South Africa and the Transvaal War, Vol. 4 (of 8) / From Lord Roberts' Entry into the Free State to the Battle of Karree

Little by little the enclosing circle began to grow narrower. The infantry—the Cornwalls assisted by the Engineers—again set to work to push the enemy still farther back into the river, but otherwise little advance was made. The position was now sufficiently terrible for the enemy. Cronje’s trap was about a mile square, while commanding it in every direction were guns multifarious; bushes and banks and ravines were swept by cataracts of shrapnel, while volumes of greenish-yellow smoke from bursting lyddite curved and twisted around the river-bed, then carried their noxious vapour to the serene sapphire of the heavens. In the clear atmosphere the reiterations of Maxims filled up the pauses between the steady booming of artillery, while now and again the impotent despairing splutter of rifles from the enemy’s laager mingled with the stertorous rampage.

On the fourth day of Cronje’s resistance what might have been an unfortunate incident occurred. The Gloucester and Essex regiments by an accident had bivouacked on the north side of the river too close to the enemy’s laager. The result was that on the first gleam of daylight they were discovered by the Dutchmen, who treated them to a volley by way of reveillé. Luckily the firing was not at all up to the Boer mark and the regiments came off scot-free.

During the day General Smith Dorrien’s force on the north worked towards the doomed laager while General Knox’s brigade held the containing lines on the south side of the river. In the east General French was keeping an eye on a swarm of Boers who were hoping to come to the rescue of Cronje. These held a strong position on a kopje which seemed to be specially constructed by nature for defensive purposes. Still, when General Broadwood’s brigade and a battery of horse-artillery turned their attention to the summit and scoured it thoroughly, the Dutchmen helter-skelter fled. Unluckily for them, their precipitate action took them straight into the arms of General French, who having headed them towards the drift, now gave them so warm a reception that numbers bit the dust. Some escaped, but fifty were taken prisoners. Forage, provisions, and equipment were also seized, though the corpses of the slain were carried off, so that the tale of loss could not be told.

The capture of the kopje was an excellent move, as it was a useful position whence to watch for and intercept reinforcements that might be coming from Ladysmith or elsewhere to the succour of the doomed. A message was sent to the obdurate Commandant offering a safe conduct and a free pass anywhere for the women and children. Lord Roberts also proffered medical attendance and drugs. The offers were curtly rejected. Finding courteous overtures of no avail, the bombardment of the position was resumed, and the artillery continued to fire till dusk put an end to the operations. While the firing was taking place the mules of the 82nd Battery, while still hitched to the waggons, took it into their heads to stampede, causing a scene of the wildest confusion. The next day, however, all save one waggon were recovered.

During the night the Shropshire Regiment accomplished a fine feat. They pressed forward some two hundred yards, captured new ground, and there entrenched themselves. It was an excellent finale to four days’ incessant work under a withering fire, and by the 22nd they were fairly exhausted. They were then relieved by the Gordons. Here be it noticed that the Gordons were now incorporated with the Highland Brigade, which was thus composed of four kilted regiments. The Highland Light Infantry, who wear “trews,” had joined General Smith Dorrien’s force.

The exchange of positions between the Shropshires and Gordons was effected in a manner worthy of the slim Boer himself, and showed that the Britons had speedily taken practical lessons from their adversaries. The Shropshires having, as said, seized 200 yards of new ground, they were relieved the following morning by the Gordons. The Highlanders, snake-like, wormed themselves forward to the trenches on their stomachs, while the Shropshire men in like manner crawled over the bodies of the relieving force. An officer who witnessed the evolution said, “I have often heard of walking on an empty stomach, but I’m hanged if I’ve ever seen the feat accomplished so well and so literally.”

Another tremendous thunderstorm broke over the position, causing considerable discomfort to the troops, but still more to the unhappy creatures who, through the stout resistance of Cronje, were held to all the horrors of the trap into which he had fallen. We were now closing in on every side.

A grand attempt was made on the morning of the 23rd to bring help to the Dutchman. Commandant de Wet with a horde of some 1000 Boers, collected from the region of Ladysmith, appeared, and made a desperate effort to thrust himself through the British lines. Part of the force on its way towards its hoped-for destination was luckily accosted from a kopje occupied by the Scottish Borderers. The greeting, smart and accurate, was scarcely to the Dutchmen’s liking, and they made off in another direction, but still with the same result. From position to position they were hunted, and in sheer despair they made for an unoccupied kopje, where they hoped at last to make a stand. But they were disappointed. The lively Scottish Borderers were “one too many for them.” Seeing the Boers in act of seizing this point of vantage, the Borderers promptly hurled themselves in the coveted direction. There was an animated neck-and-neck race, and the Borderers, who won by a nose, promptly took possession of the hill and completely routed the Federals.

Finally the Boers found shelter in a kopje which was vis-à-vis to a like eminence held by the Yorkshires. A passage at arms followed, with the result that the fusillade of the enemy died a natural death. Then the Yorkshires, who had so strenuously brought about this result, were reinforced by the Buffs, lest some more of the Boer hosts from Ladysmith should put in an appearance. At this time the 75th and 62nd Batteries gave tongue from an adjacent farm, but their vociferous notes produced little effect upon the crown of the Boers’ stronghold.

