Hekpoort, September 5th, 1900. We've stood to our nags (confound them!) We've thought of our native land; We have cussed our English brother, (For he does not understand.) We've cussed the whole of creation, And the cross swings low for the morn, Last straw (and by stern obligation) To the Empire's load we've borne. Monday, September 3rd. ReveillÉ at three o'clock, and coming after a few days of welcome rest in the camp by the Pretoria Racecourse, a camp resembling a vast rubbish field with the addition of open latrines, we naturally felt more annoyed than when on the march, hence these idle rhymes. On Sunday, after a short Divine Service, at which our major presided, we had to fall in and draw remounts. Hence "ReveillÉ," "Saddle up and stand to your horses!" I chose rather a good mount in the horse corral, but as the sergeants had the privilege of choosing from those we drew, I lost it, and so abandoned any intentions of trying to secure another good one. There is no attempt on these occasions to see that the right man has the right horse: it's "Hobson's choice." Even at Maitland camp, where I drew my first mount, no such attempt was made, the consequence being that I, scaling about 13-st. or more with my kit on, and heaven only knows what with my loaded saddle, drew when my turn came a weak little mare, which I had to stick to, to our mutual disadvantage, while lighter men drew bigger and stronger horses. Only a few days ago I received amongst my mails a letter from my sister, who inquired, "How is your horse?" Which one? "Stumbles" is not, "Ponto" is not, "Juggernaut" is not, "Diamond Jubilee" is not, "BÊte Noire" is not. My present one, which I have not named, is, and I sometimes wish he wasn't. When I drew him at a venture, I vainly hoped he was not like other horses, especially that Argentine. Well, apart from stumbling and reverentially kneeling on most inopportune occasions, I have not much fault to find with him. To-day is our first day on this fresh jaunt (we are to join Clements), and already more than half the horses dished out to us seem played out. You see they have all passed through the Sick Horse Farm, and I presume are really convalescents. They dragged us along at the commencement of the day, and we had to drag them along at the end, which may sound like an equal division of labour, but which, in my opinion, it is not. However, to be very serious, our lives might have to depend upon these brutes at any moment, apart from the fact of our necks being perpetually in danger on account of their stumbling propensities. Still apart from the inconvenience of having to bury one, I fancy there would not be much concern on that count. We have halted at Rietfontein which is a mile or so from Commando Nek. Here is a large A.S.C. depÔt, from which columns working in the district can draw supplies. It has been quite a treat to have tea by daylight. Tuesday, September 4th. 'Nother three o'clock reveillÉ! Passing by Commando Nek we were surprised at the difference since we were here about a month ago. Then the trees were bare, nearly all the veldt burnt and black, and the oat fields trodden down. Now the trees are wearing o' the green, and the once blackened veldt has assumed a verdant and youthful appearance, while the oat fields remind one of home, almost. For this is the Krugersdorp District, which we like so well, though, alas, the orange groves are on the other side (north) of the Magaliesberg. A strange thing happened after passing our old camping ground (of about a month ago) at Commando Nek. Instead of recognising familiar landmarks and houses, everything seemed strange and new to me. Said the man on my left in the ranks, "There's the farm where those Tommies got the porkers." To which I remarked vacantly, "Oh!" Then, further on, "Haven't the oats come on in that field?" Again, I helplessly "Er—yes." Then, "I wonder if they've got any fowls left in that shanty over there?" I, dissembling knowledge no longer, at last observed, "Really I don't understand it. I can't remember this place a bit." To which my neighbour replied, "Don't you remember coming this way when we were leading those Argentine remounts?" Those Argentine remounts! All was explained at last. Of course, I saw and remembered naught save those awful brutes. We caught Clements up at ten o'clock—encamped to our joy—so here we are with "piled arms," "saddles off," and "horses picketed." As we came into camp we heard once again the Mausers of the snipers afar off. We have rigged up a sun shelter and have just dined, our "scoff" (Kaffir for "grub") being bread and bully beef. Apropos: First Yeoman: "I say, is this bully beef American?" Second Yeoman: "No, 'Orse-tralian, I believe." Wednesday, September 5th. "The peaches are a-blooming, And the guns are a-booming, And I want you, my honey, Yus, I do." We had reveillÉ at a more Christian-like time this morning (4.30), and moved out as supports to our other troop (Devons), who were advance party. We number eighteen Sussex men, all told, in our ranks, and are led by Mr. Stanley, a Somerset I.Y. officer, who on our last trip was in charge of the Ross Gun Section, which consisted of two quick-firing Colt guns. After bare trees, dry veldt and dusty tracks, it is a real treat for one's eyes to see this fine district assuming its spring garb. Through the bright green patches of oats and barley we rode, past peach trees and bushes in full bloom, sometimes through a hedge of them, the pink blooms brushing against one's cheek. Then we came to a bend of the Crocodile River, with its rugged banks covered with trees and undergrowth, and the water rushing swiftly along between and over the huge rocks in its bed. This we forded at the nearest drift, the water reaching up to the horses' bellies. The general idea was for us mounted troops to clear the valley, and the infantry the ridges of kopjes. We were soon being sniped at from the right and the left, by, I presume, numerous small parties of Boers, and after riding about a mile were dismounted behind a farmhouse, and took up a position on the banks of the Crocodile. The scene was truly idyllic. Below us the river in this particular place was placidly flowing, the various trees on its banks were bursting out in their spring foliage, and birds were twittering amongst them: indeed, one cheeky little feathered thing came and perched on a peach tree covered in pink blossom close by and piped a matin to me, and there was I, lounging luxuriously in the deep grass, a pipe in my mouth, a Lee-Enfield across my knees, and a keen eye on the range of kopjes opposite. Truly, the spring poet's opportunity, but alas, beyond the few lines with which I have dared to head to-day's notes, I could do naught in that line. Soon our artillery began throwing shrapnel on the top of the objectionable height, and, later, the Mausers began to speak a little further on, and that has been the day's game. I don't know our losses yet, but we have undoubtedly had some. Our crowd had a horse killed, of course. We had a good deal of visiting to do, calling at this farm and that, and inquiring if the "good man" was at home. This is the usual scene: Farmhouse of a humble order. A few timid Kaffirs loitering around, also a few fowls and slack-looking mongrels. Gentleman in Khaki rides up, and in the door appear two or more round-faced women wearing headgear of the baby-bonnet mode, dirty-faced children in background. G. in K.: "Where is your husband?" Women: "Niet verstand." G. in K.: "Where is your brother?" Women: "Niet verstand." G. in K.: "Is he on those kopjes, potting at us?" Women: "Niet verstand." G. in K.: "Have many Boers been past here?" Women: "Niet verstand." G, in K. (After more interrogatories and more "Niet verstands"): "Oh, hang it, good-bye." Women (in distance): "Niet verstand." Verily, the "niet verstand" or "no savvee" game is a great one out here. (Later.) Our casualties were three Northumberland Fusiliers killed and eight wounded, one of our Fife comrades shot in the chest, also three Roughriders hit, and a fair percentage of horses knocked. Thursday, September 6th.—ReveillÉ at four o'clock, and off at daybreak. We soon came into action, some of our fellows on the right flank getting it particularly hot. Our little lot wheeled and dismounted behind a farmhouse, and, wading through a field of waving green barley, under fire, took up a position amongst the growth on the near bank of the river, from which we let off at some sangars on the top of a kopje in front. After a while we returned to our horses, mounted, rode away to our right, crossed the river, dismounted behind a rise in the ground, and proceeded to occupy some kopjes nearer the enemy, who had retired. Some fine sangars were on the hill we occupied, and so we were saved the trouble of building any. The one I found myself in was a very comfortable and secure affair as regards rifle fire. As, of course, Mr. Boer does not show himself over much, we had not much to pot at, therefore I made myself as comfortable as possible on the shady side of the sangar, and pulled out one of my numerous pocket editions of Tennyson (recently acquired in Pretoria) and indulged in a good, though occasionally interrupted, read. To a stranger at the game, I should imagine that my behaviour at times would have appeared incongruous, for while perusing the "Lotos-Eaters" and "Choric Song," the man on my right would now and again interrupt me with, "There are some, have a shot at 'em!" Whereupon I would arise and fire a round or so at the distant dots, and then sink down again and resume the sweet poesy, ignoring as much as possible the constant bangings of villainous cordite in my ears, right and left. Soon we moved on to another position, the Northumberlands taking up our old one. The next one was in a stone enclosure, which contained a large number of goats and kids. This was not so pleasant, as the sun was high, and the place odoriferous. At about three we were relieved by a Northumberland picket, and returned under a sniping fire to where the camp had been pitched. Then the fun commenced. A rather distant bang, whis-sh! over our heads; and from amongst the infantry blanket shelters a cloud of earth spouted up, and a small batch of men cleared off from the vicinity of the explosion. It was amusing to see the niggers throw themselves into trenches by the roads and fields. Then came another and yet another shell, without any more effect than making a hole in a tent, and the men of No. 8 Battery Field Artillery (and No. 8 is a deuced smart Battery, by'r leave) dashed out from their lines, pushing and dragging their guns, while the "4.7 gentleman" began moving his long beak in the air as though sniffing for the foe. "Give 'em hell, boys!" we cried to the busy gunners, as they dashed by us, working at the wheels and drag-ropes, but the Naval man spoke first, "Snap—Bang!" and back the gun jumped in a cloud of smoke; and presently, far away, from the crest of the kopje under suspicion, a cloud of brown arose, and later came the crack of the explosion. Meanwhile the Boers went on pitching shells into our camp, and we got the order to retire behind a kopje with our horses till it was decided what to do with us. Having done this, the shelling soon ceased, and later we were taken back to camp, where we off-saddled, picketed our horses, and settled down to tea. And then bang! whish! crack!! bang! whish! towards us the enemy's shells came again. They had got two guns in position, and were working them hard. We were getting some of our own back, for the shells we picked up were 15-pounder ones, of British make. Our Naval gun barked back viciously at them, and so did the field guns, but the enemy were firing with the red and dazzling setting sun, behind them, and shining directly in our fellows' eyes, who were blazing apparently at poor old Sol, and cussing him and the wily Boer in a manner by no means ambiguous. I know not whether we did them any harm or not; certainly they shifted their positions once or twice. As regards ourselves, it seems beyond belief, no damage was done. The enemy could not even boast of the bag which the Americans achieved at Santiago—that famous mule.[Back to Contents] Oliver Twist on the Veldt. Pember, of the Sussex, asking for an extra allowance of tea, at the cook-house, while the camp is being shelled by the Boers, at Hekpoort. (Persuasively) "It may be your last chance, Cookie!"
Cattle Lifting. Hekpoort. Saturday, September 8th, 1900. I fancy I stopped in my last near the end of a rather long-winded account of the shelling we experienced at the hands of Brother Boer, on Thursday evening last. To conclude that day's events, we finally shifted our horse lines a bit and turned in, spending a night undisturbed by the distant booming of the Boer guns or the ear-splitting cracking of our 4.7. The next day we returned to our old lines, and settled down for a good day's rest, as we heard that Clements was waiting for Ridley to come up. I had hardly unsaddled, however, when the sergeant-major came round and told half-a-dozen of us to saddle up and go out with the two guides (civilians, British farmers, who are with this column and know the locality). So we flung on our saddles, and slipping on our bandoliers, mounted and set out in our shirt sleeves (mark that!) with our guides in their civilian togs (mark that!). From these individuals we gathered we were off cattle-lifting, the Boers having left some in a kloof about a couple of miles south of the camp. With jocular allusions to our last quest of a similar nature (the laager near Rustenburg) we smoked and trotted along, comfortable in our shirt sleeves after so much of the usual marching order. Following, came four "boys" to drive the cattle home. We soon reached our objective. The "boys" were sent into the kloof, while we dismounted a little way up the stone-covered kopje on the right, and leaving a couple to look after the gees, the guides and the remainder of us started to climb the heights and cover the "boys" if necessary. Soon a rifle report was heard, and then another. The guides said it was a picket of ours firing on us in mistake from the kopje on the left, and suggested that one of us should work round and let them know who we were. Most of us argued that the report was a Mauser one. However, the guides prevailed, and I was deputed for the job, when the "boys" came running in breathless and told us pantingly that Boers had been sniping them. So seeing that it would be impossible under the circumstances to lift the cattle, we retired on our horses, mounted and moved off. And then the beggars, who had evidently moved up closer, gave it to us fairly warm, and we had to open out and break into a gallop in the direction of the camp. We were about clear of the Mausers and riding through some bush, when, suddenly above a stone wall not a hundred yards in front of us, helmets and heads appeared, also glistening rifle barrels, which pointed, oh no, not on the kopje behind, but on us. [This is where the civilian clothes and shirt sleeves came in.] An officer shouted "Don't fire! Don't fire!!! Down with those rifles." This order was obeyed reluctantly, then "Who are you?" "Friends! Yeomanry!" "What Yeomanry?" "Sussex." "All right." They proved to be a picket of the Northumberland Fusiliers. Then we crossed a drift, our horses nearly having to swim, and finally reached camp. This morning (Saturday, September 8th) our squadron and the Fifes had to go back about half-a-dozen miles to meet Ridley. Our troop acted as advance party. It was rather an interesting sight to see the two parties meet; the advance of Ridley's force was Kitchener's Horse. When we met, we halted and chatted, waiting for orders. As we did so, the merry snipers started a desultory fire, which gradually became more rapid. Several suspected houses in the vicinity, whose owners had, as usual, taken the oath of neutrality and broken it—Punica Fides will have to give way to a new phrase, Boer Faith—were then burnt down. War is not altogether a game, it has its stern aspect. The women and children were loud in their lamentations as the red flames blazed and the dense smoke rolled away on the fresh breeze which was blowing. They cursed us and wept idle tears, but they had their own dear friends, husbands and sons, to thank after all, as nearly all the sniping in this lovely valley is being done by the farmers who live in it. We brought about 25 Boers in camp with us, either suspected or to save them from temptation. To see them, with their roll of blankets, saying good-bye to their weeping families would have touched anything but the hardened, homesick heart of a "Gentleman in Khaki," for he knows full well that the simple peasant in this, as in other localities, usually combines business with pleasure by sniping you in the morning and selling you eggs in the afternoon, as our troop leader puts it. Sunday, September 9th. A late reveillÉ (6 o'clock). A lovely, lazy day in camp, during which I have been stewing fruit, smoking, and, alas, my bad habits still cling to me, perpetrated for my own amusement a little rough-and-ready rhyme, which I have the temerity to enclose. We had a short service, at which our O.C. Major Percy Browne, a real good man, presided. Ridley, who works with Clements, the same as Mahon did with Ian Hamilton, has with him Roberts' Horse, Kitchener's Horse, some Australians, the 2nd and 6th M.I., some artillery and two pom-poms. We advance to-morrow. ANOTHER VERSION. Into our camp, from far away, Somebody's darling came one day— Somebody's darling, full of grace, Wearing yet on his youthful face, Soon to be hid by a stubbly growth, The fatted look of a life of sloth. Thus to our camp, from far away, Somebody's darling came one day. Parted and oiled were the locks of gold, Kissing the brow of patrician mould, And pale as the Himalayan snows; Spotlessly clean were his khaki clothes. It was a cert', beyond any doubt, Somebody's darling had just come out. Wond'rous changes were quickly wrought. Somebody's darling marched and fought. Somebody's darling learned to shoot, Somebody's darling loved to loot; Somebody's darling learned to swear, And neglected to part his hair. After riding and marching weary leagues, Somebody's darling was set on fatigues— Set on fatigues for dreary hours, Thinking of home, its fruits and flowers. Somebody's darling's ideals were quashed; Somebody's darling went unwashed. Somebody's darling cussed sergeants big, Somebody's darling killed a young pig: Then dressed and trimmed it ready to eat, First of many a butcherly feat; Somebody's dear caring naught for looks, Joined the army of amateur cooks. Somebody's darling drank water muddy; Somebody's darling saw men all bloody; Somebody's darling heard bullets fly; Somebody's darling saw comrades die; Somebody's darling was playing the game,— Thousands and thousands were doing the same. Somebody's darling rose long before morn; Somebody's darling went tattered and torn; Somebody's darling longed for a bite, Half-baked by day and frozen by night. Somebody's darling received Mails sometimes, And his joy was beyond my idle rhymes. Somebody's darling was sniped one fierce day, An ambulance jolted him far away; Somebody's darling had got it bad, Somebody at home would soon be sad. Somebody's darling grew worse—then died. And—that was the end of Somebody's Pride.[Back to Contents]
