the tasteOf the beer what 'e's at present left be'ind 'im.Wayo! 'Ere's luck! Drink to your sweet-'eart dear(Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we),Wait till the war is over, then for the pint o' beer,Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!
When you've done your meat and jipper—when you've 'ad your go o' beer—When your duff 'as filled the corners of your shape—P'raps you'll kindly spare some sympathy, and drop a silent tearFor a gentleman in khaki at the Cape.'E's an absent-bodied beggar—as it's needless to relate—An' 'is most frequented pub'll fail to find him,For 'e doesn't get a chance to chalk 'is drinks up on a slate'Cause 'e's left Three-thick and Drug-'ole far behind 'im.
Lime-juice mixed with water the colour of mud(Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we),Bully beef and rooty, and where shall we find a spud?Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!
Now we falls in of a mornin', an' we knows there's work to doSimultaneous with the risin' of the sun;We can see 'em on the kopjes, and their numbers isn't few,An' it's more than rather likely there's a gun.
When we get within "fixed sights" it's ten to one the blighter's gone,And an absent-bodied beggar we shall find 'im,For 'e mounts 'is 'orse an' offs it when 'e finds us comin' on,An' e' never leaves a drop o' drink be'ind 'im.
Pile arms! Lie down! Now let the Transport come!(Am I 'ungry and thirsty? Wait till I let you see!)Bully beef and rooty, and somebody's pinched my rum.Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!
There's a chap called Wilfrid Lawson as is always on the squeak,An' 'e turns the liquor question inside out;But a bloke can do a gallon—if the tiddley's fairly weak—Without actually going on the shout.But the absent-bodied tippler feels a temporary checkWhen 'e tastes a kind of something to remind him,There's a Boer up the river with a stone around 'is neck'As a filter what old Cronje's left be'ind 'im.
Fill mine! Mine too! (Smells like a bloomin' drain!)Fill at the nearest water, spite of the M.F.P.Bully beef and rooty, and something's give me a pain,Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!
Don't you fancy I'm a-grousin'. You can look me in the faceAn' judge if I'm a coward or a cur,When I tells you 'ow I scrambled up each blood-an'-thunder placeWithout any 'esitation or demur.Still, your absent-bodied comrade's got a thirst what's run to waste,And 'e'll show you in the future, when you find 'imBack in Wellington or Chelsea, as 'e's not forgot the tasteOf the beer what 'e's at present left be'ind 'im.
Wayo! 'Ere's luck! Drink to your sweet-'eart dear(Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we),Wait till the war is over, then for the pint o' beer,Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!
A chapter in which we also tell of a modest Prince and a gallant Adventurer.
"The Friend" contained notices of Kruger sovereigns and Transvaal pennies for sale, of Boer rifles and saddles, but none of the postage stamps of the former Free State or the newly surcharged ones in use by the Army. Though Transvaal pennies fetched twenty-five shillings and were in great demand, the real enthusiasm of collectors was for postage stamps, and officers and others were busy as bees buying stamps and having them erased to make them the more valuable.
South Africa is as bare and barren a place for collectors, and even for the modest traveller who wishes for merely one trifling souvenir, as can be imagined. The war provided some trophies in the way of shells and Mauser rifles, but outside these there was nothing except, perhaps, the empty ostrich eggs to be found in every Boer house—and also to be found everywhere else in the civilised world.
The most coveted war trophies were: first, theTransvaal and Free State flags; second, the extraordinary waistcoats worn by a few Boers, and covered all over with cartridge slits or pockets made especially to hold the Mauser "clips" of five cartridges each; third, old Dutch Bibles illustrated by quaint woodcuts, and fourth, Boer rifles. However, even the war trophies were few and hard to get, and the singular energy of collectors expended itself in the gathering of new and old postage stamps, at which generals, colonels, and Tommies busied themselves, and a well-known London man of my acquaintance cleared a profit of £300, still reserving for himself a handsome collection.