So great was the silence that the Yorkshires moved on with a view to prodding the enemy in his lair, but, in the attempt, they were so furiously assailed by the shot of the enemy that they, in default of cover, were unable to proceed. Meanwhile the Buffs persevered, moving warily round the position till within 150 yards of the Dutchmen, who were eventually driven off. More than eighty—their horses having been shot—surrendered. On many of these were discovered explosive bullets, and it became evident that desperation was driving the Boers to disregard the rules of civilised warfare. Many of our wounded were found injured by these unholy missiles; and other tricks—barbarous tricks—were reported. On one occasion a Vickers-Maxim gun was directed at an ambulance, which at the time was fortunately unoccupied.

During the week our losses were fewer than on the opening day. Captain Dewar and Lieutenant Percival, 4th King’s Royal Rifles, and Lieutenant Angell, Welsh Regiment, were killed. Among the wounded were:—

2nd Gloucester—Lieutenant-Colonel R. F. Lindsell; 2nd Derbyshire—Lieutenant C. D. M. Harrington; 9th Lancers—Captain Campbell; P.R.H.A.—Lieutenant Houston; Royal Engineers—Captain Crookshank; 1st Lincoln—Second Lieutenant Wellesley; Argyll and Sutherland—Lieutenant and Adjutant Glasford; 1st East Kent Regiment (attached 2nd Battalion)—Lieutenant Hickman; 2nd Lincoln—Captain Gardner; King’s Own Scottish Borderers—Captain Pratt; East Kent—Captain Marriott; Yorkshire—Captain Pearson, Lieutenant Gunthorpe, 2nd Lieutenant Wardle.

Lieutenant Metge (1st Welsh Regiment) was missing.

Daily the enemy was squeezed into a smaller space. General Smith Dorrien had now pushed up the river-bed to within two hundred yards of Cronje’s entrenchments. The object lesson in perseverance, both on the part of Boers and British, was becoming almost awe-inspiring—the tension was veritably appalling. Soaked with rain to the very skin—the fevered skin that had been scorched, and toasted, and begrimed with dust—our men, grim and fierce, with the storm-winds piping the pipe of death about their ears, held their ground. Rations had been intermittent till the convoys began to come in, and, almost fasting, they had been acutely conscious of the foul, the nauseating atmosphere that now enveloped them like a loathely vaporous entanglement. The river had swollen and bore upon its turbid breast horrific revelations—thousands of rotting carcases and festering loads of poisonous wreckage, that rendered the act even of drawing breath almost a heroism. All along the great march endurance had been put to supreme test, for the track had been margined with the dead bodies of exhausted oxen and horses. These lay littered about, unburied, disembowelled, and in various stages of putrefaction. Everywhere vultures and flies and other loathsome parasites of the veldt hovered and sidled and crawled, glutting themselves at veritable orgies of destruction, and contesting their prizes with the winds. These, taking their fill, hastened to diffuse the remains of the grisly banquet far and wide. Thus the foul dust, wantonly distributed, blew in the throats and eyes and ears of gallant men, and contributed death more liberally, more pitifully, than even the bullets of the Boers!

Plentiful rain had fallen, saturating humanity, and causing the heated ground to retract the fumes of a charnel-house. But in one way better times had come. There was fuller fare. Large convoys made a daily appearance, and the men were refreshed after their labours with the promise of plenty. Food of a substantial kind was indeed necessary, for it served to attune the stomach to the noxious vapours that hourly grew almost tangible. Cronje, though he knew it not, was sowing the seeds of a harvest of revenge! He was killing his thousands! For many days our troops had been enduring lenten fare; they had rung the changes on hardships, fatigues, and self-abnegations of all kinds. They had been battered on by storms. They had outstripped transport and supplies. They had kept the inner man appeased and working on quarter rations. They had marched like giants in ten-league boots, and meanwhile fed like fairies; yet withal had borne countenances cheery and noble, full of confidence and unquenchable pluck. But these splendid creatures were but mortal. The foul fiends of enteric and malaria were already sapping their buoyant constitutions, and marking them, one after another, with the deadly seal of possession.

Every day of the Dutchman’s resistance was therefore full of horror, full of anxiety. There were continual rumours that the Boer reinforcements were in view, that the Federals were massing for a desperate effort. Wearied and battered, the cavalry at Koodoosrand were perpetually speeding on wild-goose chases, in one of which both General French and Colonel Haig nearly lost their lives. A reconnaissance in force had been ordered. The drift, swollen by rains, was now a torrent, and in crossing the General and his A.D.C. were thrown by their restive horses into the river, whence they only emerged safe and sound in consequence of their being fine swimmers and pneumonia-proof Britons.

Cronje, finding that the reinforcements failed to reach him, decided on the night of the 26th to cut his way out and seize a kopje before dawn. But his intention was frustrated by the Mounted Infantry, who, in spite of the darkness, kept a watchful eye on the slippery enemy.