Delarey gives us a Field Day. Monday, September 10th, 1900. We had reveillÉ at 3.30, and moved off as advance party before dawn. It was not long before we got into action. In less than a mile from our camp we found frÈre Boer, who made his presence known to us in the usual way, that is, with his Mauser, Express, Martini-Henry, or elephant gun; of course, the first is his usual weapon. Not to be too long-winded, we carried ridge after ridge of kopje for several miles. On one occasion the enemy and ourselves rushed for the top of two different kopjes, wherefrom to pepper one another. We only just had time to take cover in a sangar as they opened fire from the opposite hill. Their bullets buzzed and whistled over us, bringing down twigs from a tree just by me, and striking the stones with a nasty sound. Later, the infantry (Worcesters), advancing from behind, began firing over us at the enemy; indeed, for a little time, we were very uncertain whether they were not mistaking us for t'others. Anyhow, their bullets came most infernally close, and necessitated our taking careful cover from the missiles in rear as well as those in front. At last we came to the enemy's main position, which was a fine natural one, and our artillery came into play—we resting for a bit, and the infantry forming up to advance under their fire. Then hell got loose. Bang, bang, bang went our field guns; boom went the 4.7; pom-pom-pom-pom-pom went the Vickers-Maxims; rap-rap-rap-rap-rap-rap went the Maxims; bang, bang went their field guns; up-um, up-um, up-um went their Mausers; crack, crack went our rifles. Imagine the above weapons and a few others, please, all firing, not so much to make themselves heard at the same time (they did that), but to destroy, kill and maim, and you can guess it was hard for a poor tired beggar to sleep. I was fagged out, and when we rested while our gunner friends had their innings, laid down in the blazing noon-day sun, and, with a stone for a pillow, half-dozed for an hour or so. I was roused by a comrade to look in front of me, it was a wonderful sight. About a mile-and-a-half of the Boer position was a blackened line fringed with flame and smoke, but they were still determinedly trying to stop our infantry from occupying a long kopje in front of them, and answering our guns with theirs. That night was almost a sleepless one, for though dead fagged, we all had to do pickets on the ground we had won. The next morning Delarey had disappeared, but we know we shall meet him again. It is a fine sight to see British infantry advance. With rolled blanket, and mess-tin a-top, filled haversack, the accursed "hundred-and-fifty" Burnt to Death. Hekpoort. Thursday, Sept. 13th, 1900. We returned to this, our old camp, yesterday, and are resting here for a day or more, one never knows for certain how long these rests will last when out on the war path. Yesterday (the 12th) we had a fairly late reveillÉ, and then, acting as advance guard, returned hither by way of a valley running parallel with this, and through which Ridley advanced when we had our little scrap with Delarey at Boschfontein, on Monday last. By-the-bye, I was yarning, while washing at a stream near here this morning, with some Worcesters, who told me they had five killed and fifteen wounded on that day. Two poor fellows were found burned out of all recognition on the charred veldt the next day. They had been left wounded and had been unable to crawl away from the blazing grass. The valley we passed through yesterday was, in parts, more charming than this. One little village, called Zeekooe, was a particularly pleasant spot, the houses being half-hidden by the white pear blossoms, the pink peach, and the various green foliages of the trees, for this is Spring, when "the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," and here am I ——, well, well!! Even my old foe, the two-inch thorn bush, has assumed a light-green muslin bridal veil. All this bursting into leaf is most refreshing, to me at least, and I doubt not no less welcome to the noble Boer sniper, who now gets more cover than was possible a month ago. As we left camp, he was sniping away merrily, and about as ineffectively as usual. When we crossed the kopjes to get to this valley we came by way of a fine mountain road. Sheer down below us rushed the river Magaliz, crystal clear, splashing and bubbling over the big rocks in its bed, with weeping willows dipping down from amidst the thick undergrowth on its banks, while now and again a garden from a farm near ran to its edge, with vivid patches of young oats and lemon trees. On arrival in camp, we heard that some Boers had been discovered in some undergrowth, by a stream on our left flank, so we set off, and beating it got six armed. The barbed-wire curse is great in this Eden-like valley, and when you consider that the advance mounted parties have to go straight ahead through fields and back gardens, the garden walls of which are invariably represented by barbed-wire fencing, you can comprehend that our work is more often than not, no easy matter, especially as wire-nippers are as rare as brandies and sodas, and even when possessed are not much assistance in surmounting the wide and deep irrigation cutting, which is often on the other side of the fence. Again, bogs are not infrequently come across—across, by the way, is hardly the word to use. Only a few days ago I was riding towards what I deemed to be a passable ford, when I met a Rough Rider (72nd I.Y.) coming back from it. I casually asked him if it was all right, to which he replied that it was a bit boggy, and then incidentally added, "We've just shot one of our fellows' horses that got stuck and we couldn't get out." Whereupon I took a more circuitous route, a proceeding which I did not regret, when later, I saw the poor, horseless Rough toiling in the broiling sun, his huge saddle covering his head and shoulders, after the tail of the convoy, in hopes of catching it and depositing his burden on a waggon.[Back to Contents] The Infection of Spring again. I must apologise for the enclosed doggerel. Last night, round one of our fires, we were alluding to the various uses we have made of that deadly weapon, the bayonet, and it was suggested that I, as a Spring Poet, should record them in verse, hence the enclosed:— THE BALLAD OF THE BAYONET. (Sussex Yeoman loq.) Did I ever use the bay'nit, sir? In the far off Transvaal War, Where I fought for Queen and country, sir, Against the wily Boer. Aye, many a time and oft, sir, I've bared the trusty blade, And blessed the dear old Homeland, sir, Where it was carefully made. Chorus: Then here's to the British bay'nit Made of Sheffield steel, And here's to the men who bore it— Stalwart men and leal. You notice the dents on the edge, sir, At Bronkhurst Spruit they were done; I was getting a door for a fire, For out of wood we had run. I was smiting hard at the door, sir, Or rafter, I'm not sure which, When I struck on an iron screw, sir, And the bay'nit got this niche. 'Tis my mighty Excalibur, sir, I've used it in joy and grief, For digging up many a tater, Or opening bully beef. I have used it for breaking wire, Making tents 'gainst rain and sun; I have used it as a hoof-pick, In a hundred ways and one. Oh, how did the point get blunted, sir? I was driving it home As a picketing peg for my horse, So that he should not roam. I drove it in a little, sir, And then in my haste, alas, I stubbed the point on a rock, sir, Some inches below the grass. You ask if it e'er took a life, sir? Aye, I mind the time full well; I had spotted him by a farm, sir, And went for him with a yell. He tried to escape me hard, sir, But I plunged it in his side, And there by his own backyard, sir, A healthy porker died. But did I draw it in action? You ask me roughly now. Yes, we were taking a kopje, The foe were on the brow. We drew and fixed our bay'nits, The sun shone on the steel; Death to the sniping beggars We were about to deal. Then, sweating and a-puffing, We scaled the rocky height, But when we reached the top, sir. The foe was out of sight. Has it e'er drawn human blood? Yes, once, I grieve to say; It was not in a battle, Or any bloody fray; 'Twas just outside Pretoria. The deed was never meant, I slipped and fell on the point, sir, 'Twas quite by accident. Chorus: Then here's to the British bay'nit, Made of Sheffield steel, And here's to the men who bore it, Stalwart men and leal. And here's to the Millenium, The time of peaceful peace, When neighbours shall love each other, And wicked wars shall cease.[Back to Contents]
Death of Lieutenant Stanley. Monday, September 17th. There is a funeral to-day—an officer's—and we (the Composite Squadron) are stopping in camp for it, as it concerns us. So I will tell you all about it. Yesterday was Sunday, seldom a day of rest out here. We, the three squadrons of Yeomanry attached to Clements' force, were sent out early on a reconnaissance. Without any opposition we advanced in a westerly direction towards Boschfontein, almost the same way as on Monday last, for about four miles, the Devon and Dorset troops of our squadron being on the right, our Sussex troop on the left, the Roughriders (72nd I.Y.) in reserve, and the Fife Light Horse scouting ahead. The Fifes had reached the foot of a high grass-covered kopje, and were about to ascend it, when the enemy opened a hot fire on them, causing them to scoot for their lives, which they managed to do successfully. We then galloped up, dismounted, and opened fire on the hill-top, the Devons and Dorsets doing the same on our right, and the Fifes falling back on our left. Where the Roughs were we never knew, probably their officers did. Taking into account the absence of the Nos. 3, with the led horses, and one group of our troop being sent some distance to the left, we only numbered six and our officer, Mr. Stanley, well-known in the cricket world as a Somerset county man. Our led horses were in a donga in the rear. The position we occupied, I should mention, was at the base of a kopje opposite to that held by the Boers. We were sighting at 2,000, when our captain, Sir Elliot Lees, rode up and said he could not make out where the Devons and Dorsets who should have been on our right, were. As a matter of fact they had retired unknown to us. This the wily Boers had seen and quickly taken advantage of, for Sergeant-Major Cave, of the Dorsets, rushing up to us crouching down, told us to fire to our right front, where some trees were about three or four hundred yards away, and from which a heavy fire was being directed at us. Sir Elliot Lees then came up again from our left. Mr. Stanley, seeing the hot corner we were in, retired us about a dozen yards back to the deepest part of the donga, where our led horses were, and ordered the fellows with the horses to retire, and later, gave the command for us to do the same in rushes by threes. Meanwhile our bandoliers were nearly empty, and the Boers were creeping round to our right, which would enable them to enfilade our position. The first three retired, and we were blazing away to cover them, with our heads just showing as we fired over the top of the donga, when the man on my right said, "Mr. Stanley is hit," and looking at him, for he was close to me on my left, I saw he was shot through the head, the blood pouring down his face. Sir Elliot, the other man, and myself were the only ones left in the donga then, so the captain, taking hold of poor Stanley by his shoulders, and I his legs, we started to carry him off. As we picked him up, he insisted, in a voice like that of a drunken man, on somebody bringing his carbine and hat. "Where's my rifle an' hat? Rifle an' hat!" The third man took them and gat—I heard this later. You have no idea what a weight a mortally-wounded man is, and the poor fellow was in reality rather lightly built. On we went, stumbling over stones, a ditch, and into little chasms in the earth. Once or twice he mumbled, "Not so fast, not so fast!" The bullets buzzed, whistled, and hummed by us, missing us by yards, feet, and inches, knocking up the dust and hitting the stones and thorn bushes we staggered through. We, of course, presented a big mark for the Boers, and were not under any covering fire so far as I am aware. The captain, who is grit all through, soon found it impossible to carry the poor fellow by the shoulders, the weight being too much for him, so I offered, and we changed places, Sir Elliot taking his legs and on we went, pausing, exhausted, perspiring and breathless, now and again, for a rest. At last, turning to our left, we reached a little bit of cover, thanks to a friendly rise in the ground, and falling into a kind of deep rut with Stanley's body on top of me, I waited while the captain went to see if he could get any assistance. Presently he returned with a Somerset man; and a minute or so later a Fife fellow, a medical student, came up. The former and I then got him on a little farther. After a few minutes' deliberation, the captain said, reluctantly, "we must leave him." We all three asked permission to stay. To which Sir Elliot replied, "I don't want to lose an officer and three men. Come away, men!" We then moved the poor fellow into a cutting about two feet deep and three feet wide, and arranged a haversack under his head. As we loitered, each unwilling to leave him first, Sir Elliot thundered at us to come on, saying, "I don't know why it is, but a Yeoman never will obey an order till you've sworn at him." Then reluctantly we set off in single file, working our way back by the bank of a stream, and still under cover of the rise in the ground, a little way up which we found one of our Sussex men, with his horse bogged to the neck. Further on we paused a moment, and the Fife man, saying that he thought the wound was not mortal, suggested that it would be well for somebody to be with Stanley so as to prevent him from rolling on it, and then asked permission to return. My Fife friend had not seen what I had. He had only seen where the bullet went in, not where it came out. Seeing that the captain was about to give him permission, I said "Mr. Stanley is my officer, sir, and I have the right to go," and he let me. I gave one my almost-empty bandolier, and another my haversack, telling him it contained three letters for the post, and—if necessary, to post them. My rifle I had already thrown into a ditch at Sir Elliot's command. Then I worked my way back, hoping that I should not be shot before reaching him. I got there all right, and evidently unseen; lying down by him, I arranged my hat so as to keep the sun off his face, and cutting off part of my left shirt-sleeve, with the water from my bottle, used half of it to bathe his temples and wipe his bubbling, half-open mouth. The other I moistened, and laid over the wound. He was quite unconscious, of course, and his case hopeless. Once I thought he was gone, but was mistaken. The second time, however, there was no mistake. I waited by the brave man—who had been our troop leader for the last fortnight, and who had, I am sure, never known fear—for some time deliberating what to do. Shots were still being fired from somewhere in my vicinity, while our firing I had gloomily noted had receded, and finally ceased. By-and-bye, all was silent, then a bird came and chirped near me and a butterfly flitted by. At length, as it appeared to me useless to wait by a dead man, I determined to get back to camp, if possible, instead of waiting to be either shot in cold blood, or made a prisoner. After carefully going through all his pockets, from which I took his purse, watch, whistle, pipe, pouch, and notebook, and, attaching his glasses to my belt, having arranged him a little and laid my bloody handkerchief over his face, I got up, and worked my way along by the river bank till compelled to go into the open. I trusted to a great extent to my khaki on the dry grass, and daresay it saved me from making much of a mark; but spotted I was, and from the right and left the bullets came very thick and unpleasantly close. For about a mile I was hunted on the right and left like a rabbit. At first I ran a little, but was done, and soon dropped into a staggering walk. After a while I came on Dr. Welford and his orderly behind some rocks, just coming out, but when he heard my news he turned back, and, as I refused to use his horse, which he offered me, at my request rode off, and got potted at a good deal. Further on, he waited for me. He is a brick, our doctor; and when he learnt I was thirsty, and he saw my tired condition (the sun on my bare head had been most unpleasant) he offered me a drop of whisky and water, adding, "You'd better have it when we get round the bend of the kopje ahead." I thanked him, and said I thought it would be more enjoyable there. Enjoy it I did. Finally I reached the camp and told the captain the sad news, at the same time handing in the gallant officer's belongings. His watch was at 12.5 when I left him. Sir Elliot was most kind to me, and said I had acted gallantly, and he had told the major (commanding us). Then Major Browne came up, and he was also very complimentary. Of course, there was nothing in what I had done that any other man would not have done, and I told them so, especially as the example set by the captain made it impossible for a man to be other than cool. Lieutenant Stanley, who took command of us when we left Pretoria a fortnight ago, had soon become very popular, for he was a thorough sportsman, keen as mustard, quite unaffected and absolutely fearless. I feel pleased with myself for taking everything off the poor fellow before I left him; for when, late last night, the ambulance came in with him, the doctor's orderly told me that they found him stripped of his boots, gaiters, and spurs—which was all that were left worth taking.