THE REVERSE AT NICHOLSON'S NEK
LADYSMITH, _October 31, 1899_.
On Sunday we were all astir for a big battle. But no village Sabbath in
the Highlands could have been quieter, though it might have been more
devotional. We rode about as usual, though our rides are very limited
now, and the horse that took me forty miles last Wednesday is pining
because the Boers have cut off his exercise. We sweated and swore, and
suffered unfathomable thirst, but still there was no more battle than
the evening hymn. Next day we knew it would be different. At night I
heard the guns go out eastward along the Helpmakaar road to take up a
position on our right. At three I was up in the morning darkness, and
riding slowly northward with the brigade that was to form our centre,
up the familiar Newcastle road. We had not far to go. The Boers save us
a lot of exertion. A mile and a half--certainly less than two
miles--from the outside of the town was our limit. But as we went the
line of yellow behind our two nearest mountains, Lombard's Kop and
Bulwan (Mbulwani, Isamabulwan--you may spell it almost as you like), was
suddenly shot with red, and the grey night clouds showed crimson on all
their hanging edges. The crimson caught the vultures soaring wide
through the air, and then the sun himself came up with that blaze of
heat which was to torture us all day long.
The central rendezvous beside the Newcastle road was well protected by a
high rocky hill, which one can only call a kopje now. There were the 5th
Dragoon Guards, the Manchesters, the Devons, the Gordons, with their
ambulance and baggage, some of the Natal Volunteers, and when the train
from Maritzburg arrived about six the Rifle Brigade marched straight out
of it to join us. I climbed the kopje in front of them, and from there
could get a fine view of the whole position except the extreme flanks.
At 5.10 the first gun sounded from a battery on the right of our
centre--a battery that was to do magnificent work through the day. The
enemy's reply was an enormous puff of smoke from a flat-topped hill
straight in front of me. A huge shell shrieked through the air, and,
passing high above my head, burst slap in the middle of the town behind
me. Again and again it came. The second shot fell close to the central
hospital; the third in a private garden, where the native servants have
been busy digging for fragments ever since, as in a gold mine, not
considering how cheap such treasure is now likely to become. The range
was something over four miles. One of the shells passed so near the
balloon that the officer in the car felt it like a gust of wind. (I
ought to have told you about that balloon, by the way. We sent it up
first on Sunday morning, our Zulu savages opening their mouths at it,
beating their lips, and patting their stomachs with peculiar cries.)
"Long Tom" had come. "Long Tom," the hero of Dundee, able to hurl his
vast iron cylinder a clean six miles as often as you will. I saw him and
his brother gun on trucks at Sand River Camp on the Transvaal border
just before the war began. They say he is French--a Creusot
gun--throwing, some say 40lbs., some 95lbs., each shot. Anyhow, the
shell is quite big enough, whatever its weight, and it bangs into
shops, chapels, ladies' bedrooms without any nice distinctions. I could
see "Tom's" ugly muzzle tilted up above a great earthwork which the
Boers had heaped near a tree on the edge of that flat-topped hill, which
we may call Pepworth, from a little farm hard by.
Our battery was at once turned on to him, and though short at first, it
got the range, and poured the deadly shrapnel over that hill for hour
after hour. But other guns were there--perhaps as many as six--and they
replied to our battery, whilst "Tom" reserved his attention for the
town. Often we thought him silenced, but always he began again, just
when we were forgetting him, sometimes after over an hour's pause. The
Boer gunners, whoever they may be, are not wanting in courage. So the
artillery battle went on, hour after hour. I sat on the rocks and
watched. At my side the Gordons on picket duty were playing with two
little white kids. On the plain in front no one was to be seen but one
lone and dirty soldier, who was steadily marching in across it, no one
knew from where. He must have lost his way in the night, and now was
making for the nearest British lines, hanging his rifle unconcernedly
over his shoulder, butt behind.