Quite early on the morning of the 27th of February, the anniversary of Majuba day, the splutter of musketry greeted the ears of the dozing camp. Some one was up and doing early. It was the Canadians. They were acting on the principle of the early bird that catches the morning worm. Supported by the Gordons, Cornwalls, and Shropshires, they were advancing, building a trench in the very teeth of the enemy, and at fifty yards’ range were saluting him with such deadly warmth as to render his position untenable. How this energetic and gallant movement, the wonder and admiration of all, was brought about was described by the correspondent of the Times. “It appeared that Brigadier-General MacDonald sent from his bed a note to Lord Roberts, reminding him that Tuesday was the anniversary of that disaster which, we all remembered, he had by example, order, and threat himself done his best to avert, even while the panic had been at its height; Sir Henry Colvile submitted a suggested attack backed by the same unanswerable plea. For a moment Lord Roberts demurred to the plan; it seemed likely to cost too heavily, but the insistance of Canada broke down his reluctance, and the men of the oldest colony were sent out in the small hours of Tuesday morning to redeem the blot on the name of the mother-country.

“From the existing trench, some 700 yards long, on the northern bank, held jointly by the Gordons and the Canadians, the latter were ordered to advance in two lines—each, of course, in extended order—thirty yards apart, the first with bayonets fixed, the second reinforced by fifty Royal Engineers under Colonel Kincaid and Captain Boileau.

“In dead silence, and covered by a darkness only faintly illuminated by the merest rim of the dying moon, ‘with the old moon in her lap,’ the three companies of Canadians moved on over the bush-strewn ground. For over 400 yards the noiseless advance continued, and when within eighty yards of the Boer trench the trampling of the scrub betrayed the movement. Instantly the outer trench of the Boers burst into fire, which was kept up almost without intermission from five minutes to three o’clock to ten minutes past the hour. Under this fire the courage and discipline of the Canadians proved themselves. Flinging themselves on the ground, they kept up an incessant fire on the trenches, guided only by the flashes of their enemy’s rifles; and the Boers admit that they quickly reduced them to the necessity of lifting their rifles over their heads to the edge of the earthwork and pulling their triggers at random. Behind this line the Engineers did magnificent work; careless of danger, the trench was dug from the inner edge of the bank to the crest, and then for fifty or sixty yards out through the scrub. The Canadians retired three yards to this protection and waited for dawn, confident in their new position, which had entered the protected angle of the Boer position, and commanded alike the rifle-pits of the banks and the trefoil-shaped embrasures on the north.”

For some time it seemed as though hostilities were suspended, and then—a sign, a flutter of white, a signal of surrender caught the straining eyes of the regiment nearest the crest of the hill. In an instant the plains and the hollows, the kopjes, and even the dome of heaven, seemed animated—lending themselves to repeat the ringing cheer, to reiterate the cry of an immense joyous heart splitting a little universe in twain. Ears languid, ears hard-working, ears occupied, ears expectant, all caught the sound, echoed it and knew that at last the looked-for hour had come, Cronje had surrendered! Many Boers threw up their hands and dashed unarmed across the intervening space; others waved white flags and exposed themselves carelessly on their entrenchments, but not a shot was fired. Colonel Otter and Colonel Kincaid held a hasty consultation, which was disturbed by the sight of Sir Henry Colvile (commanding the Ninth Division) quietly riding down within 500 yards of the northern Boer trenches to bring the news that at that very moment a horseman was hurrying in with a white flag and Cronje’s unconditional surrender, to take effect at sunrise.

THE SURRENDER OF CRONJE

Then all was activity. A note was borne to Lord Roberts stating that Cronje had given in, and General Pretyman thereupon rode out to take his surrender. The scene was highly impressive. Lord Roberts, in front of the cart in which he slept, walked up and down awaiting his prisoner, while a guard of the Seaforth Highlanders with drawn bayonets formed a line to either side. In the distance a small group of horsemen was seen approaching, a silhouette which gradually grew clearer in the golden light of the morning. It was General Pretyman with the redoubtable Cronje riding a white pony on his right and the escort of the 12th Lancers following. The subsequent scene was a study in reserve. After all the tumultuous passions, the ferocity of bloodshed, the diamond-cut-diamond activities of death-dealing lyddite and Vickers-Maxims, the two leaders met without the smallest sign of emotion. To Lord Roberts, who stood with his staff awaiting him, Colonel Pretyman said, “Commandant Cronje, sir!” The two great men looked at each other, the Dutchman touched his hat, the Englishman returned the salute. The group dismounted, and then, regretfully be it noted, Lord Roberts, the blameless upright British soldier gave his hand to the tyrant of Potchefstroom. “You have made a gallant defence, sir,” said the British Commander-in-Chief; “I am glad to see you. I am glad to get so brave a man!”

The picture of the redoubtable Cronje as he approached our great little Field-Marshal was remarkable in its contrast. On the one side you saw a burly square-jawed agriculturist, grizzly of beard, tanned and battered of complexion, portly and cumbrous of form. On the other, you had the lithe figured aristocratical British soldier, trim in his kharki uniform, and wearing his sword with the air of nameless distinction which belongs to the born ruler of men. Cronje’s aspect was that of a substantial farmer, his heavy cane, his slouch hat encircled by its orange leather band, his bottle-green overcoat and tan boots were distinctly bucolic, but his rigid implacable countenance, an utterly impenetrable façade, betrayed the masterly and indomitable character of the man.