[Back to Contents] His Burial. "And far and wide, They have done and died, By donga, and veldt, and kloof, And the lonely grave Of the honored brave, Is a proof—if we need a proof." E. Wallace. Tuesday, September 18th. We buried Lieut. Stanley yesterday at mid-day, the sergeants acting as bearers, we Sussex men (of the dozen of us, two were with him at Eton and one at Oxford) composed the firing party, while the whole squadron, officers and men followed. About three-quarters of a mile from our present camp, in the garden of a Scotchman, named Jennings, by a murmuring, running stream, and beneath some willows, we laid him. By the side of the grave was a bush of Transvaal may, covered in white blossom, at the end were roses to come, and away back and front were the white-covered pear trees and pink-covered peach, perfuming the clear, fresh air, while on the sides of the babbling stream were ferns and a species of white iris. Sewn up in his rough, brown, military blanket, he was lowered to his last resting-place, the major reading the Burial Service. "—— Is cut down like a flower." He could not have been more than twenty-five. Then, "Fire three volleys of blank ammunition in the air. Ready! Present! Fire!" Again and again, and the obsequies of a brave officer and true English gentleman and sportsman were over. I am sorry to say that we have a Sussex sergeant missing—killed or prisoner. We are most anxious to know his fate, poor fellow. So, out of the seven of us in that hot corner, one is dead, one is not, and Heaven only knows how the others escaped, myself in particular. Wednesday, September 19th. This morning we advanced about half-a-dozen miles, and pitched our camp here—Doornkloof is the name of the place, I believe. Thursday, September 20th. Ridley's column has gone back in the direction of Pretoria to Rietfontein, as escort to a convoy, principally composed of waggons loaded with oat hay. I hear, and hope it is true, that he has our letters. Friday, September 21st. Had to do a picket on an outlying kopje. The stable guard, who should have reveillÉed us at three forgot to do so, and later, when we were aroused, we had to saddle up and clear off at once. I had to go off sans cafÉ (which is breakfast), and worse still in my hurry sans pipe. Oh, how that worried me, my pipe which I have kept and smoked through all till now. Somebody might tread on it and break it, or find it and not return it. On the kopje a friend lent me his emergency pipe, over which a lot of quinine powder had been upset, so I had a few smokes, in which the flavour of quinine prevailed unpleasantly. Still, I have no doubt it was healthy. But, oh, where was my pipe, should I ever see it again? "There is a Boer outpost over there." "Yes, but I wonder what the deuce has become of my pipe," and then I bored my vigilant fellow sentinel with the history of that pipe. With the sun pouring down on us without shelter, without any grub, and not a drop of water (my bottle I left by Stanley), we were stuck up on that kopje till past sunset. Where was my pipe, should I get it all right? At last we got back to camp, and, overjoyed, I received from a friend my pipe, which he had picked up in the lines. Then, having partaken of tea, I found myself in for a sleepless night as stable picket. But it didn't matter, I had got my pipe. Saturday, September 22nd. "There is a foe who deals hard knocks, In a combat scarce Homeric: It's not the Boer, who snipes from rocks, But fever known as Enteric." The idea I have partly expressed in the above lines, is as you know, correct. The Boer from behind his rock snipes you at a distance, but Sister Enteric, though unseen, as Brother Boer, is nearer to us. She is with us in our camps, when we eat and when we drink—often parched, recklessly drink—and close, unseen and unheard, deals her blows. And when they are dealt, the nervous ones amongst us think. For common report hath it that the illness takes roughly about three weeks to develop, and the nervous man thinks back what did he drink three weeks ago, or thinking of what he ate or drank the day before, dreads the developments three weeks may bring. When we came in last night we heard that a poor fellow of our squadron had succumbed to it, and was to be buried the next morning at 5.30. We bury soon out here. So once again this week, I formed a unit of the firing party, and did the slow march with reversed arms. We clicked the three volleys at the grave. Later, we had two more funerals, the result of Brother Boer's handiwork. They were two men of Kitchener's Horse, who had dropped behind Ridley's force at Hekpoort, and had ridden to Mrs. Jennings' farm to buy some bread. These two were shot by over half-a-dozen concealed Boers at about twenty yards range. No attempt was made to make them prisoners, and they were practically unarmed, having revolvers only. Their bodies were riddled. Sunday, September 23rd. "Oh, happy man in study quiet, On data and statistics, Making copy of our diet, Please soften our biscuits!" This afternoon having borrowed a magazine from a Rough, in exchange for an old one I picked up in the Fife lines, I have in common with the sharer of my blanket shelter derived infinite entertainment from an article therein contained, entitled "Feeding the Fighting Man." Of course, it is illustrated with photographs, the first one depicting a sleek and stiff Yeomanic-looking, khaki-clad being standing by the side of a swagger little drawing-table covered with a fringed tablecloth, and obviously groaning under what we learn are the gentleman's daily rations. Apart from the article, this picture alone is calculated to make one's mouth water. The article opens with an extract from that great book, "The Soldier's Pocket Book." Here it is, "It may be taken as an accepted fact that the better the men are fed the more you will get out of them, the better will be their health and strength, the more contented will they be, and the better will be their discipline," all of which is gospel truth. The article, as I have already remarked, is very entertaining. Here is a little extract—"fresh meat and bread have been issued daily, almost without a single exception, to troops at the front." We know the fresh meat, good old trek ox! Always delightfully fresh—and tough. And the bread, yes, the bread, well-er-the bread, yes, the bread! If I had read this article at home, being somewhat of a gourmand, I should certainly have rushed off and enlisted directly after reading as far as the middle, where we learn that every soldier is allowed daily—oh, the list is too long to give you. There is one little thing the scribe overlooked, and that is the waggon crowd, the quartermaster-sergeant and his satellites. It may also be of interest to you to know that certain non-coms. and men of the A.S.C. have made large sums of money out here. I have heard of one who made three or four hundred pounds in a few months, hem! Of course, they are exceptions in a corps which has, as everyone knows, done grand work. Our running commentaries as I read the article through, would have made excellent marginal reading, if such notes could have been added for a future edition. Yesterday, a fresh epidemic visited our camp—football. Some person, evilly disposed I presume, produced a football which after a "good blow out" (oh, happy football) was kicked in the midst of a crowd of wild enthusiasts. We soon had a casualty, a sergeant stubbing his big toe badly on a boulder; now he can hardly walk. I believe there were a few other minor casualties. Thirty enteric cases were taken into Pretoria with the last convoy. I am slowly but surely learning to spread jam very thinly on biscuit, one of the most difficult accomplishments I have had to learn out here. My jam spreading having hitherto been at once the scandal and horror of my messmates. On Monday morning one of Bethune's Horse came into our camp, he had been a Boer prisoner, and had escaped from Rustenburg, which they are at present occupying (I think it is their turn this month). He had been wandering for fourteen days, or rather nights, for it was then he travelled—a native chief had supplied him with a guide, who piloted him about, and kept him going on berries and such like. He said to me, "I was glad to see English faces again," and I, who in a small way know what it is to be hunted, believed him, you bet.[Back to Contents] Promoted to Full Corporal. Tuesday, September 25th. Yesterday we moved out to meet and escort Ridley in with the convoy from Pretoria. About a couple of miles out we heard guns, and I thought probably we should have a bit of scrapping, but we did not beyond some half-hearted sniping. To my surprise and delight Ridley brought mails, my portion being eleven letters. Some had the home post mark of May 25th, and the others August 7th. I must leave off for a space here, as I have to carve an epitaph for the poor fellow who died a few days ago. You see one's occupations out here are many and varied. (Resumed.) Yesterday evening the orderly sergeant came down to my wigwam, and asked for my regimental number, which I gave him without asking the reason why. Soon he returned and congratulated me, saying I had been promoted to full corporal over poor Stanley's affair. My many comrades also have warmly congratulated me on my return to my former state, or rather above it, for it is a case of wearing two stripes now. Wednesday, September 26th. On this day we advanced. Our column did not come in for the usual amount of attention from our friend the enemy, the reason being that a gentleman friend of ours, General Broadwood, was pounding away at them from one side, and Ridley from another. All the same we had a very busy day, scouting and occupying kopjes. Our guns fired at some Boer waggons, causing their escort to clear, and leave them for us. Our infantry got them and had a good time. They are fine fellows, are our infantry, and deserve all they can get in the loot line. Late in the afternoon we surrounded a suspicious-looking kloof, full of thick undergrowth, and captured a couple of the peaceful peasants of the Arcadian dorp (fontein, kloof or spruit) we were then occupying. A man in quest of loot found them, to his great surprise. They were of the genus snipa. One had an elephant gun and the other a Martini. We had had reveillÉ at 2.30, and breakfast a little later. From then till about six in the evening I had only a few bits of biscuit, and once a drop of water, but felt none the worse for my little fast. Thursday, September 27th. We got us up at 3.30. On going to saddle up I found that my horse was gone. However, after a careful search, I found him, though he had changed colour and size. When in the Yeomanry, do as the Yeomen do. So having got a mount I was soon on parade. We then ascended a big kopje and were placed at various observation posts till such time as the convoy should move off. On the top of this kopje were numerous tree-locusts, these are far more swagger in appearance than their khaki-clad brethren, being green and yellow, with a crimson and purple lining to their wings; but their whole appearance is so artificial, that my first impression on seeing one was that it had flown out of a Liberty Shop. From the various uncomplimentary remarks one hears passed on the locust, I imagine the name must be derived from the expression "low cuss." At 3.30 the tail of the beastly but necessary convoy had succeeded in negotiating the usual non-progressive drift, and we left our kopje to form its rear guard. My horse and I went a lovely howler soon after starting—my first spill. I got up feeling all the better for the experience, and soon had another. In this my rifle got broken. Friday, September 28th. We arrived at Olifant's Nek with the convoy at 3.30 a.m. a bit tired, found lukewarmed-up tea, bully and biscuits awaiting us, and then turned in, and just and unjust slumbered soundly till a late reveillÉ, 6 o'clock, bundled us out to feed our horses. My latest acquisition I found had vamoosed or been vamoosed. In searching for it, I found my old one. Then, having foraged around at our waggon and secured a Lee-Metford, I was once again fully equipped. At about 10, we advanced through the bush veldt as far as our present camping ground, which is called Doornlaagte, I believe. Saturday, September 29th. As we are resting here to-day I will continue my diary-like letter. (Resumed.) My fell intentions of writing this morning were knocked on the head, as we had to go out on a patrol. Our latest rÔles being that of resurrectionists, or grave desecrators. The reason was that certain tombs had been regarded with grave suspicion (I beg your pardon) our "intelligence" people imagining them to contain buried arms, ammunition, or treasure. However, on our arrival at the spot, a close inspection made it evident that they were bonÂ-fide affairs, not Mauser-leums, and by no means new as reported, so we left the rude forefathers of the hamlet undisturbed. Sunday, September 30th. We have just marched back from Doornlaagte through Olifant's Nek, and are camped here, a mile beyond. To-day is a regular Sunday-at-Home day. It has been quite a record day, especially for a Sabbath, for we have not heard a single Mauser go off. Monday, October 1st. Another month! Actually a year ago this month the war commenced, and there are still corners on the slate unwiped, and we, the poor wipers, are industriously wiping, and certainly cannot complain of a lack of rags. We moved out from the Nek through Krondaal and camped at Sterkstrom. Amongst the latest reports, false and true, we heard in the evening that the C.I.V.'s were off—homeward bound. Tuesday, October 2nd. The previous night we heard that the camp would not be shifted, nor was it. But we, of the Yeomanry, were. At 3.30, therefore, we had to arise and go out with the guns to co-operate with Ridley and Broadwood. After manoeuvring about, we were finally posted on what at first appeared a kopje of no importance (in height and composition), but kopjes were deceivers ever, and when we had got half-way up, those that had sufficient breath and energy left to express their opinions on kopjes in general, and this one in particular, did so. However, once up aloft, we were left undisturbed for the remainder of the day. On return to camp we found our missing sergeant (of September 16th, at Hekpoort). He had been a prisoner in Rustenburg and had got his liberty when Broadwood occupied or rather re-occupied the town. Whenever we go out one way the Boers come in the other, and vice versa. Though we had not played an active part in the day's operations, the others had, and the outing was rather a success, Ridley's men capturing fourteen waggons with ammunition and other stuff and a few prisoners. Thursday, October 4th. Once again our fond hopes of a day's loaf were crushed, for it was "up in the morning early," and hie for Bethanie. This little native town we reached and surrounded, and then destroyed a mill. On the way there we came on a recently-deserted waggon (a pot of coffee was boiling over a small fire). This and its contents we destroyed; and back, which was by a different road, we came upon and destroyed four or five waggons by burning them. ******* The effect of Army, or rather Yeomanry life, its fatigues and worries, big and small, on men hitherto unaccustomed to such things, has been marvellous, and productive of a topsy-turvy dom of character, after Mr. W. S. Gilbert's own heart. To commence with, it is curious to note that in many cases men who claim to have roughed it in various parts of the world have been amongst the worst to stand the roughing here, and while weak-looking striplings have developed into fine hardy men; brawny, massive-looking fellows have shrunk to thin and useless beings. As regards character, after about four to six months out here one seems to see his fellows in all the nakedness of truth. I have seen the genial man turn irritable, the generous man mean, the good-tempered man quarrelsome, the smart and particular man slovenly, the witty man dull, the bow-and-arrow ideal (looking) sabreur anything but dashing in action, the old-womanly man indifferent to danger, and the objectionable man the best of comrades. These and other changes have I noted, and often fearfully thought how have I changed, how has it affected me, but "There is no grace the giftie to gie me, To see mysel' as ithers see me." and perhaps it is as well.[Back to Contents] Petty Annoyances—The Nigger.