The name of Prince Francis of Teck no longer appeared inThe Friendbeneath the demand he had been making for horses. I remember that the circus-ground he had pre-empted for the safe-keeping of his stock was now full of animals one day, half-empty the next day, and full again on the third, as he bought and distributed his live stock. I want, before I forget it, to tell how some of us editors entertained him without having the vaguest idea who he was.
He was invited to dinner at the Free State Hotel by Mr. Landon, who saw him seated and then introduced him to the rest of us, but in so indistinct a manner that we did not catch his name. We simply saw in our company a handsome and stalwart young officer of imposing stature, and evidently profound good-nature. We all conversed upon the current topics of the day and place, and one of us, I remember, had occasion to differ with our guest, diametrically, upon some point—doing so as bluntly, though not at all rudely, as men were apt to do in such a place and at such a time—when the extra and more elaborate formalities are apt tobe laid aside for future use at the Mount Nelson Hotel, and later in the routine of life at home.
After dinner our guest suggested that he should enjoy a chat and smoke in our company elsewhere than in the noisy dining-room, so we invited him to Mr. Kipling's bedroom, which was larger than Mr. Landon's or Mr. Gwynne's or mine. We spent a very pleasant hour in freest converse, one of us being prone upon one bed and rolling around on it pipe in mouth, while our guest lolled upon a cot beside the chest of drawers, and the others held down two chairs and looked after the distribution of the cigarettes and the less dry refreshments at our command.
We were not able, by any means, to agree with some of the propositions of our guest, but he accepted our views in a spirit of good-humour, or of a desire to learn what we had seen and studied. He talked a great deal about horses, and about the fertile ingenuity of the native horse trader, as well as of his own ability to defeat him at his wiles—but we took no hint from this. When he had gone we asked Mr. Landon, "Who was that? We did not catch his name."
The largest advertisement in the paper was that of Murray Guthrie, Esq., M.P., whose address just then was "the Railway Station." He was most generously giving up his time to the receipt and distribution of those parcels for the troops which were now beginning to come from England in great and little packing-cases, and large and small bundles numbering enough to be reckoned by the car-load.
The Capitulation of Bloemfontein.From a painting by Lester Ralph.
The Capitulation of Bloemfontein.From a painting by Lester Ralph.
We had received the news of the killing of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil in an engagement with LordMethuen's force, and Mr. Gwynne wrote a spirited leader in honour of the Frenchman's memory.
We heard some interesting details about the capture of Villebois, which I think have never been published. His commando threatened Boshof, and when our force began to attack the kopje where he was lodged our second shell killed him. He was not the only nobleman in his commando, for among the prisoners we captured one was a Russian prince and another was the Comte Breda, a Frenchman, like his leader. Another prisoner was a stalwart Englishman named Simpson, whose long beard was braided to keep it out of the way when he was shooting. Physically, he was the most splendid specimen of manhood our soldiers had seen in the Boer ranks. Lord Methuen ordered a military burial, and commanded Colonel Higgins of the Third Welsh Borderers to obtain a fitting tombstone. The English general attended the funeral, which took place in Boshof cemetery. "General" Villebois was buried in a blanket, but this was covered by the Union Jack when the body was solemnly borne to the grave between the lines of the men of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment. No chaplain officiated, but none of the formalities of a complete military service were omitted. The Comte Breda made a little speech at the close, thanking the British for their courtesy and kindness. After that our own dead were buried in the same little cemetery.
The affair provoked great and deep discussion, and so many British officers were displeased by what Lord Methuen had seen fit to do thatThe Friendwas at pains to try and clear the air of the false impressionthat one brave general had not a right to honour another in this soldierly way. We also pictured Villebois as he appeared to us, a knight of ancient pattern, a restless, gallant warrior, who had political reasons for wishing to keep himself in the mind of his people while waiting for the ripening of his plans. The line on his gravestone, "died on the field of Honour," was originally written "on the field of battle," and was ordered to be changed at the last moment. This phrase also angered many British, who, presumably, thought that a grand monument had been set up over the unfortunate Frenchman. In fact, the stone only cost ten pounds when dressed and inscribed, and in a country where such things fetch twice their value here.