There is no doubt that by his fierce, his masterly resistance to the British he won for himself the respect of all who trapped him. His undoubted pluck, a quality which has such unending fascination for the English, served in a great measure to wipe off the terrible remembrance of his atrocious deeds in other years. Cronje spoke scarcely a word. He said there were 3000 Boers in the laager—as a matter of fact, there were over 3700—and also requested that his wife, son, grandson, and secretary might be allowed to remain with him. This request was acceded to; arrangements were made that his relatives should accompany him into captivity. He then partook of refreshment in Lord Roberts’ quarters with the staff. Though he smoked, he said little and remained gloomy and preoccupied.

The prisoners trooped across the river like some patriarchal or gipsy horde, with trousers turned up so as not to damp them in the swollen drift. They splashed along, each armed with his household effects, pots and pans, blankets and rifles, some jesting and skipping in sheer exuberance of animal spirits that long had been subdued, some stolid and serious in the full comprehension of the grievous end of all their pluck and endurance. And they had endured! From the hundreds of wounded that were brought in the same tale of suspense, and misery, and horror was told in varying keys. Always they had awaited reinforcement; they had even invented a scheme for cutting a way out to meet the relieving force which never came. But volunteers for this deed of daring were few. About a hundred in all. This meagre array was not sufficient. Others had pressed on the relentless Cronje the philosophy of surrender. They urged that directly, if not annihilated by shell fire, they would be laid low by fever; already eighty-seven men were slain and a hundred and sixty wounded. These had no doctors even to attend them. The surgeons had been left behind on the Modder, and the offer of Lord Roberts of medicine and succour had been refused. The suffering had indeed been terrible and now was of no avail.

It was not pleasing to the vanity of the British army to find themselves confronted with such a rabble of tatterdemalions, and to remember how this nondescript mob had so long held them in check. But there was no denying that the ruffians had qualities, and that they, unkempt and undisciplined as they were, had proved themselves foemen worthy of our steel and tacticians meriting study.

It was curious how much our troops had learnt both from the undisciplined Boers and the inexperienced Colonials. From the latter they picked up the art of taking cover, and from the former the art of obtaining it. The Boer was not content merely to crouch behind a stone and show a head only when about to shoot. He cunningly arranged his sangar so that he should expose no head at all. He built up his small stones to the necessary height, taking care to leave a central loophole through which he could take aim and yet remain invisible. An officer, in giving his opinion of the Boer as a fighter, showed the lessons that had been taught by him. “As a defender of defensive positions in a mountainous country he is unequalled. He digs good trenches and chooses good defensive positions, and he lies there quietly and waits for his enemy to advance across the open. But he never, hardly ever, dares to attack in the open, and if his flank is turned or his rear threatened, he gets nervous, and retires to a better position if he can. If our positions could be reversed—that is, if Tommy Atkins had to defend the kopjes, and if the Boers had to attack them in the open, there can be no doubt as to the result. Tommy, perhaps, would not be quite so good as the Boer in defence, but, on the other hand, the Boer would fail in the attack; indeed, he could not be brought to attempt it. As a shooter the Boer is no better than our own men. The only difference is that he attempts to shoot at far longer ranges. The Boer has taught us to dig big trenches and to use big guns as mobile artillery.”

The mobility of the big guns was at the moment more of a puzzle than ever. The Boers were in possession of some Vickers-Maxims in laager, two 15-pounders, and some big guns. We captured the minor weapons, but the big ones were sedulously hidden, and how they had vanished became a problem that was never solved. It was supposed they were buried in the bed of the river, but search failed to unearth them.

Trophies innumerable were picked up. Sir Howard Vincent succeeded in securing a quaint seventeenth-century Bible, and Roberts’ Horse possessed themselves of Cronje’s green bell-tent and ox-waggon. One cavalry officer thought himself lucky to secure a new pair of stays marked “11¾, waist 28 inches,” evidently the property of a capacious vrow. Letters multifarious were found, among them Cronje’s commission, signed by President Steyn.

Most of the prisoners, when interrogated, declared they were sick of the war, and confessed that but for their fear of Cronje they would long ago have surrendered. His was the powerful, the guiding hand. Some of them expressed queer notions of the causes of the trouble, giving forth at second and even third hand—and in a very garbled condition—the sentiments poured into them by “sympathisers.”

Said one, “The war is got up by the capitalists. The generals arrange a victory or a reverse to suit their own interests on the Stock Exchange!”

A private remonstrated, “You don’t include Lord Roberts? You’ll admit that he is disinterested!”

“Not a bit of it! He is a shareholder along with Chamberlain and Rhodes and the other millionaires. They all look after number one.”

Against such prejudice and ignorance it was useless to argue.

Some of the Free Staters expressed their joy at being relieved of the company of the Boers. They had been on bad terms with them, and had scarcely dared to speak a word in English for fear of their lives. One declared that he was not permitted even to address his horse in the odious language!