Mails up for the Devons. Friday, October 5th. We marched into Commando Nek this morning, and are now camped here (when I use the word "camped," I hope you do not think I mean tents and such-like luxurious paraphernalia, because I don't). Our lines have by no means fallen in a pleasant place, being on dusty ground by the side of the road which goes through the Nek, along which for the last two hours about half-a dozen miles of convoy has been proceeding en route for Rustenburg, and what with the yelling of the black man and (a hundred-times-removed) brother—I allude to the blooming niggers—the lowing of the oxen, and the dust—well, "it ain't all lavender," neither is it conducive to letter-writing or good temper. But to own up, the above would not trouble us a bit, if we had only received our mails, which we have not. I had been looking forward to a fine batch and relying on getting them with a faith which would have removed kopjes, and now I am disappointed. The bitterness of the whole thing is that some one has blundered, for the Fifes in front have theirs, and the Rough Riders behind have theirs, but we, the Composite Squadron, are without ours. Donnerwetter und Potztausand! There, I had intended writing and telling you how much I am really enjoying myself, of the beauties of the veldt, its pretty little flowers, the multi-coloured butterflies and insects, the glorious open-air life we are leading and a' that; and here I am like a bear with a sore head, grumbling, grumbling, grumbling. And now the companion of my shelter and sharer of my mealie pap—I call him Coeur de Lion (I don't mind him having the heart of a lion, but I object to him having its appetite)—is growling, and wanting to know "when the Yeomanry are going home. We came out for a crisis, and if the authorities call this a crisis may he be—" etc., etc., as he certainly will. I have tried to pacify him with the following offering of the muse—but failed:— "Great Bugs of State. Imperial Bugs, The time grows heavy on our hands; Are the recruiting sergeants dead? Does khaki fail, or martial bands? Oh, teach the vagrant how to ride, The orphan boy to meet the foe; May Heaven melt your stony hearts, To let the foolish Yeoman go." I"kona. Being under the impression that I have not made any direct reference to the nigger, of whom, of course, one sees a great deal, I will here give you my condensed opinion of this being. Left in his true state, he is, I believe, unobjectionable, but we have spoilt him. Our fellows have been too familiar with him in camp and on the march, and you know what familiarity breeds. He has sat or stood idle and watched with indifference we white men in khaki doing work he should have been set to do (I have borne huge sacks and other burdens, and cursed the officers, who have not made use of the niggers standing idly by). He has had the satisfaction of knowing that while he is earning three or four shillings a day, Thomas Atkins is earning thirteen pence. The general result is that he has become deucedly independent and occasionally confoundedly cheeky. As a remedy, I would suggest at the conclusion of this war—that is, assuming it does conclude—97 per cent. of the niggers employed by the British Government be jolly well kicked and then set in bondage for half-a-dozen years, more if their case requires it. Our horses are nearly all done. Mine is very lame in its hind legs. As far as horseflesh goes, he is the least objectionable brute I have had, though his ignorance and lack of appreciation of kindness is appalling. We have drawn horseshoes for five weeks, so it does not look like returning to Pretoria just yet. If we had drawn horses it would have been more to the purpose. We are having tea now, and have just drawn our biscuits for the next 24 hours. They number four thinnish ones, and represent three-quarter rations. Even as regards biscuits, one learns a good deal out here. I myself know four kinds of biscuits, all as like as any of Spratt's gold medal ones in appearance, but varying greatly in taste, and consequently, popularity.[Back to Contents] A Wet Night. Commando Nek, Sunday, October 7th, 1900. As you can see by the above, we are still here, but expect to move to-morrow. Yesterday was hot and windy, but, beyond one incident, uneventful. Late in the day indigo, watery-looking clouds in the west caused some of us to erect blanket shelters for the coming night, and when the evening having come, a flash of lightning and a distant peal of thunder, followed by a few spatters of rain, heralded what was to come, we wise virgins (pardon the simile) huddled in our booby hutches (unfortunately without lamps) and congratulated ourselves on our astuteness. Soon it came, the lightning flashing, the thunder crashing, the rain pouring, and lastly the wind blowing a perfect tornado. The various jerry-built domiciles stood it well for some time, then the hutch behind us was blown down, and we in ours roared with glee; then another went, and finally the wind, not being able to get at us by a frontal attack, took us on the flank, and up blew one blanket, and the rifles at the ends wavered. Then, with cries of "Close the water-tight compartments," "Man the pumps," "Launch the lifeboat," "Where's the rocket apparatus?" and such-like remarks, as used by those in peril on the sea, we came out and joined in the fun. The horses, seeing us all about, thought it must be reveillÉ, and started neighing and pawing the ground, expecting their grub. We were soon inside again under jury-rigging, and went off to sleep to the shouts of "Stable guard, here's a horse loose!" "Stable guard, here are three horses walking over us!" and the reply, "All right, I'm coming round in the captain's dinghy," or some such rejoinder. I could not help smiling when one of our fellows, in response to a cry of "Buck up, boys of the bull-dog breed!" remarked, "Hang it, they don't even give us kennels." In the small hours of the morning our hutch collapsed again, and with the blanket on my side supported mainly on my nose, I heedlessly slumbered on. At reveillÉ the greeting we gave one another was "Oh, what a night!" The Roughs were in a particularly happy frame of mind, though they had slept in the open, for their officers' tent had come down, also their sergeants', and the remarks of the former, "Aw, Frisby, have you got that wope?" "Where's that beastly peg?" "Heah, give me the hammah," "Isn't it awful?" had been most soothing to them. Although I did my best to protect my few remaining envelopes, I have just discovered three of them to be well gummed down. One thing must be said to the credit of the rain, it has laid the dust, and that is no small matter. Monday, October 8th. Having had no mails, we sallied forth with Mr. Clements in the direction of Krugersdorp, with four days' rations. My last charger being done, I've got another 'oss, and he seems rather a good one, though not up to my weight. Last night it came to my ears that the Border Regiment had got their dry canteen up from Pretoria, and it would be open for an hour or so, and that chocolate, jam, cocoa paste, tobacco and other coveted commodities would be on sale. So I was soon mingling with the crowd of would-be purchasers; several of our fellows also joined the crowd, but when it came to their turn to buy were turned away because they belonged not to the Border Regiment. I, however, had not my hat or tunic on, and as there was nothing about my shirt or general appearance to distinguish me from Mr. Thomas Atkins of the Border Regiment, I succeeded in buying four packets of chocolate and several tins of potted meats and jams; then, handing my purchases over to a friend, I again took up my position at the end of the queue and bought some more stuff. The prices were what is commonly known as popular prices, being extraordinarily low for this benighted land. As our four days' rations simply consist of four of the least popular brand of biscuits imaginable per diem and horrible stewed trek ox, these little purchases are coming in very handy. We camped early in the afternoon on the high veldt. The night was bitterly cold.[Back to Contents] The Great Egg Trick. Wednesday, October 10th. "When scouting and you must not tarry, Of things you can borrow or beg, The best, but the worst you can carry, Is the excellent, succulent egg." Extract from contemplated "Loot Lyrics." To-day we have returned to Commando Nek, at least within a mile or so of it. (A cart has just come in from Rietfontein, and they say there are four bags of mails for the Composites, so we poor Sussex de'ils ought to have a look in.) We were advance party to-day, and a friend and I had the good luck to get a fine lot of eggs, of which I have not had any for a long time. As you may imagine, eggs are not very easily carried by the uninitiated, especially when he happens to be a horseman. The first time I managed to get some I got a couple from a farm down the next valley, and was debating how I should carry them, when the officer of our troop, who was just ahead, turned round and sternly told me to mount and get forward, and as he stopped for me to do so, I was rather awkwardly situated, my rifle being in one hand and the two eggs in the other. However, I seized the reins somehow or other, and did the great egg trick successfully. Missing other feats in which I have never once broken or cracked even one, to-day I eclipsed all previous accomplishments, inasmuch as I carried in the only two tunic pockets I have without holes, THREE DOZEN EGGS loose, and despite having to dismount and mount twice, brought them into camp without breaking or cracking one. Once or twice, when we had to do a trot, our sergeant-major asked why I was riding so curiously, and I told him I was feeling rather queer, but thought it would wear off when I reached camp—it did. A friend and I got these eggs in rather an amusing manner. We spotted a Kaffir village and riding to it, enquired at every kraal for eggs, "Eggs for the general—for Lord Roberts!" but, alas, they had none, "I'kona," signifying the negative. One enterprising youth, however, called to me as I was riding off and brought me four, for which I paid him sixpence. Then once again as we were going away, he called to us—evidently the pay, pay, pay of the absent-minded foreign devil has touched his savage heart—for lo and behold his neighbours had some for sale, and came forward with a dozen in a tin, then their neighbours came to the front with about a score, and yet another lot appeared with more—in all, we got fifty eggs, of which I pocketed three dozen, and carried the remainder in a handkerchief and surrendered them to our major, saying I had got them for him (he was in want of some), and thus appeased him. Had I carried them all in my mouchoir I might have lost the lot, but we simple Yeomen "know a thing or three," as the ancient ballad goes. We have just drawn rations for fourteen days and been joined by some more M.I., so it looks as if "Troops may come and troops may go, But we go on for ever." "Go hon!" seems to be our call and counter cry. Commando Nek, Friday, October 12th, 1900. Excerpt from proposed Christmas Panto. Place—The Transvaal. Period—Victorian. Officers' Tent. First Officer: "I heah the men are gwousing about their gwub." Second Officer: "Er—I think they get their wations wegularly." Third Officer: "Oh, dem! They're alwight. Anyhow, what do they want with gwub? A little more turkey and peas, and—er pass the whisky, Fwed." The Waggon. Quartermaster-Sergeant (to kindred spirit): "Look 'ere; twelve tins of bacon, sixteen of jam, biscuits, and a jar of rum. Lemme see; there's twelve of us, and twenty of them. 'Umph, that's eight tins of bacon and eleven of jam for us, and four of bacon and five of jam for them. Let 'em 'ave four biscuits a man; save the best for us—don't forget—" Kindred Spirit: "And the rum?" Quartermaster-Sergeant: "Confound it; I nearly forgot that. Oh—er—er—take 'em a cupful, and—er—say we're on half rations." Chorus from minor waggonites from round cook-house fire. "We don't want to fight, And, by Jingo, if—we—do, We've got the rum, we've got the tea, And we've got the sugar, too." The Yeomen's Lines. Men just in from patrol. Man with bullet hole in hat: "Is tea up?" Enter orderly corporal with rations: "I say, you fellows, it's 'damall' again to day." Chorus: "!!!???***" Of course it is evident to you that the above extracts are from a burlesque written by a man in the ranks. Alas! there is a perpetual feud existent between "the brave, silent men at the back," and ditto those at the front, consequently any joke at the expense of the "waggon crowd" is always appreciated beyond its value. Sergeant-Major Hunt, who had been acting as quartermaster-sergeant for several weeks, did us remarkably well; but, alas, he has been invalided into Pretoria, and another has reigned in his stead, who has done evil in (or rather out of) our sight; being either incompetent or too clever. By the foregoing, you can see that I have not got much news to record. We expect some of the time-expired Police to join us on Sunday or Monday, and so, I fancy, we shall not move till they come up.[Back to Contents] Our Friend "Nobby."