THE FRIEND.(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
No. 19.]
[Price One Penny
BLOEMFONTEIN, SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1900.
(The following message has been received by F.M. Lord Roberts from Lord Methuen: "Arrangements have been made for the burial of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil this evening with military honours.")
A short, well-built, admirably proportioned man, with quick, expressive eyes, and an open, frank countenance was the late Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil. He was a soldier, and a gallant soldier, from the top of his close-cropped head to the soles of his daintily-shod feet. Wherever there was war, or the possibilities of war, de Villebois-Mareuil wason the spot ready to fight for whichever side, in his eyes, appeared to have the greater claims on justice. Impulsive to a degree, he was often drawn to conclusions for which he could never give logical grounds. The picturesqueness of the Boer side of the war, the presence of old Huguenot names among those of the Boer leaders, the imagined wrongs of the two Republics, were quite sufficient to attract the generous and emotional Frenchman into the struggle. And once in the struggle, he gave the whole of his energy to it. Not content with drawing the sword for the two Republics, he wielded a charming pen on their behalf. Some of his letters to the ParisLibertéprove that if the world has lost a gallant soldier, it has also lost a brilliant war correspondent.
To us English, imbued as we are with a full appreciation of everything which appears manly or sporting, the figure of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil is particularly sympathetic. We overlook his somewhat illogical defence of what appears to us the gross injustice of the Transvaal's dealings with Englishmen, and we only see a gallant Frenchman fighting and laying down his life for a cause which he espoused with the warmth of a generous nature. There is something touching in a sentence of his which appears in one of his letters from South Africa. "When I came here I believed I was going to the sacrifice." Gallant, generous, chivalrous soldier: May God rest his soul!
Over his grave we forget that he fought against us, and we think only of the gallant soldier. A British bullet laid him low, but a British General lays him to rest with full military honours.
Kopjes are steep, and the veldt is brown—(Utterly true, if you pause to think)Biscuits are done and your luck is down;"Modder" is not an inspiriting drink(Dead Boers' taint, and defunct mules stink).Better the sound of the screaming bomb,Excitement and hurry of Hell's own brink—Alas! for a tune on the gay Pom-pom."Action front!"—And the guns are round,Teams go back with the chains a-clink.We're reaping the storm that the scouts have sown(The sun gets red and the clouds are pink)."Show for the lyddite, that's all"—you think(Frenchmen would shrug, with asacré nom),When out in the dusk, in the half of a jink,Suddenly singeth the brisk Pom-pom."Pom-pom-pom"—and the shells have flown;"Bang-bang-bang"—without rise or sink—Accurate sameness to half a tone—Whizzing one-pounders—don't stop to think—Open the ranks like a "spieler's" wink.This is a speedy and frolicsome bomb,Do not despise it, but do not shrink,This is a nerve-test, this swift Pom-pom.ENVOI.Oom, when you sit in the dark and think,After the war, and your nights are long,Bitterness sweeten of cups you drinkWith a memory sad of your sweet Pom-pom.
Kopjes are steep, and the veldt is brown—(Utterly true, if you pause to think)Biscuits are done and your luck is down;"Modder" is not an inspiriting drink(Dead Boers' taint, and defunct mules stink).Better the sound of the screaming bomb,Excitement and hurry of Hell's own brink—Alas! for a tune on the gay Pom-pom.
"Action front!"—And the guns are round,Teams go back with the chains a-clink.We're reaping the storm that the scouts have sown(The sun gets red and the clouds are pink)."Show for the lyddite, that's all"—you think(Frenchmen would shrug, with asacré nom),When out in the dusk, in the half of a jink,Suddenly singeth the brisk Pom-pom.
"Pom-pom-pom"—and the shells have flown;"Bang-bang-bang"—without rise or sink—Accurate sameness to half a tone—Whizzing one-pounders—don't stop to think—Open the ranks like a "spieler's" wink.This is a speedy and frolicsome bomb,Do not despise it, but do not shrink,This is a nerve-test, this swift Pom-pom.