There were great and astonishing contrasts in the groups of prisoners that were gathered together. Many of them were youths of sixteen to eighteen years of age. Some seemed in a hopeless stage of sickness and despair, others attenuated by the amount of vinegar consumed to cure the stupefying effects of our lyddite. Endurance, it was plainly to be seen, had been carried to the last pitch. Some, on the other hand, appeared as though already reviving with the relaxation of the strain to which they had been subjected; some even delighted to find themselves in British hands, no longer tormented by “hell-scrapers,” as they called the shrapnel, and already clamouring to partake of spirits and refreshment, for which they had longed in vain. The rapture at their deliverance overcame all other sentiments; they had no thought for the ups and downs of the war, and many, indeed, were still unaware of the causes that had led them to share in it. Cronje had evidently kept a tight hand on them, and but for his unique influence many would long before have surrendered. This peculiar despotism was marvellous when it is considered that none of the younger commanders could induce more than a portion of his commando to follow him from the Natal side to the scene of operations. Cronje had the privilege of being the most admired and well-detested person on the stage of the moment, and one Boer was seen clenching his fist in the direction of the vanquished tyrant and exclaiming, “You hard man! you deserve to be shot.” There were many who heard him who endorsed the opinion.

A great deal of undue attention seemed to be bestowed on the Dutch Commandant, and evidently it was his undisputed military genius that earned for him the admiration of his conquerors. Only to this final display of skill and pluck can be attributed the deference paid to a man whose Anglophobia had made itself prominent for many years, one who cut such a despicable figure in his relations with us at Potchefstroom, and who was responsible in particular for much of the brutality which has been accredited to the Boers in general. It was certainly a case of turning the other cheek to the smiter, for the captive was allowed to take with him his wife, and retain in his possession his favourite horse, Wolmarens!

Accompanied by Mrs. Cronje, he was sent to Cape Town in a covered waggon, guarded by a special convoy under the command of Colonel Pretyman. There was considerable pathos in the scene of departure, for many of the other prisoners had gone through the ordeal of the bombardment with their wives by their sides, and these, less fortunate than Mrs. Cronje, had to be left behind!

The majority of people, it must be owned, were horrorstruck at the consideration shown to one to whom the word consideration was an empty name. A Scottish Colonial, writing home, expressed his irritation at the mode in which warfare was conducted. He said: “Cronje is now a hero, housed in the Admiral’s cabin on board the Doris. He is probably saying, ‘What fools the British are.’ For, give him a chance, and he would commit again the treacherous murders for which he has been responsible in the past with as little compunction as he would feel at putting his heel on a scorpion. I wonder if we may take this bit of foolishness as an indication of the way in which England is going to settle up finally with the Republics. Her policy has so often before ended in weakness that one cannot help feeling nervous.”

He was merely one of a thousand who argued that it was impossible to go to war with kid-gloves on, and who regretted the terms of the proclamation which had been made on the entry of Lord Roberts to the Free State. This proclamation, which will be discussed anon, was another of the nineteenth-century humanitarian movements which were mistakenly applied to seventeenth-century comprehension. To return to the events of Majuba day.

Lord Roberts subsequently visited the Boer laager, and testified his admiration of the ingenuity and energy with which the position was made almost impregnable to assault. In spite of ten days’ bombardment by over fifty guns and howitzers, the number of Boer wounded was said to amount to only 160—a fact which went to prove that the power of artillery can be broken by the ingenious use of the spade. The entrenchments, when examined, proved to be most skilfully contrived, with narrow mouths some eighteen inches wide, and wide bases, some quite three feet broad, which rendered them almost impregnable to shell fire.

The effect of the bombardment was terrific. The laager presented an appearance of black chaos, varied only by streaks of yellow, which told of the gambols of lyddite. Waggons were wrecked with shrapnel; some had ceased to exist; rings and twists and girandoles of distorted metal were all that was left of them. Within the laager was a decaying, disordered mass of Boer belongings, saddles innumerable, karosses and panniers, coats and feminine apparel, fragments of old tin trunks, and 2,000,000 rounds of ammunition; wreckage of all sorts, united by the super-evident, unavoidable, and persistent bonds of stench, which permeated everything, weaving visible and invisible in one noxious nightmare of the senses.

Round this arena of pestilence sentries were posted. It was necessary to prevent loot, though little of value remained save munitions of war. Most of the Boer property had been left behind in the hurried rush from Majersfontein and Spyfontein. Still the locality had to be guarded, and the guards, as well as all who approached, had to pocket their sensibilities. Indeed, it was a marvel how the Boers had managed to exist in the pestilential atmosphere that pervaded the river-bed. Dotted everywhere, or collected in heaps, already rotting in the tropical heat, were the remains of horses, mules, and cattle, some of which had been driven to death, while others had been hurried there by the voice of our howitzers or the rain of our rifle fire. In the fringe of this atmosphere our troops had lived for some three days past, for nightly they had advanced some fifty to an hundred yards nearer the laager, and there dug trenches and located themselves, till, at the end, the last three nights were passed almost within pistol-shot of the enemy and in the thick of a stench whose opacity was well-nigh suffocating.