Nobby. We often get some of the Border men in our lines, and, like all of the Regulars, they are most entertaining, though their statements usually require a few grains of salt before swallowing. One of these bold Border men, known to us as "Nobby," is awfully disgusted at my bad habit of letter writing. As a rule I am scribbling when he strolls up, and get greeted with the jeering remark, "At it again." Some days back, after reflectively expectorating, he delivered himself thus on letter writing: "I don't often write. When I do, I sez 'I'm all right; 'ow's yerself?' A soldier's got too much to do to write blooming letters." Then he retailed terrible stories of Spion Kop, Pieter's Hill, and other affairs. Amongst his loot stories I know the following to be a fact; its hero has since been court-martialled. One of the men in Clements' Force, being en route, visited a house, and, producing his emergency rations (these are contained in a curious little tin case), threatened to blow the house and its occupants to kingdom-come unless they complied with his request for eggs, bread, coffee, etc. They complied, but, unfortunately for the man in question, a nigger belonging to the place followed him into camp, and reported the case. Mr. Thomas Atkins of the Line has curious notions about the distances he marches. Of course, he is a grand marcher, and has done remarkable distances and times in this campaign; still, occasionally he makes one smile, when it is a known fact that the Force has just covered ten miles, by emphatically swearing that his battalion has done twenty. For cheeriness, the fellows I have met would take a lot of beating, and their pride in their own particular regiments is a very pleasing trait, though frequently it leads them to be rough on other by no means unworthy corps. From the dry canteen of the Border Regiment I was fortunate enough yesterday to procure two dozen boxes of matches, a packet of six candles, a quarter-of-a-pound of Navy Cut, notepaper and envelopes. The latter I got none too soon, as my last gumless envelope I stuck down with jam. Candles are a luxury I have been without for many months, and matches have been worth sixpence a box. I bought them at a penny, and the candles at 1/6 the packet. We have the Yorkshire Light Infantry with us now in place of the Worcesters. Saturday, October 13th. The law which sways our generals' ways, Is mystery to me; Though we of course, both foot and horse Fulfil each strange decree. This morning we had reveillÉ at five and moved off up the valley at about seven, the Infantry going on the Magaliesberg. This being the case, of course our progress was slow, and the distance covered at the most six miles. We are going to be joined in a few days' time by detachments of our Police, who are coming out from the flesh pots of Pretoria. Two Sussex officers are coming with them and we expect about fifty men. To-day I had to go into a barn and pry about for arms and ammunition on the off chance. I did not find anything in that line, but got covered with fleas, a hundred or so—so I have been well occupied since I have been in camp. We rode through some grand crops of oats, wheat and barley; in one field the wheat was so high as to reach to our horses' ears. Where I got my fleas, or rather they got me, there was a grand garden with orange trees (no fruit), peaches coming on, figs also, and pomegranates in blossom. In a corner of this deserted garden I came across a real, old-fashioned English rose, of the kind usually and irreverently called "cabbage." The occasion seemed to call for an effort, so here it is: An old-fashioned English rose In the far-off Transvaal land; Smelt by an English nose, And plucked by an English hand. This evening we had tents served out to us. Last night we had a deal of thunder and lightning, but no rain. It was very close, and most of us slept, or tried to sleep, in our shirt-sleeves. About four days before, on the high veldt, we had frost on our blankets in the morning. Monday, October 15th. Yesterday we only marched a few miles, and to-day we have done even less. The Infantry marching along the Magaliesberg searching the kloofs, farms at the base, and such-like, rendering progress, of necessity, slow. Behind us, every day now, we leave burning houses and waggons. Colonel Legge, who has taken over Ridley's command, is doing the same a little ahead of us on our left front, and Broadwood likewise on the other side of the Magaliesberg. Since leaving Commando Nek our column has found and destroyed nearly three dozen good waggons and numerous deserted farms. It seems rather rough, but leniency has proved the stumbling block of the campaign, and now we are doing what any other than a British Army would have done months ago. Our camp is near a deserted farm. The house is, of course, now gutted out, but around it are fields of bearded barley, golden wheat and oats, a lovely grove of limes, and rows of ripening figs, peaches and red blossoming pomegranates. This morning I had a fine bathe in a pool near by, and was washing my one and only shirt, when I heard that honey was being got near the lime grove, so jumped into my breeks and boots, and tying my wet shirt round my neck, rushed up to have a look in. A lot of silly, laughing niggers were the principal personÆ in the little comedy. There were two or three hives, and after a little smoking I went and helped myself; at the next hive I did pretty well, but at the next, after I had inserted my hand into it and taken several pieces of comb, the bees went for us in style. I had put on my shirt by that time, fortunately for me; as it was, I had them buzzing all round my head, and got fairly well stung; two got into one of my boots and jobbed their tails, which were hot, into my bare ankle, several stung my hands, arms and forehead, and one got me exactly on the tip of my nose. However, I have felt no inconvenience from any of the stings, in spite of being without the blue-bag. Our reinforcements of ex-Police have not turned up yet; we are looking forward to seeing them, because they are sure to bring our mails. My horse has developed a bad off hock, now. Like the poet: "I never had a decent horse, Which was a treat to ride, But came the usual thing, of course, It sickened or it died." Tuesday, October 16th. The animal referred to above went a lovely purler with me this morning, turning a somersault and finishing by laying across my right leg. It was some time before I could get help, and then only a man came and sat on the brute's head to keep him down. I was grasping his two hind hoofs, which were within a few inches of my face, and preventing them from "pushing it in." At length, the doctor and his orderly galloped up, and the latter, dismounting, grasped the horse's tail, and pulled him off far enough for me to free my leg. Apart from rather a bad back, I am all serene. Our friend, "Nobby of the Borders," visited us last night. I don't think that is his real name, and am not anxious to know. To us he is, and always will be, "Nobby." He was tired, having been on the kopjes for the best part of the day, but interesting as ever. "Art thou weary, art thou langwidge?" he quoted after a reflective expectoration, which just missed my right foot. "That's a hymn, ain't it?" he queried with the air of a man of knowledge. We replied in the affirmative, and then, curious to hear his religious convictions, asked him about them. "Yes, I believe in religion," said Nobby, "I was confirmed and converted or whatever it is, some time ago. And I tell you, since I've been out 'ere in this war I've felt certain about Gawd. Spion Kop and Pieter's 'Ill made yer think, I can tell yer." And then waxing wrath about certain of his comrades, he inveighed thus: "And yet there's some —— —— fellers in the reg'ment 'oo will —— —— say there ain't a Gawd. But those —— —— —— beggars are always —— —— arguing about every —— thing." If Mr. Burdett-Coutts wants any corroboration in respect to his exposure of the inner working of certain military hospitals, let him apply to Private "Nobby" of the Borderers. He was an enteric patient at No. 1 Field Hospital, Modderspruit, and the tales he tells of his own uncared-for sufferings, and the even worse ones of comrades, show, alas, that the hospital can, and does often contain, as well as kind, self-sacrificing, skilful doctors, doctors and medical orderlies who are brutal, selfish, and absolutely callous. He speaks well of the nurses, I am glad to say.[Back to Contents] "The Roughs" leave us for Pretoria. Nooitgedacht, (A little beyond Hekpoort). Wednesday, October 17th, 1900. Late last night our friends the Roughs (72nd I.Y.) received the order to return to Pretoria at once. So they left us this morning. And here are we, the Silly Sussex, still sticking to it, like flies on treacled paper. As Nobby says, "Grouse all day and you're happy. That's the way in the Army." He is quite right, and I am sure most of us Yeomen, myself unexcepted, have the true military spirit. For we really ought to be very good and contented in this charming valley, where, "if it were not for the kopjes and the snipers in between," we might lead a perfect Arcadian life. I shall miss our Roughs. Some of them are rare good fellows, and always cheery. To see a Rough come into camp after a good day's scouting on the farmhouse side of the valley, was a sight never to be forgotten. Across his saddle, À la open scissors, would be two large pieces of wood, usually fence posts; oranges dropping from his nosebag; on one side of his saddle a fowl and a duck on the other; a small porker from his haversack; the ends of onions or such like vegetables would be protruding, and his broad-brimmed hat or bashed-in helmet would be garlanded with peach blossoms, resembling a joyous Bacchanalian, and the unshaven, dirty face underneath wreathed in smiles. We have destroyed a lot more waggons and houses, and lifted several hundred of cattle, besides getting some prisoners. How the women must hate us! Their faces are invariably concealed by the large sunbonnets which they wear, year in and year out. These articles of headgear have huge flapping sides, which their wearers apparently always use for wiping their eyes or noses with. This custom or fashion saves them a deal of time and trouble in fumbling for the usual inaccessible pocket. I daresay you have often read that the veldt is burnt by the Boers, to make our khaki visible on the black ground. More often than not a veldt fire is caused by accident, not design, a carelessly-dropped match doing the trick. As regards showing up our khaki, it is bad for dismounted fellows, but for the mounted men preferable to the sun-dried grass, for as nearly all our horses are bays, roans, chestnuts or blacks, they show up terribly on unburnt stuff and are almost invisible on the burnt. Thursday, October 18th. We are very up-to-date out here, as the following will show you: 'Twas uttered in vast London city By lion comiques without pity, Provincial towns were not belated, But showed they, too, were educated; In many a rustic, quiet retreat, Bucolics, too, would not be beat; At last It crossed the mighty main, Did Britain's latest great inane, And we out here in deep despair, Have been informed that There is 'air. I am pleased to record that the beauty of this epoch-making remark and the evident subtle charm underlying it, has not yet dawned upon any of the troops with which I have come in contact, and so, apart from being aware of its existence, it has molested me in no degree. Even the Transvaal has its compensations. Look at the moral and intellectual damages one escapes—occasionally. Whiteing managed to get some rather good books at an untenanted house a few days ago. Byron's Complete Works, two Art Journal Christmas numbers (Burne-Jones and Holman Hunt), "Henry Esmond," and others. He gave me Henry George on "Progress and Poverty," and two or three works of a devotional nature. The latter I gave Nobby last night in the dark. Our conversations in the ranks are very diversified. A few days back we were arguing as to which is the better—a treacle pudding or a plain suet pudding with treacle. We were interrupted in the middle by a few snipers potting at us. This morning we stopped in the midst of a most interesting discussion on Aubrey Beardsley as a decorative artist and the influence of Burne-Jones and Japanese art on his earlier work, to kill fowls and loot eggs. Our bag was eight cacklers and six eggs—which have just proved to be, as I feared, addled. Lately we have had a really lazy time of it, the poor Infantry scouring the hills and we leisurely riding a few miles along the plain as advance or rearguard, and then camping by about mid-day.[Back to Contents] The breaking up of the Composite Squadron. Friday, October 19th. Yesterday evening the Devons and Dorsets were rejoined by their ex-policemen, over a hundred in number. They looked very fit, and appeared pleased to get on the column again. The Devons have their popular officer, Captain Bolitho, with them again. The Sussex did not turn up. However, they and the Somersets are expected to-morrow. As regards mails, we were not wholly disappointed. I got one batch of letters, bearing the home postmark of September 14th, also some newspapers. In one of the latter was a very florid four-column account by a famous "War Special," of the doings of Rundle's Starving Eighth. It included a picturesque description of one of those common occurrences, a veldt fire. "And now the flames roll onward with their beautifully-rounded curves sweeping gracefully into the unknown, like the rich, ripe lips of a wanton woman in the pride of her shameless beauty," and so on, at much length. I read Nobby portions of this article, but, alas! the hardy Parnassian mountaineer was too much for him. "Wot's it all about?" he queried, "I can't rumble to the bloke." I explained to a certain extent, for Nobby had been with the force in question. "Well, 'e can sling the bat," observed my Border friend, and we discussed and criticised various officers and the Army in general. The freshly-joined men brought with them nice new iron picketing pegs, which we who had long since lost or broken ours, eyed with covetous optics, and determined to possess later, if possible. Their lines were laid in a mealie field, and pulled-up pegs might well be expected. At midnight a clanking noise near my recumbent form, strongly reminiscent of our ancestral ghost, the dark Sir Jasper, dragging his clanking chain after him at that hour, as is his wont, aroused me. Of course, it was a horse which had pulled up his picketing peg and was searching for fresh fields or fodder new. I quickly grasped the situation and the peg, and now have no trouble when the pleasant words "'Smount. Pile arms. Off saddle. Picket and feed!" greet my ear. Saturday, October 20th. Yesterday we returned towards Hekpoort, and the order for the day was "The Force will halt." Now this is one of the finest of life's little ironies which the Imperial Yeomen experience out here. "The Force will halt"—every time this cheerful intelligence is conveyed to us, we know we are in for something extra in the way of "moving on." To-day's "halt" has been a ten-mile halt, we having been ordered to proceed down the valley and guard a small bridle path across the Magaliesberg Range; Steyn, De Wet, or Delarey, being expected to try and get through at this particular point. The last time the Force halted, our halt was a 20 or 30 mile one to Bethanie. The time before a big patrol; and another halt consisted of a ride out several miles to open sundry graves which were suspected of being Mauser-leums, but were not.[Back to Contents] Life on a Kopje. Blok Kloof, (About half-way between Hekpoort and Commando Nek). Sunday, October 21st, 1900. Can it be the Sabbath? Last night I was in charge of one of the pickets on top of the already referred to kopje. The ascent of that kopje, oh dear! This morning I was sent on to another kopje directly in front of the one we had occupied during the night, to find out if an infantry picket was holding it. The going was too awful. As usual, the distance was greater than it looked, and only having had half-a-messtinful of coffee and a biscuit for breakfast on the preceding day, and a mouthful of half-boiled trek ox, which had to be gulped down before ascending the iniquitous hill in the evening, minus tea and water, I did not half appreciate the lovely sunrise and view which were to be seen gratis from the various summits. It was a long time before I got back to our little encampment (I slipped down on the rocks several times from sheer exhaustion), and found to my delight that coffee had been kept for me. I wolfed it all, the grounds not excepted, and, bar stiffness and, paradoxical to remark, a general feeling of slackness, was soon myself again. Our Sussex ex-Police, about fifty in number, are at another nek about a mile off, under Messrs. McLean and Wynne. Of course, they have not brought our mails; they managed to call for them when the office was closed. I was sorry to hear that a friend in the Devons (Trooper Middleton), who went into hospital the last time we were at Pretoria, has since died of enteric. Monday, October 22nd. It really seems absurd giving days names out here! To-day, we Sussex men, who number about half-a-dozen, are being exempted from duty, as we expect to join our fellows who are at the other little pass. Once the various companies are re-formed, we shall be under a sort of new old rÉgime. We are wondering anxiously what our fresh cooks will be like. The ones we have at present are not bad fellows; indeed, I call them Sid and 'Arry, which means an extra half-pannikin of tea or coffee. Yesterday afternoon we had a gorgeous thunderstorm, the lightning being incessant. I laid under some trees with a blanket and overcoat covering me, smoking, and with one hand slightly protruding, holding a Tit-Bits paper, which I read till it became too pulpy. A couple of our Sussex fellows have just ridden in; their lot strike camp and return as far as Rietfontein this evening, and so this letter goes with them. Tuesday, October 23rd. Still at the same place. Yesterday, at about the identical hour as on the preceding day, a big thunderstorm came on us, but the comparison was as that of a curtain-raiser to a five-act drama, for yesterday's storm lasted well into the night, and drenched most of us thoroughly. When a few days ago we were ordered here, we were told to take only one blanket, and I, like most other fellows, stupidly obeyed and took a thin one, through which the rain comes as through a sieve. We were under the impression that our kit waggon would be sent after us, but oh dear no, that is eight miles back in Mr. Clements' camp. For kopje work Thomas A. gets extra rations and a daily rum allowance; we have been drawing less rations, and as for rum, ne'er a sniff o't. My overcoat is simply invaluable, and keeps me drier than some of the fellows. When you get wet out here, there is no one to come and worry you to be sure and change all your clothes, especially your socks. It would not do if there were, because, like the London cabbies, we never have any change! ******* Now the sun is shining, and our blankets and various raiment are drying, but it's 10 to 1 that about four we shall have a repetition of yesterday. Our present home is a veritable insect kingdom. Over, under and around us and our meagre belongings, crawl ants small, medium and big; bugs and beetles of all sects and denominations; all sorts and conditions of flies from the small pest to the tsezee view us with interest; as do also caterpillars and other centipedian and millipedian crawlers; wood lice and the domestic shirt ones, which, like the poor, we have always with us; spiders of all sizes, including tarantulas; and, in addition, lizards