ENVOI.
Oom, when you sit in the dark and think,After the war, and your nights are long,Bitterness sweeten of cups you drinkWith a memory sad of your sweet Pom-pom.
It happened about the time of the Paardeberg affair, or, to be exact, at 12.10 a.m. on the 22nd of February, 1900, our battery (the 82nd R.F.A.) had throughout the day catered diligently and well for the tastes of Cronje and his followers. They had breakfast betimes in the shape of shrapnel (unboiled), liberally and impartially distributed to all and sundry within the laager; luncheon, tea, and supper followed in due succession, each consisting principally of the same palatable diet, flavoured at intervals with the celebrated Lyddite sauce. This same is noted for its piquancy and marvellous power of imparting elasticity to the lower extremities (gouty and dropsical people please copy).
We returned to camp that night pretty well tired out, and hungry enough to eat "beef" (troop horse, isn't it?), and wondering what our good Poulter, the batterychef, had prepared in the shape of grub—we had fought all day on a couple of "Spratt's gum-hardeners." As we neared the camp a most appetising odour smote our olfactory nerves. "Beef stew," says our No. 1, who has a wonderful nose for odours. "Garn," retorts Driver Jones, who loves a joke; "more likely an old goat that's 'scorfed' the inside of one of 'Redfern's trenches' (this is a battery joke); too strong for beef." Well, by this time we had arrived, and some one who knew said it was veal, and that Mason, our Mason, Mason the mighty hunter and what-not, had commandeered it.
Presently arrived the cooks and camp kettles, and we settled down to a good "buster." When nothingwas left but empty pots and vain longings, we lit our pipes, and the aromatic fumes of our Boer's Headcabbagiowere wafted heavenwards, our veracious raconteur related how he had captured the calf. How our pulses throbbed and our blood rose to fever heat as he told how he tore away his game from under the very horns of its enraged mother; and how, with the calf on his back, he had been chased five miles and over a big kopje strewn with boulders as big as an A.S.C. waggon, and finally, seeing no other mode of escape, had hurled the animal (the calf, not its maternal relative) from the top of the kopje, and in sheer desperation had leaped down after it, breaking his fall by alighting on its body.
Bidding us good-night, he left us to imagine what he would have broken had he alighted off its body.
Feeling the spirit of contentment hovering o'er us, we prepared to turn in. The guns had previously been unlimbered and were ready for action, with their muzzles pointing to the enemy. Formed up in rear were the six gun limbers and six ammunition waggons, each with its team of six horses still hooked in in case of any emergency. In addition were the horses of the single riders, tied by their headropes to different parts of the carriages, making a total of somewhere about a hundred horses.
Well, we had comfortably settled down and were enjoying our first sleep when the sentries were startled by a most unearthly noise from the vicinity of the camp. It sounded like a dyspeptic groan from a more than ordinarily cavernous stomach. The horses pricked up their ears and the sentries clutched their carbines tighter as they peered intothe darkness. Suddenly came the sound again—a mournful, melancholy, hair-raising sound. Like a flash the whole battery of horses, as though acting on a signal, stampeded into the night, taking the waggons with them; over sleeping men they went, stopping for no obstacles, overturning guns in their mad career, and heading straight for the enemy's trenches. The outposts, thinking the Boers were trying to break through the lines, opened fire at nothing. The Boers, thinking they were attacked, did ditto. It was a perfect pandemonium for a few minutes. The spiteful spit-puff of the Mauser and sharp crack of the Lee-Metford, the whole blending with the cries of the injured and the shouts of the men who were trying to stop the runaways, made an impression that few who witnessed the scene will ever forget.
We had several more or less severely injured, lost about thirty horses and one waggon, besides several that were overturned and smashed.
All this damage was caused by the lowing of an old cow who had wandered through the camp seeking her lost offspring.
Moral.—Hanker ye after the fleshpots, commandeer ye not, but buy! buy! buy!
Note.—Wanted to know—videthe Press report of Paardeberg action—Since when has the 82nd Battery, R.F.A., become a mule battery?