An interesting account of his enforced stay in the laager was given by a trooper in Kitchener’s Horse, who was taken prisoner on the day previous to the great battle which settled Cronje’s fate. He had become separated from the rest of his troop while scouting along the Modder River. When he looked round for his friends, he found himself surrounded by a party of Boers, who, jumping from the bushes, fired upon him. His horse was shot and rolled over upon the young trooper, carrying him with him into the river. The Boers rescued him, relieved him of his bandolier, and made him prisoner. Together they went to the laager. “There,” the trooper said, “I was taken before Commandant Cronje, who asked me our strength and movements. On my replying that I was only a trooper, and did not know, he said, ‘Oh, never mind; if you don’t want to tell me, I shall not try to make you.’ A guard was placed over me, and we stayed the night in the laager. I should say there were about 6000 Dutchmen all told, and forty women and children. A great many among them were Irishmen, a few Scotchmen; in short, almost every nation was more or less numerously represented. All that night they were busy entrenching themselves, employing a great deal of native labour to help them.” Through the whole of the 18th of February the young man endured the bombardment, which he described as so heavy that it was impossible to remain in the laager, and consequently all, even the women and children, took refuge in the trenches. The Boers’ mode of firing he specially made a note of: “The Boers did not in the least mind our attack, and laughed amongst themselves as they saw the men advancing. They allowed them to come up to about 600 yards from the trenches, and then opened a tremendous fire from their rifles. It did not seem to be aimed at any particular man, but more at a certain fixed distance. At that they fired as fast as they could. The range was obtained by a few fixed shots, who fired, watched the dust caused by the strike of the bullets, and then gave out the range. Our men came up to within 150 yards and then retired. They fired volleys at the longer distances, but all their fire seemed to me to be short.” Each day there were losses, but comparatively few, as the bottle-shaped trenches afforded excellent cover; those that fell, however, were buried where they lay. He went on to say that “The shelling of Monday night destroyed several waggons, two of which were on either side of Cronje’s own. No one could have been braver than he was. He stood upon the waggon-step, field-glasses in hand, and did not seem to care in the least how thickly the shells and bullets fell. Many of the Free Staters, however, were quite the reverse, and were in a great state of terror when the bombardment began. The ammunition waggons blew up, and several of the provision waggons were burned. The shrapnel killed the majority of the horses and cattle, which had no shelter but the banks of the river. Beyond that the fire did little real damage.” The prisoner declared his belief that “could they have kept their laager out of fire they would never have surrendered. The loss of the provision waggons was what caused them to give in. They had only four days’ food left. Their ammunition was still plentiful. After the explosion of the ammunition waggons by shell-fire on February 19, all the remaining cartridges were distributed throughout the trenches, and on the south side every trench was still full of unused ammunition. Everything was done in the trenches, even the cooking, each individual having with him a box of provisions sunk into the ground. These boxes were replenished at night as there was no possibility of reaching the laager during the day.”

Lord Roberts addressed the Canadians, and expressed his satisfaction and appreciation of the splendid work they had done and the courage they had shown. To them he attributed the greater share in the Boer surrender. All were delighted at the attention shown the heroic Colonials, who had done splendid work, and at the exhibition of Lord Roberts’ tact and kindliness in thus singling out the Canadians for the position of honour. In the Jubilee of 1897 the Field-Marshal had told the Colonial Bodyguard that he would like to have them with him if he were ever in another campaign, and now the Canadians felt that the Chief’s cherished words had been no mere formula, and that they had been given the chance to distinguish themselves that they had so eagerly desired.

To General Colvile was given the credit of inventing the order of attack which at last brought the Boers to their senses. He arranged that the first rank should advance, bayonets fixed, till the enemy opened fire. Then they were to lie down and continue to fire on the Boers, while Engineers and the second line dug a trench. The trench thus made was within eighty yards of those of the Boers, and owing to its trefoil shape, the troops were able to enfilade both the river and northern trenches of the enemy and make them untenable. From their point in the original trench the Gordon Highlanders kept up a brisk fire, while the Shropshire Light Infantry, who were posted over a thousand yards to the north-west of the position, co-operated.

In the very successful attack on the enemy’s trenches the Royal Canadian Contingent lost seven killed and twenty-nine wounded. Major Pelletier, who commanded the French company, foremost of the three companies, was wounded, and also Lieutenant Armstrong. It is interesting to note that few of this gallant company of Great Britain’s defenders could speak English!

Colonel Otter, in command of the Canadians, had distinguished himself on many occasions by rare coolness and display of great talent in the field, and he now took pleasure in reporting excellently of the various members of the battalion under his command who had especially distinguished themselves. Among these were:—

Captain H. B. Stairs, 66th P. L. Fusiliers, and Lieutenant and Captain A. H. Macdonell, Royal Canadian Regiment. E Company, No. 5130, Corporal T. E. Baugh, R.C.R. F Company, No. 7782, Private O. Matheson, 12th Newcastle Field Battery; No. 7803, Private A. Sutherland, D. of Y. R. C. Hrs.; No. 7868, Sergeant W. Peppeatt, Royal Canadian Artillery; No. 7871, Corporal R. D. M’Donald, Royal Canadian Artillery; No. 7822, Private C. Harrison, 2nd Montreal Regiment C.A.; No. 7841, Private A. Bagot, 65th Montreal Rifles; No. 7778, Private Sievert, 93rd Cumberland Infantry; No. 7615, Private A. T. Seriault, 9th Voltigeurs de Quebec.