and rats, while on the kopje, baboons walk about chattering all sorts of unintelligible witticisms about us. Wednesday, October 24th. As predicted, we got our thunderstorm all right yesterday evening. For about half-an-hour the lightning never seemed to cease flickering about and jagging through the clouds, but the rain was not so bad. This morning the Fifes are sending into Rietfontein for mails. I hope we shall get some. I am handing this in for the post. As we only came here for twenty-four hours, we are not well off for literature or writing paper, though I brought some of the latter in my haversack: hence these lines. We shall soon have been here a week. The last time we went out for three days we remained out six weeks. I am a wonderful scavenger now. You should see me pitch like a hawk upon a dirty and torn ancient paper or book. As a result of a morning's work in that line, I am luxuriously reclining on my overcoat and reading a Spectator, after which I shall regale myself on the lighter and less solid contents of Tit-Bits; later, I shall go round and swap them for other papers or magazines. A lot of us are dreadfully afraid of doing strange things when we get back to civilised life, such as asking for the "—— —— salt" at dinner, diving our hands or knives into the dishes immediately on their appearance and securing the best pieces after the manner of the Israelite priests with the hooks in the flesh-pots, commandeering fruit, fowls, eggs, or vegetables from our neighbours' gardens, wiping our knives and hands on our breeches or putties after a course, or a hundred other habits which have become so natural to us now. My greatest fear is that in a moment of absent-mindedness I shall, if tired, throw myself down on some cab rank where the horses are standing still and with my head pillowed on my arm and a foot twisted in a rein take a forty winks, so accustomed have I become to the close proximity of 'osses, waking and sleeping. Thursday, October 25th. This time two months hence it will be Christmas, and it looks as if, after all, I shall be spending it out here "far from home," cheerfully grumbling like a true British soldier, while the waggon crowd and sergeants' mess are enjoying most of our share of the Christmas tucker and other luxuries which are sure to be sent out. And you away in dear old Merrie England in be-hollyed and be-mistletoe'd homes enjoying your turkeys, puddings, and all that goes to make Christmas the festive season of goodwill, when families and friends re-unite for a short while, and eat, drink, and gossip generally, will, I am sure, amidst the festival, pause now and again to think of the wanderers on the veldt, and more than likely toast them in champagne, port, sherry, elder, or orange wine. That is if we are not home. If we are, we shall show ourselves thoroughly capable of doing the above ourselves; and as for gossip, heaven help ye, gentles! I suppose the Christmas numbers are out already, with the usual richly-coloured supplements of the cheerful order, such as a blood-stained khaki wreck saying good-bye to his pard, or the troop Christmas pudding (I s'pose I ought to say duff) dropped on the ground. But a truce to all such thoughts, perhaps we shall get home after all, and again p'r'aps not. Eleven thirty a.m. Have just had an awful shock to my nervous system. A sergeant has been up and served us out with the first Yeomanry comforts we have ever seen, much less had. Each of us has received a 1/4-lb. tin of Sextant Navy Cut tobacco. For the present, I cannot write more, I am too overcome. (Resumed.) I feel more composed now. We have just been told that two cases of "comforts" were sent out to us, but have been rifled of their best contents; so farewell to condensed milk, sardines, jam, etc. Last night I was on the kopje again. Paget or somebody else being reported as driving the Boers towards this range of hills (Magaliesberg) we were told to be specially vigilant. The night was as dark as Erebus, and my turn to post the relief came on at eleven, the post being about forty yards away from where we were sleeping, and the intervening ground a perfect rockery, the task of getting there was no particular fun. As I relieved the post every hour-and-a-half, I had four or five stumbling, ankle-twisting, shin-barking journeys. At about two we had the usual storm, and the accompanying lightning was most useful in illuminating me on my weary way. The descent of the kopje this morning was, I think, more fagging than the previous evening's ascent, though quicker as you can imagine. Then came the cause of my wrath. The Fifes, who went after mails, had returned, and there were none for us—of course. However, "Hope springs eternal in the Yeoman's breast." Some more fellows have gone into Rietfontein to-day, and there is just the chance. An hour ago I had a most necessary shave and wash. All the pieces of looking-glass in the possession of the squadron having long since been lost or reduced to the smallest of atoms, this operation has to be performed without a mirror, though now and again Narcissus-like, I catch a glimpse of my features in the soapy, dirty water. Friday, October 26th. It rained all last night, and has hardly left off yet. I have not a dry rag to my name. Even my martial cloak is sopping, though the lining is what, considering all things, I might call dry. So sitting on my upturned saddle beneath a weeping (not willow) tree, on the branches of which my wet blanket is spread above my head, I am going to amuse myself by writing letters. We have a few tents here, but as it is fifteen to a tent, and asphyxiation is not a death we devoted band of five Sussex men have an inclination for, we are continuing our out-door life. Consequently, we are now sitting on our saturated haunches awaiting sunshine above, smoking our pipes, and wondering when the war will come to a genuine end. What a number of officers have gone home sick—of it! Our friends the Fifes are awfully good fellows, and the best managed Yeomanry Squadron I have seen out here. Yesterday evening we were guests at a little sing-song round their fire, and partakers of their hospitality in the way of hot cocoa. Alas, the rain speedily brought what promised to be an enjoyable evening to an end, and it was every man to his own tent, booby hutch, or cloak and blanket. I was actually the recipient of two letters and a parcel yesterday evening, thanks undoubtedly to a mistake somewhere or other. The making of a correct declaration of the contents of a parcel and their approximate value, as required by the postal authorities, and the sticking of the same on the parcel which is to gladden the heart of the man in khaki far away, is, I fear, a dangerous thing to do. Take, for example, a package, the contents of which are veraciously announced on the affixed slip as "Tobacco, cigarettes, chocolate, pipe, and shirt; value £1 10s."—your friend's chances of getting it are about 50 to 1 against; but the same parcel with the brief announcement "Shirt and socks; value 5s." would probably reach him some day. A Fife friend tells me he now and again gets a large medicine bottle of—well, what would it be for a Scotchman? well-corked and marked "Developing Solution." Saturday, October 27th. Still at the above address. Nothing of note to record. Flies an awful nuisance on us and everything. Fellows would not believe that the jam ration has been so reduced in bulk by flies. Some people won't believe anything—fortunately I had my share first, and perhaps I did take a leetle too much. No news of possibility of getting home by Christmas or the New Year. I feel vicious, and somebody must suffer, so here goes. N.B.—I hold the late Alfred Lord Tennyson partly responsible. THE YEOMAN. (Dedicated to the Fife, Dorset, Devon, Somerset, and Sussex Imperial Yeomanry Squadrons.) "The War has grown flat, stale, and unprofitable as a topic for conversation."—Extract from Editorial Notes in "Black and White," September 20th. We came from many a town and shire, From road, and street, and alley, And, filled with patriotic fire, Around the flag did rally. For many thousand miles we sailed, Till reached was Afric's strand; At Cape Town for some weeks we stayed, Not yet on foeman's land. At last we got the word to move, To join the fighting army; And so we left our peaceful groove, With fighting lust half balmy. Away we marched o'er dusty ways, Through spruit and blooming donga, For chilly nights and burning days, With feelings ever stronger. We passed Milishy on the road, And heard their imprecations Because they bore the Empire's load Upon communications. At last we joined Lord Roberts' force, And later we did sever, And got attached to bold Mahon's Horse, For we go on for ever. With Hamilton and Mahon we went Due east to wet Balmoral; Where oh! an awful night we spent. What ho! the victor's laurel! Then west we rode to catch De Wet— We thought 'twas now or never; But he, in his particular way, And we, go on for ever. To Rustenburg we went with Mahon The wily Boers to scatter; Burnt many a farm and useful barn, And got—our clothes a-tatter. Then later, we did join Clements, From him to part, oh, never! For wars may cease, and wars commence, But we go on for ever. We grumble, grumble, as we roam Beside the hills or river, For troops we hear are going home, But we go on for ever. We steal (we call it loot out here) The foeman's fowls and tucker, And now and then we come off well, And now and then a mucker. We've marched by night to catch the foe, Yet spite each bold endeavour, Crises may come and crises go, But this goes on for ever. At home, first China, then elections, Have claimed their keen attention; Now football, crimes, and other things— The War they seldom mention. Soon our nearest and our dearest Won't think our generals clever, If we and this confounded War Keep going on for ever. Sunday, October 28th. Last night we ascended Avernus again, and did the usual guard on the summit. Of course, we had some rain and its concomitants. Apart from that, and the circumstance of the sergeant-major of the Dorsets, who is 6-ft. 3-ins., and scales 15 stone, treading on my head in the dark in mistake for a rock, nothing of note occurred. As regards the incident alluded to, it lends significance to my being occasionally referred to as "Peter," thanks to my suggestive initials, P.T.R. Hence it seems natural for me to be mistaken for a rock. Still, I trust these mistakes will not often happen. On Monday (October 29th), Captain McLean, of rowing fame, and Lieutenant Wynne marched up to Blok Kloof with the ex-Policemen of the Sussex Squadron, and we, having first been paraded before Sir Elliot—who in a few kind words severed his connection with us, to our regret, as captain—rejoined our former comrades. The other squadron of the 7th Battalion of West Somerset Yeomanry, under Captain Harris, was left for duty at Rietfontein. Colonel Browne (we were all pleased to hear of his promotion this month) having received orders to withdraw from the Kloof and rejoin Clements at Hekpoort, gave the order for us to be ready to march off at dusk. Soon after sunset, rain, which had been threatening all day, commenced to fall, and we had a rather uncomfortable night march to Hekpoort. We reached there at midnight, turned-in on the wet veldt for a few hours and were up again at four. That day we were rearguard and going in a south-westerly direction marched through Hartley's Nek (in the Witwatersberg) and encamped the other side.[Back to Contents] Death and Burial of Captain Hodge. On October the 31st we were right flank to Cyperfontein, and came in for the inevitable sniping. Mushrooms, which were very abundant on the veldt we were traversing, were collected by many of us, and on our arrival in camp cooked in a stew or fried in Maconochie bacon fat. We also came upon two Boer waggons under some trees, from which we obtained a huge loaf of mealie bread and some useful enamelled tin ware—likewise a basin of excellent custard. Several women thereupon came up from a house not far off and protested against our pillaging the waggons, as they only contained their property. "And their men?" we queried. They had none, knew nothing about any. A cock crowed in the neighbourhood, was located and promptly commandeered, and at the same moment, Boleno (not his real name) triumphantly emerged from one of the waggons with a fine pair of spurs and a quantity of tobacco; the simple Boer women had to accept us as unbelievers. Further afield and unknown to us, the Fifes were having a warm time. It was only when we got into camp that we heard from our old friend, Sergeant Pullar, that their gallant and popular Captain (Chapell-Hodge of the 12th Lancers) had been severely wounded in retiring his men from a kopje to which they had advanced in scouting. He died the following night at Vlakfontein, As my horse had gone a bit lame, I was riding with the convoy that day, and so was able to wait and attend the funeral. I doubt the Fifes will ever forget that day. With reveillÉ rain began to pour in torrents. The advance and flanking parties moved out of camp, the Fifes had been told off for rearguard, on account of the funeral. Presently the convoy began to get under way with a lowing of oxen and cracking of whips, mingled with the bleating of captured flocks of sheep and goats. Standing under a tree beside my horse I waited; through the blinding rain I could see the ox teams by our Yeomanry lines swinging round in response to the niggers' shouts and whips, and with a gurring and creaking the waggons one by one took their place in the lengthy procession, disappearing in the dense atmosphere. One tent had been left standing, right and left of its entrance were drawn up the firing party and the rest of the squadron; leaving my horse I fell in with them. The sergeants presently emerged bearing on a stretcher, sewn up in the ordinary brown military blanket, the mortal remains of their captain. Then through the never-ceasing rain, splashing through pools of muddy water sometimes ankle deep, we slowly made our way to the back of a farm some fifty yards away, where at the feet of some huge blue gum trees, a grave had been dug. Several of the firing party who had no cloaks had their waterproof sheets over their shoulders, I noticed one man with a corn sack. Colonel Browne read the Service, the rain splashing on his little Prayer Book. The body was reverently lowered by means of a couple of ammunition belts from a machine gun, and the three rounds cracked strangely in the rain-laden air, the water dripping from the rifles. After the firing, one of the party, a dour-looking Scot, void of all sentiment I should have thought (God forgive me!) stooped, and picking some objects out of the mud, thrust them into a handy pocket. They were his three empty cartridge cases. Then the Fifes sorrowfully marched away, leaving their beloved captain behind them. Happy Fifes to have possessed so good an officer! Unhappy Fifes to have lost him! ******* Returning to where my poor saturated horse was miserably standing, I mounted and slowly rode along with the convoy. After going some miles, I was pleased to see the waggons turning off the slippery track on to the veldt and outspanning. Seeing close by the road, lying on the site of a former camp, sheets of corrugated iron from the roofs and other parts of a few wrecked and deserted houses in the neighbourhood, I dismounted and secured two large bent ones (these placed on the ground like an inverted V form excellent shelters for tentless men), and proceeded to carry them and drag my steed towards the camp. It was a long way and an awful fag. At length through the pelting rain, there bore down upon the Sussex Yeomanry lines two large bent sheets of galvanised iron, cursing horribly and followed by a dripping horse. Suddenly the sheets fell clattering to the wet ground and his comrades beheld the writer of these immortal letters. Whiteing, Boleno, and the rest of our special clique or mess, who had arrived before me had already commenced constructing Mealie Villas (being the name given to our family residence wherever we are). The ground was, of course, saturated by the rain, which continued unceasing all day. Huddled together in the cribbed, cabined and confined space of our "home, sweet home," half-naked, but fairly cheerful, we passed the time in everlastingly patching up the leaks and defects in the construction of the Villas. The next morning we had reveillÉ at six, and turned out promptly to feed the wretched horses; the poor, woe-begone looking creatures, hardly one of which was properly picketed, were standing expectantly amid a perfect cobweb of muddy, tangled picketing ropes in the quagmire, which represented their lines. One of the fellows, who had passed the night under our ox waggon, on lifting his rain-sodden blanket, found to his surprise and disgust a fine iguana, about four feet long, nestling against his body. The sun began to smile upon us, and we advanced to a better camping ground a few miles further on at Leeuwfontein. Here we outspanned and soon had our wet blankets, clothes, and other articles spread out on the veldt drying. The Force remained halted on Sunday, though we Yeomanry were sent out on a foraging patrol and returned with ducks and oranges galore. Late in the day, "Nobby," sallow, and with a week's beard on him, paid us a visit. He told us he had been bad and was dying, but bucked up at the sight of our rifles, which he pronounced as being in a disgustingly dirty state. "I'd like to be yer sergeant-major. I'd make yer sit up," quoth he indignantly, and then proceeded to give us the history of his own gun, and the godliness of its cleanliness. He also related to us portions of the history of the Border Regiment. "We're the Unknown Regiment," remarked Nobby, half bitterly, "but they ought ter know us now, we was with ole 'Art's Irish Brigade in Natal," and then came anecdotes of Pieter's Hill, and other places. Of course, he told us of their great marching feats, and wound up thus: "The other day Clements said to our ole man, 'Give the Borders a new pair of boots an' a ration of rum, an' they'll march to h——." Then after a pause, "Of course, that's a bit o' bunkum to keep us goin';" but his manner showed he was proud to repeat it nevertheless. On the 5th, we advanced to Doornkom, getting a fine herd of cattle from a kloof on our way, and having sundry necessary bonfires, principally of oat hay. Consolation. On Sunday (November 11th) we had some lively scrapping at the commencement of our march, which was towards Krugersdorp. During the day some of our Sussex fellows came upon an untenanted shanty, containing scores of packets of magnificent candles. They brought away all they possibly could, and were very generous to the rest of us with them. That evening Mealie Villas was brilliantly illuminated, and later I had the pleasure of presenting Dr. Welford and Captain Cory with a packet of these unobtainable articles. Another man who had been on a ration fatigue at the A.S.C. waggons in the afternoon managed to take away a box of four dozen tins of apricot jam, not down on our requisition. To "do" the A.S.C. is a virtuous deed. So we have dined well lately, though at the present time of writing I am rather tired of apricot preserve. On Pass. This day, Monday (November 12th), the column marched into Krugersdorp. We were rearguard and just as we left the site of the camp, which had been in a most picturesque spot, got bullets whistling by us and knocking up the dust round our horses. Two of our men out of four, who had relieved an infantry picket at reveillÉ are missing. The snipers followed us about half the distance to the dorp and we had quite a warm little rearguard action. I am just off to post this in the town.