But these were only a select few among the number who were engaged in incomparable things done incomparably well.

CHAPTER II

MAFEKING IN DECEMBER AND JANUARY

It must be remembered that at that time the character of the fort they intended to assail was barely known. In reality, it rose some seven feet above a ditch deep and wide, which almost defied assault. However, it was decided that Game Tree, from which had poured voluble rifle and artillery fire for many weeks, must at all hazards be silenced. It was most important that communication with the north should be, if possible, re-established, and there was every hope that a successful fight might make it easier for Colonel Plumer to eventually join hands with the besieged.

The night passed. As the grey dawn broke over the veldt, a flash weirdly orange and a golden puff of smoke showed that the preconcerted plan had begun to be put in operation. Major Panzera with his seven-pounders had started the programme. Presently the Maxim rapped out in chorus, while on the right the great dusty crocodile, the armoured train, slunk along to its destination. Its whistle shrieked. It was Captain Vernon’s signal for action. On the instant a thin line of moving kharki broke from cover, bayonets glittered among the scrub, cheers and the rattle of musketry filled the air. Officers and men were dashing, as only Britons can dash, each striving to outrush the other towards the lair of the enemy. Quick as thought they had plunged into the scrub that girdled the sandbags, and excitedly, jubilantly, some one on Dummie Fort sang out, “They are swarming over the bags—the position is ours!”

All waited anxiously, almost breathlessly. The moments grew and grew, seconds became years. The sputtering of rifles continued, and swelled into a vast hum, and then some one—the same some one, only in a very different voice from that which spoke last, said hoarsely, “Our men are coming back!”... Yes. They were indeed coming back—the remnant—firing sullenly their parting shots ere they receded. The enemy’s position had been proved impregnable! Their parapet was loopholed in triple tiers and roofed with a bomb-proof protection. It had but a single opening, large enough to admit one man at a time. It was in firing his revolver into one of the loopholes and endeavouring to pull out a sandbag with his left hand that Lieutenant Paton was killed. Captain FitzClarence, far ahead of his men, was shot in the thigh within 150 yards of the fort, and both Captains Sandford and Vernon were laid low almost within a stone’s throw of the rifles of the enemy. Lieutenant Swinburne, who, directly Captain FitzClarence was wounded, led his men forward with dauntless energy, escaped unhurt. But few were equally lucky. Out of a storming party of eighty, twenty-one were killed and thirty-three wounded. It was when he saw this useless sacrifice of life that Major Godley sent a message to headquarters by the aide-de-camp. “Captain Vernon, sir, has been repulsed,” he said, “and Major Godley does not think it worth while trying again.” Nor was it. All that could be done was to send the ambulance to perform its grim duty.

In describing the tragic affair, Mr. Angus Hamilton, in Black and White, said: “Indeed, from the armoured train it could be seen that the progress of the men towards the fort was like the Charge of the Six Hundred into the Valley of Death—a conviction which became more and more apparent as our men gallantly held to their course. Within 300 yards of the fort it was almost impossible for any living thing to exist, and the rush of the bullets across the zone of fire was like the hum of myriads of locusts before the wind. The gallantry of the effort, the admirable steadiness and precision with which the attack was delivered, has been compared by our commanding officers to deeds which rank among the foremost of our martial chronicles.”

It was veritably a charge of heroes. Scarcely one man could be singled out as the bravest of the brave where all showed such magnificent courage. Captain Sandford, Indian Staff Corps, though wounded mortally by a bullet in the spine, with his last breath ordered his men to continue their advance and leave him to his fate. Captain FitzClarence, wounded in the leg, bleeding, exhausted, was seen sitting up and directing the charge. Elsewhere was Captain Vernon, with a bullet through him, rushing on and on in company with the heroic youth, Paton, whose effort to scale the inaccessible rampart brought about his death. This splendid fellow was shot through the heart; while Captain Vernon, who had again been hit, and still pursued his onward course into the teeth of the foe, was struck on the head and killed. The only other officer that escaped uninjured was Lieutenant Bridges, and he hurt his ankle while assisting a wounded comrade. The details of the killed and wounded were as follows:—Officers killed, three; wounded, one. Men killed, eighteen; wounded, thirty-two; missing, thirteen. Thus ended a superb effort, which, failure though it was, was vastly superior to many a meaner martial success.