[Back to Contents] Camp Life at Krugersdorp. Krugersdorp, Saturday, Nov. 17th, 1900. We are still camped within about three miles of this town, and expect to remain here till Hart's Column returns. It went out yesterday after having had a five weeks' rest. Amongst the mounted men were the Wilts, Bucks, Yorks, and Suffolk Squadrons of Yeomanry. I think I told you in my last we arrived here on Monday after a lively time as rearguard, the Boers opening fire on us as soon as we had started to leave the place we had camped at. That is the worst of pitching upon picturesque spots for camps. We lost two men, who, however, eventually turned up safe and sound, although some of their captors had shown a strong inclination to shoot them, but, thanks to Delarey's brother, the bloody-minded minority were disappointed. The snipers hung persistently on to our tail, occupying each ridge and kopje as we retired from them. As soon as I had picketed and fed my horse, I obtained leave and went into Krugersdorp, passing on the way mines all the worse for want of wear, and the "Dubs" and others under canvas. In the town I dined at what I should imagine was a Bier Halle in the piping days of peace, but which in the sniping days of war is an underground eating room run by Germans, who charge a great deal for a very little, and find it far more profitable than gold-mining. I procured some tins of condensed milk, golden syrup, and jam for our larder, and volumes by Ruskin, Meredith, Thackeray, and Kipling, for my own somewhat small library. With these I proudly staggered back to camp, aware of the royal and well-merited reception which awaited me, and which I got. Whiteing was quite overcome at the sight of Ruskin and Thackeray, while another friend implored permission to have a dip in "The Seven Seas" (which seems a big request, I doubt not, to the uninitiated). I forgot to mention that on my return to camp I found mails awaiting me. Thus passed a pleasant day. Tuesday I spent in camp, writing replies to my kind correspondents, reading and re-reading my letters and papers. We hear the C.I.V.'s are home, good luck to 'em, and though I have not read the papers I can imagine to a slight extent the enthusiastic welcome they were accorded. The knowledge that we have done our duty will be enough for us; never mind the brazen bands, the free drinks, the dyspeptical dinners, the cheers and jingo songs. Suffice it for us if you will let us quietly alight from the train and get us home, to our ain firesides. I fear I am rather bitter to-day; but, Christmas is coming, and the date of our return no man knoweth! On Thursday we all had to turn out to be inspected by "Bobs." If the turn out was to give him an idea of our strength as a fighting force the whole thing was "tommy-rot" for we paraded as strong as possible in numbers. The halt, sick and the blind, so to speak, were in the ranks, every available horse being used to mount them. Thus we turned out, our officers anxiously making the centre guides prove, and issuing special orders to us not to crowd when marching past in column of squadrons and all that sort of thing. Then we marched to the parade ground, cow gun, field guns, pom-poms, Infantry, Yeomanry, and Colonial mounted troops. After a short wait a group of mounted beings appeared in the distance and approached the force. We carried arms, and the infantry presented them. The great little man and his staff passed along the front of the force, and then cantered away, and the show was over, after having in all occupied about five minutes. In the way of guards and pickets we are not over-worked, the regiment having to supply a picket of one officer and twenty men every night, which means each squadron comes on every fourth night. The job is, also, what Tommy would call a distinctly "cushey" one. On Friday I went into the town and succeeded in securing a fine stock of things for our larder, including a slab of Genoa cake, which I purchased at the Field Force canteen, which has just been opened. In the evening we entertained Sergeant Pullar, of the Fifes, at tea. This, though I should be modest over it, was really a grand, indeed sumptuous repast. Many a time has this gentleman given us biscuits on the veldt in our hours of need, papers also to read, and so we meant to do the thing well, and we did. In the morning a special invitation was sent from the corporals of the Sussex Squadron residing at Nos. 1, 2 and 3, Mealie Villas, requesting the pleasure of Sergeant Pullar's company to afternoon tea, parade order optional. We formed a table of biscuit boxes, which we covered with two recently-washed towels, and then I managed to obtain a fine effect in the way of table decoration by taking the spotted red handkerchief from my neck and laying it starwise as a centre-piece. Then, having begged, borrowed and otherwise obtained all the available tin plates, we covered the table with sardines, tinned tongues, pickles, condensed milk, jams, butter, and cake. Sergeant Pullar having arrived with his plate, knife, fork and spoon in a haversack, we sat down on S.A.A. Cordite Mark IV. boxes, to a rattling good feed, which guest and hosts did full justice to. Then it rained, and we had to rig up our blanket hutches in record time, while our guest sped to his tent. Thus ended an auspicious evening. The next morning we had the deluge, for it poured in torrents, our wretched blanket shelters proving far from rain-tight. But the real trouble was when we found we were being swamped, the water flowing in and sopping us and our belongings, the latter being by far the most important. Upon this I turned out and found the whole camp was a swamp, and all the shovels being used for digging trenches. Not to be done, I collared a meat chopper from the Dorset cook-house, and started constructing trenches for all I was worth, specially draining my part of the villa where the library was in great danger. The rain ceasing after a while, the other fellows emerged like so many slugs, and soon under my supervision (was I not articled to an architect once?) an elaborate system of drainage, consisting of trenches and dams, was constructed around the villas. We had a bit of a row with our neighbours, who complained that we had drained all our water on to them. A lot of unnecessary damming was indulged in. However, from our point of view the thing was a great success. Later the sun came out, and we dried all our possessions. Great institution the sun! The next day being the Sabbath, of course, we had to have a scrap, or at least try to have one. So we had a reveillÉ at 2 a.m., in order to surround a house where about forty Boers had been reported by some wretched being. On turning out, several of us found our horses had disappeared during the night, mine being among the number. So as not to be out of the fun, I took the first wandering brute I found, and fell in. All this took place in the dark, and later, when it became lighter, it was most amusing to see what some of us had secured. Mine proved to be an officer's charger, but no goer. When I got back to the lines, I found an infuriated officer's servant marking time in front of me till we were dismissed, when he approached and wrathfully spoke to me, stating that the horse had a sore back and was lame in three legs. As he gave me no chance to offer an apology or explanation, we slanged and abused one another for about ten minutes, to the delight of the squadron, and then parted so as not to miss other similar rows. The result of the morning's work was, I hear, two Boers captured. For this we all laid on the wet ground behind anthills and other cover for about two hours, waiting for them to come our way; while Legge's crowd pom-pommed and field-gunned them for about an hour. The Boers also used a good deal of ammunition, doing us no damage, but getting away through the usual missing link in the chain. This afternoon (Monday, 19th) we received mails, my share being three letters, and some papers. Tuesday, Nov. 20th. I have just heard that we are off for a ten weeks' trek to-morrow, so I must bring this to a conclusion, and get into town to post it, and also to procure some more stores. It may or may not interest you to know that of all the jams we have had out here (and we have been served out with at least a score of different brands) the very best, made from the most genuine fruit, were the conserves of two Australian firms. These two firms are head and shoulders above all other makers bar none. "Advance, Australia" is right. Well, here we are, and here we are going to remain, for how long the Fates only know. Sometimes in my most optimistic moments I cheerfully look forward to spending the golden autumn of my life in the land of my birth. As I write this evening by candlelight, in our rude substitute for a tent, I can hear the chorus of "The miner's (why not a yeoman's?) dream of home," which comes wafted to us from the Fife lines. As you will, I hope, receive this by Christmas, I take the opportunity to wish you and all kind friends a right merrie Christmas and a prosperous new year. For us no holly will prick nor mistletoe hang. If Santa Claus comes it will probably be with a Mauser, and for some, alas! obituary cards will take the place of the coloured productions of Bavarian firms. But come weal, come woe, where'er we be on that day, I can guarantee you our sentiments will be easily summed up by the following: "Our heart's where they rocked our cradle, Our love where we spent our toil; And our faith and our hope and our honour, We pledge to our native soil!"[Back to Contents] Lady Snipers at Work. Krugersdorp (again), Wednesday, November 28th, 1900. We returned here on Monday, after having been out for about a week's cruise on the troubled veldt, and, in spite of the rumour that we were to be treking again this morning, we are still here. I will endeavour to give you the usual veracious account of our doings. I say "veracious" advisedly, as oftentimes, after having seen something extra strong in the Ananias-Sapphira-Munchausen-Gulliver-de-Rougemont epistolary line from some gentleman in khaki to the old folks at home, in a London or provincial paper, I feel that I must give up letter writing altogether, as by now those at home must have discovered that such effusions are often seven-eighths lies, and the remaining one-eighth truth, simply because the scribe's powers of invention have failed him, owing to the great strain. Only yesterday I saw in a certain local paper such an epistle from one of our fellows, who, owing to various circumstances, only joined us in September last, and has now joined the estimable waggon crowd. From it I gathered that we had fought incessantly for several days, on one occasion being without food or water for thirty-nine hours, etc., and afterwards for our magnificent behaviour had been called up to the general's tent, warmly congratulated by him, and presented with a pot of jam each. So my diffidence about writing will be easily understood, I am sure. And now for the celestial truth. On Wednesday last (November 21st) we had an unexpected reveillÉ at 1.30 a.m., and set out with four days' supplies for Somewherefontein (where, we did not know). A "revally" at such an hour is, as you may imagine, by no means devoid of interest; I don't know whether you have ever experienced one; if you have you know all about it; if not you have a great experience lacking. There was I, collecting and packing our larder in an oat sack, my miniature Bodleian and other various possessions in another, dismantling our blanket shelter, and a hundred other things, including feeding and saddling up my Rosinante, and then—"Stan' to your 'osses!" We paraded smartly, and after a short wait, moved off as right flank. A few hours after dawn there was fighting in front of the column, but not our way, Legge's crowd working on a parallel road and some way ahead of us. At about mid-day we reached a wonderfully fertile village (Sterkfontein), and, imagining it to be unoccupied, our Provost-Marshal and his satellites rode forward to select a site for our camp, and got well sniped from some of the houses. Thereupon Number Eight came up, and at comparatively speaking short range, opened fire and 15-poundered them. To us, who were watching the show, the sight was a most interesting one. Crash through a house would go one shell, another would account for something else, and flames and smoke soon announced burning thatches and oat-hay stacks. The Mausers soon ceased from troubling, and eventually we entered the fontein. To our surprise no snipers were captured, and it was asserted that the firing had been done by the ladies, who, with children, were the only persons found there. However, as no firearms or signs of their having done so, were found, the matter, like most things where the wily Boer is concerned, remains a mystery. It is a fact that lady snipers do exist. For some time the Borders had in their guard-room, during our last trip, amongst the various prisoners, a lady sniper they had bagged while doing the Magaliesberg. There was not much of the Jeanne d'Arc about her. I saw her once or twice. She was a regular barge, and of great beam; her face was concealed by the usual kindly sun-bonnet. (Note.—Our Regimental Sergeant-Major has just gone by, with white canvas shoes and slacks on. This is most reassuring as regards not moving off to-day). Well, we camped near the village, which lay in a sort of saucer, being surrounded by kopjes. On one of these our cow gun, yclept "Wearie Willie," was hauled; it took fifty-six oxen to get him up there. The Boers, whom we had surprised, were very sick at our unexpected visit, and, had they only known, would undoubtedly have attempted to hold the place a bit. As it was, they hung about far off. It rained a perfect deluge that night, and my blanket roof collapsing I went to sleep with it over me as it fell, lullabyed by the soft cursings of my neighbours of 1 and 2 Mealie Villas, who were in like plight. The next morning we were to have had reveillÉ at 5.30 and proceed to Rietfontein 12. (They have to number these places out here. You probably have noticed the innumerable Blandsfonteins, Hartebeestefonteins, Rietfonteins, Bethanies, etc., in the Transvaal and Orange River Colony.) But Brother Boer willed it otherwise, and about an hour before the fixed time I was "revallyed" by the banging of guns distant and near. I arose to my feet and the fact that Mr. Delarey was trying to shell us, as a not far distant crack of an exploding shell testified. Near me, from under a rain-soaked blanket a sun-bronzed face appeared and a sleepy voice inquired "are the burchers (burghers) shelling us?" The seeker after knowledge was informed they were. We soon got the order to turn out, saddle up and escort the guns. This we quickly did. As we moved out a few shells skimmed over the kopjes and lobbed themselves where our lines had been. By this time our field guns and cow gun were well at it, and the Boers were shifting a bit. We dismounted, lined the kopje we had ridden up to, and watched the work of our gunners. Presently from half up the hill in front of us, I saw a flickering white flash and pom-pom-pom-pom-pom-pom went Delarey's gun of that name, followed by a whistling over our heads and half-a-dozen cracks behind, where, looking round, I saw the same number of puffs of smoke and earth arise from the ground. This went on for a while, they were trying to get on our led horses, I believe. I afterwards heard some went fairly close, also that the general had one very near. Apropos of this pom-poming, our colonel, who had had their missiles all round him and had quite ignored them, as is his invariable custom, strolled up to one of our officers and the conversation turning on to pom-poms, languidly remarked: "Ye-es, I don't think they do much weel destwuction—er-er—it is pwincipally their demowalising effect." The demoralising effect on himself having been so very non-evident, this remark struck me as being distinctly good. Our "Wearie Willie" snapped out a remark now and again, and apparently always to the point. Later, Legge's men occupied the ridge opposite and chivvied the enemy for several miles; we, returning to camp, watered our horses and, twenty minutes later, set out on a reconnaissance with the guns in hopes of finding some snipers in the vicinity of Hekpoort. We returned bagless. That night it rained, as usual, and as we had not had time to rig up any shelters, or even dry our blankets, we came in for another good wetting. At two o'clock the next (Saturday) morning we had to turn out and stand to our horses. "Steady, boys, steady, we always are ready"—afterwards; you know our good old British style. But Frater Boer had had a belly full the preceding day, his losses in killed and wounded being considerable, I hear. Legge's men swear to have buried eight, and Clements said one of our shells hit a gun of their's. That night we had the fashionable and seasonable rain again. (Please, in future, remember we have this every night, and so I will refrain from too many references to it). On Sunday we moved off for Rietfontein, No. 1001. We formed the rearguard and expected a bit of harassing, the country being most favourable for such operations on the part of the enemy. But they left us alone, though they were undoubtedly about unseen. As several waggons broke down, and had to be mended or burned, we had to grill on the kopjes for hour upon hour, cursing the convoy with all our might. Presently the inevitable question "What's the date?" elicited the fact that it was the 25th. (You can imagine the chorus "A month to Christmas!" and Sunday.) Sunday, and you probably in your frock coat and patent boots, luxuriously reclining in an upholstered pew, listening to promises of peace and rest, or standing up half thinking of the good meal to follow, and singing "I came to Jesus as I was, Weary, and worn, and sad; I found in Him a resting place, And He hath made me glad." And I, there on those hard rocks, with a perpendicular sun above me, mechanically watching the distant hills, but seeing with strong mental eyes a church porch with roses and creeper over it and noting the Sabbath silence which presently would be broken softly by the voices of the worshippers within: "Come unto Me, ye weary, And I will give you rest." I think to stand outside a church and hear the worshippers within is to get one of the most pleasant impressions possible; somehow it always strikes me that one imagines the people within to be so much holier, indeed more spiritual, than they really are. But all this looks either like preaching or scoffing, and it is neither. It is really the result of a desire to push myself into the home life you good people are still leading, somehow or other. An excusable offence after all, my Masters! Having re-cursed the tail of the convoy, it at last moved forward, and we, having allowed it so much grace, did the same. At the outskirts of the village, which the column had moved through, the last waggon—an overloaded one—collapsed, and once again we manned the heights. I was sent out with a couple of men to a post a little in advance of the rest of our troop, and, after an hour, about a mile off saw four Boers nonchalantly riding toward the other side of the dorp. These were followed by two more. I sent in and reported this, and shortly after we moved off, unsniped. Undoubtedly these beggars had been waiting for the column to pass, so that they could return and have a Sunday dinner and a quiet evening, having had rather a rough week, and it was only owing to the above-mentioned waggon breaking down that we had a glimpse into the ways of our enemy. Our camp was not far off, and we go there at about six; some of the column were in by eleven in the morning. The amount of burning done en route was almost appalling. The next day we marched into Krugersdorp once again, passing several marshy spots where arum lilies were blooming in rich profusion. We reached here at noon; the Dorsets and Devons who formed the rearguard had a bit of scrapping, and, thanks to a straggling convoy, did not get into camp till close on midnight, and so, of course, got a rare soaking from the usual rain. Here I have received a few belated mails, and live in hopes of getting the latest. I have also read in some of the papers of the welcome home of the C.I.V.'s. "You've welcomed back the C.I.V.'s, Back from their toil to home and ease; The war is going pretty strong, We've bade adieu to 'sha'n't be long'; And you at home across the seas, Don't quite forget us, if you please." The following poetic outburst requires a little explanation. We have had the khaki this and the khaki that, and it has just occurred to me a khaki Omar Khayyam would not be out of place, for of a truth one needs a soupÇon of philosophy out here occasionally. With this idea in my head, and having a little leisured ease, I have set out to minister a long-felt want. Not, however, having my Persian "Fitzgerald" by me, I must ask your indulgence for any grave discrepancies in the text. THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. (For the use of British Soldiers on the Veldt.) The night has gone, the golden sun has riz, The khaki men have all begun to friz, Cleared is the mushroom camp of yesterday, And forth they go upon the Empire's biz. Oh! hopes of home that with each morning rise, Oh! wondrous legends which wild minds devise; One thing is certain, and the rest is lies, The Yeoman, once enlisted, often sighs. Oh! fool to cry "The Boer is on the run," He is, we know, and ain't forgot his gun; And often from the rocky kopje side He stops and pots—your mess is minus one. I sometimes think that nought whiffs on the wind As strong as where some dying steed reclined; That any casual stranger passing by The place, if asked, again could eas'ly find. Alas! that Mausers are not turned to hoes, That Christmas comes, and with the pudding goes; And we stick here for ever and a day, When we return (or if) who knows—WHO KNOWS? Oh! Pard, could thou and I with Holmes conspire To round De Wet up with his force entire; Would we not smash it all to bits—and then Get somewhere nearer to our heart's desire. A pipe o' baccy 'neath a leafy tree, A recent mail from far across the sea, No one to worry for an hour or two, And veldt, indeed, were Paradise to me. And, lo, 'tis vain the generals to blame, Keep boldly sticking at the ancient game; And if to-day you are upon the veldt, To-morrow it will also be the same. Each morn's reveillÉ comes like some nightmare, Sleepy you rise and pack your kit, and swear; Then mount your saddled steed with gun in hand, And hasten off, you know not why or where. Some in the fighting let their hearts rejoice, For some the waggons are the patriot's choice: Oh! loot the farm, don't let the chickens go, Nor heed the roaring of the sergeant's voice! They say the gentlemen in khaki keep The courts where Kruger once did plot so deep; That great Oom Paul across the sea has trekked, Before the Courts of Europe now to weep. We are but pawns, first front, then flank, then rear, Moved by the Master Players there and here Upon the veldt and kopje (that's the board), Sans tents, sans beds, sans pudding and sans BEER. Yon broiling sun which smiles and is our bane, Yon thunder-cloud which means a soaking rain, Will both some day look down upon this veldt For us, and let us hope 'twill be in vain. The above extract will, I am sure, suffice to show the general tone of the khaki Rubaiyat, and be more than enough to damn my poor but honest reputation.[Back to Contents] Treatment of the Sick. Krugersdorp, December 5th, 1900. As the English mail leaves this benighted place to-morrow at mid-day, I am dropping you a few lines, though I feel in anything but a scribbling humour. Clements moved out on Monday for about a week's jaunt, and left us, the Sussex Squadron and sick men, behind in charge of about a hundred remounts, mostly Argentines; and with the pleasant task of doing pickets and such like, about two miles out from the town. As I write I am very wet, it having been raining for the last two days. This morning the other four occupants of Mealie Villas had to clear off at 3 o'clock to do a picket, and so, as they naturally withdrew the support of their rifles from their blankets, there was not much shelter for me. I wonder what your opinion was on the statements of Mr. Burdett-Coutts, M.P., as regards certain hospitals out here, and also what you think of the Army doctor? It was my duty to parade the sick men before one of these august beings this morning. I received the order at a quarter past nine from our Squadron Sergeant-Major to parade before the doctor's tent, in the lines of Marshall's Horse, at 9.30. So at that time, behold me with fourteen sick men in the driving, drenching rain waiting in puddles of water outside the well-closed tent of the disciple of Esculapius. There we waited till at last an officer entering the tent, in response to my inquiry, as to whether I was at the right place or not, replied in the affirmative and informed an unseen being that there was a sick parade outside. Apparently without even rising, the great unseen was heard to remark shortly, "Sick parade is at seven o'clock every morning," the tent was again closed, and the men with fever, dysentery, colds and sores wended their ways through the rain and mud, back to the damp interiors of their leaking blanket hovels. They were men of the Fife, Devon, Dorset, and Sussex Yeomanry Squadrons, and that is how some of your dear patriotic volunteers get treated occasionally by certain doctors out here. Our Battalion doctor (the 7th) is a very good sort, and if you are bad will see you at almost any time. On Wednesday (November 29th) a friend and I went into the 'Dorp and got a few stores (alas! the Field Force canteen is almost empty and the prospects of its being replenished are drear). Afterwards we strolled up to the station to see if there were any mails, and to see a train again. The Johannesburg train came in while we were there, and a sergeant-major of Kitchener's Horse shot an officer of the same corps soon after alighting from the train. The officer had put him under arrest for misbehaviour in Johannesburg. I had my choice of a dozen yarns as to the real cause of the tragedy. The officer was buried the next day. The fate of the sergeant-major I have not heard yet, though it is not difficult to guess. Mr. Wynne, our troop leader left us this day for England, having applied for leave on business. A statement of the losses among our officers may not be uninteresting. All of the following, save the last, are home or on their way: The Duke of Norfolk, injured thigh; the Hon. T. A. Brassey, elections; Mr. Ashby, reasons unknown, but undoubtedly excellent; Mr. Williams-Wynne, business reasons; Mr. Cory, still out here but working with the transport—hard. Which leaves us Mr. McLean, of rowing fame, as our captain and only officer. Saturday, apart from lifting us into December, was I believe, uneventful.[Back to Contents] Veldt Church Service. On Sunday we had a Brigade Church Service—we had not had one for a long time. We also had a real padre, who wore a surplice, cassock, and helmet, and who preached an indifferent sermon. I don't suppose we deserve a real good man. Hymns & their Singers. The great event of Tuesday was the fate of my Christmas pudding, which I had received from my Mater. Having handled and examined it carefully for some time, I thought I could detect signs of decomposition about it. I communicated my fears to my comrades, who shared them, and said they didn't think it would last till Christmas. It didn't; for we ate it that evening. It was good, and I suppose we ought to feel ashamed of ourselves for eating it out of season, but really our excuses are many, principal among them being it is not wise trying to keep edibles, as they have a way of getting lost, and if the pudding managed to last to Christmas it is just on the cards we might not. To show you how civilised we are at the 'Dorp, we, when in standing camp, occasionally have a chance of getting a drink of beer. This afternoon a barrel was brought into our camp, and to-night we shall be able to buy pots of it at sixpence a pint. You should see those pints! We may be Imperial Yeomanry, but they don't give us Imperial Pints. Teetotallers will be interested and pleased to hear that out of our princely stipend of 1s. 3d. per diem (unpaid since July) we don't buy much of the beverage. I have drawn a fresh horse from the remounts we are in charge of; my last gee-gee I called "Barkis," because he was willing, this brute I shall have to dub "Smith," because he certainly is not—Willing. N.B.—Our mounts are always known as "troop horses," those belonging to the officers though, however Rosinante-like, are invariably, politely and with dignity alluded to as "chargers." Thursday morning. We had to turn out and stand to arms this morning at three, an attack being expected on the railway. I, happening to have the stable picket, had the pleasure of arousing the recumbent forms of the sleepers with the joyous Christmas carol of "Christians, awake! come, salute the happy morn." You ought to have seen the "Christians" awake; to have heard them would have been too awful. So from three till six we stood to arms, a thick fog enveloping us, making it impossible to see more than fifty yards to our front or rear. But they did not come. I understand that we may have "the stand to arms" wheeze every morning now, so we have something to look forward to.[Back to Contents] Comradeship. Krugersdorp. Wednesday, December 12th, 1900. As we are under orders to leave here and join Clements to-morrow, I am writing so as to catch the mail which goes out on Thursday. On Sunday we had a Church Service, and in the afternoon had a visit from Nobby—the Border Regiment has been resting at Krugersdorp for a few weeks—who entertained us till, what out here we should term a late hour, about nine. On Monday I heard that another of our Sussex fellows had died of enteric at Pretoria. Nobby has just looked in again, he is rather a swell, wearing one of our new war hats we had served out, and which I gave him, preferring to keep my old one; in his words, he looks as if he belonged to the "Yeomandry." It is wonderful how all our fellows get on with our professional brethren. Take for instance one of our men, a 'Varsity man, hight Pember, he is a dry, self-contained beggar, and lives his own life. Into this life has come a man of the Northumberland Fusiliers. They both hail from the same county. After the day's march, when the Infantry not on picket are in camp, a dark figure often slouches up our lines, and a voice inquires, "Is Pem 'ere?" and Pember of ours, late of Trinity Hall, calls out from the darkness, "Here you are, mate," and forthwith the man of the Fighting Fifth and the Imperial Yeoman sit down together and chat of Heaven knows what, and the latter gives the former half of his prized hard tack ration (he wouldn't give me a biscuit for his soul's salvation), for the Northumberlands do not fare well at their quartermaster's hands, at least they did not the last time we were on the trek. Then, at about the same time Nobby is leaving us, the Fusilier also arises and disappears with a "Good night, chummy," into the darkness. The dry canteen, for the troops, in the town, is now quite empty. Fortunately, we still have some of the Great Candle Loot left, otherwise we should be very much in the dark after sunset. To save our candles from draughts and get a good light, we always burn them in biscuit tins, a practice I can recommended highly if ever you go out campaigning and lack a lantern. A convoy going to Rustenburg from Pretoria was attacked and part captured a few days ago by Delarey's crowd. I had expected that to happen soon, the length of the convoy and insufficiency of its guard, having frequently struck me as very tempting for Brother Boer. Well, I must conclude, as I have nothing of note to narrate, and must begin to pack my possessions in a manner to circumvent our quartermaster-sergeant when packing our kits on the waggon. Decoration.
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