So the garrison had to go on in the old, old way, though many popular and beloved members were now missing, and the hospital was full of cases that threatened to end seriously. Owing to the commendable forethought of Lord Edward Cecil and the enterprise of Messrs. Julius Weil, the garrison was provided with the wherewithal to make what resistance they did. Lord Edward Cecil’s work was ceaseless; as Chief Staff Officer he came in for both the external fights and the internal discords. He smoothed down quarrels, dispensed justice, allayed “siege fever” in all its intermittent phases, and in fact performed the tasks of ten men, with unfailing courtesy and inexhaustible patience. The pinch of the siege had gradually become more painful, and luxuries for some time had been commandeered for the use of the sick. Luckily, some Chinamen among the besieged contrived to grow vegetables in small quantities for the use of the inhabitants, and by force of good management in the disposal of the food supplies, which had been stocked by Messrs. Weil before the outbreak of the war, a fixed scale of rations for every man, woman, and child was secured. Conversation grew monotonous. It circled round the positions of the guns, the chance of relief, and question of stores, till it produced a mental giddiness that verged on the idiotic. Few grumbled, few swore. In this matter the Boers acted as a safety-valve. When people felt in the “something’s too bad of somebody” mood, they could go out and snipe, and vent their spleen usefully and to the honour of their country! Sundays were more than ever flat. There was not the excitement attendant on dodging shells in the open. Speculation on the subject of food languished round the limitations of Hobson’s choice. Mr. Neilly in the Pall Mall Gazette gave a sorry outline of the scanty fare. “I will attempt to give you an idea of what this scarcity of diet means. You are in a trench. In the early morning you have handed to you a piece of bread as big as a breakfast roll and a little tin of ‘bully’ sufficient for one average meal. You have some of it for breakfast, and if you have not an iron will you will eat the lot there and then, and go hungry for the rest of the twenty-four hours. What you leave is kept in the broiling sun until luncheon-time, when you find the beef reduced to an oily mess that does not look very appetising. You eat more and tighten your belt a hole or two to delude yourself into the belief that you have had a satisfying meal. You roast away again until dinner-time, when you gather up the last crumb and sigh for a few hours in the Adelaide Gallery or even in an East-End cookshop. But this is not all; you are for guard duty from midnight until 3 A.M. You have no sleep before you go on, and the slumber you fall into when relieved is destroyed an hour after you have entered upon it by the morning order to stand to arms. You thus get a schoolboy’s luncheon to keep you alive for twenty-four hours. It is made unpalatable by the sun, and if a Mafeking shower falls, the odds are that it will be flooded over and buried in the mud at the bottom of the trench.”

At this time Cronje, by way of recreation, returned to Mafeking, a fleeting visit, possibly to test some novel plans for the purpose of subduing the town. He came armed with incendiary shells, which were supposed to hit and blaze up and cause an inspiriting conflagration. But they did not succeed. They caused a conflagration certainly, but its duration was limited. At the end of it, Mafeking smiled still, but smiled with the curled lip of scorn. The convent, notwithstanding its symbol of the Red Cross, had been hit, and crushed, and wrecked; the hospital had been assailed; the sacred claim of humanity had been outraged; women and children had been subjected to terrors of fact and terrors of dread. These atrocities continued, and Her Majesty’s long-suffering subjects looked on and waited; they believed that deliverance must soon come. If they had not had that belief to help them, they would have died or surrendered. They believed that a day of reckoning would arrive, and that then Cronje and his diabolical hirelings would come by their deserts. If only they could have skipped six weeks and looked into the mirror of Fate, the drama at Paardeberg Drift would have reassured them. As it was, they had to live in faith. The series of atrocities that marked the Boer assaults had scarcely a counterpart in modern history, and it grew doubtful, if ever their turn should come, whether the besieged would be prevailed upon to emit one spark of that “magnanimity” with which their countrymen had been so lavish, and which the Boer had grown to account as a natural weakness of these “verdomde rooineks.”

Siege life was now becoming painfully irksome. A blazing sun, a drenching rain, a gust of wind through the pepper trees, this was all the variety at hand. The inhabitants of the town began to feel like ghosts of themselves, ghouls walking the earth, yet out of touch with those who spoke of them as a memory, and nothing more. To them it was the quiet of the grave. They waited like some enchanted princess of a fairy tale for the time when the magic wand should wave and their pulses throb with joy and excitation, with laughter and zest for the good things of the hour. Now they walked as in a dream to the accompaniment of shot and shell, surrounded by devilish ogres and looters of the dead, while somewhere within a few miles of them, kith and kin, living and breathing kith and kin, seemed as phantoms in a nightmare to pass by and to ignore! A speechless, soundless asphyxia of the soul seemed to be creeping over these tired patient heroes! They still waited and hoped, but hoping and waiting had now grown monotonous, almost mechanical, as the tickings of an eight-day clock.

Rumours many and fantastic were brought in by the natives. It was believed that a new year’s gift of three waggon loads of ammunition had been received by the Boers from Pretoria, and also a new gun. This weapon it was afterwards discovered was provided with more combustible bombs, horrible missiles that disgorge a chemical liquid which ignites in contact with the air. Here was a continual horror, and one that was only combated by extreme precautions. Though Colonel Baden-Powell in his nook on the stoep of his house continued to whistle his insouciant notes, his busy brains needed to be Machiavellian in their ingenuity. Some declared he slept with one eye open; others, that he never slept at all. Certain it was that when all were hushed in slumber he was “on the prowl,” either on the roof or in the open, reading from the heavens above or the earth beneath the enemy’s approaching machinations. Some find sermons in stones; B.-P. found inspiration in sand and sky.