So we watched and waited. At one moment Dr. Jameson came up to get a
look at his old enemy. Then we heard heavy rifle fire far away on our
left, where the Gloucesters and Royal Irish Fusiliers had been sent out
the night before, and were now on the verge of that terrible disaster
which has kept us all anxious and uncertain to-day. The rumour goes that
both battalions have disappeared, and what survives of them will next be
found in Pretoria. At eight o'clock I saw a new force of Boers coming
down a gully in a great mountain behind Pepworth Hill. But for my glass,
I should have taken them for a black stream marked with white rocks. But
they were horses and men, and the white rocks were horses too. Heavy
firing began far away on our right. At nine the Manchesters were called
off to reinforce. At half-past nine the Gordons followed, and I went
with them. About a mile and a half from the centre we were halted again
on the top of another rocky kopje covered with low bush and trees, out
of which we frightened several little brown deer and some strange birds.
From the top I could see the whole position of the right flank fairly
well, but it puzzled me at first. The guns shelling Pepworth
Hill--there were two batteries of them now--were still at their work,
just in front of our left now and about half a mile away. Away to our
right and further advanced, but quite exposed in the open, were two
other batteries, shelling some distant kopjes on our right at the foot
of the great mountain lump of Lombard's Kop. I heard afterwards they
were shelling an empty and deserted kopje for hours, but I know that
only from hearsay. Between the batteries and far away to the right the
infantry was lying down or advancing in line, chiefly across the open,
against the enemy's position. But what was that position? Take Ladysmith
as centre and a radius of five miles, the Boers' position extended round
a semicircle or more, from Lombard's Kop on the east to Walker's Hoek on
the west, with Pepworth Hill as the centre of the arc on the north. I
believe myself that the position was not a mile less than fifteen miles
long, and for the most part it was just what Boers like--rocky kopjes
and ridges, high and low, always giving cover and opportunity for
surprise and ambuscade.
[Illustration: LOMBARD'S KOP]
It was against the left flank of that position that our right was now
hurling itself. The idea, I suppose, was to roll their left back upon
their centre and take Pepworth Hill and "Long Tom" in the confusion
of retreat. That may or may not have been the General's plan, but from
my post with the Gordons I soon saw something was happening to prevent
it. On a flat piece of green in front of the rocky kopjes, where the
enemy evidently was, I could see men, not running, but walking about in
different directions. They were not crowded, but they seemed to be
moving about like black ants, only in a purposeless kind of way. "They
are Boers, and we've got them between our men and our battery," said a
Gordon officer. But I knew his hope was a vain one. Very slowly they
were coming towards us--turning and firing and advancing a little, one
by one--but still coming towards us, till at last they began to dribble
through the intervals in our batteries. Then we knew it was British
infantry retiring--a terrible sight, no matter how small the loss or how
wise the order given. Chiefly they were the 60th (K.R.R.) and the
Leicesters. I believe the Dublins were there too. Behind them the enemy
kept up the incessant crackle of their rifles.
They came back slowly, tired and disheartened and sick with useless
losses, but entirely refusing to hurry or crowd. With bullet and shell
the enemy followed them hard. Our batteries did what they could to
protect them, and Colonel Coxhead, in command of the guns, received the
General's praise afterwards. The Natal Volunteers and Gordons, and at
least part of the Manchesters were there to cover the retreat, but
nothing could restore the position again. Battalions and ranks had got
hopelessly mingled, and as soon as they were out of range the men
wandered away in groups to the town, sick and angry, but longing above
all things for water and sleep. The enemy's shells followed hard on
their trail nearly into the town, plumping down in the midst whenever
any body of men or horses showed themselves among the ridges of the
kopjes. Seeing what was happening on the right the centre began to
withdraw as well, and as their baggage train climbed back into the town
up the Newcastle road a shell from "Long Tom" fell among them at a
corner of the hill, blowing a poor ambulance and stretcher to pieces,
and killing one of the Naval Brigade just arrived from the _Powerful_.
It was the Naval Brigade that saved the day, though, to be sure, a
retirement like that is in itself a check, though no disaster. Captain
Lambton had placed two of his Elswick wire guns on the road to the town,
and sent shot after shot straight upon "Long Tom's" position four miles
away. Only twelve-pounders, I believe, they were, but of fine range and
precision, and at each successful shot the populace and Zulus standing
on the rocks clapped their hands and laughed as at a music-hall. For a
time, but only for a time, "Long Tom" held his tongue, and gradually the
noise of battle ceased--the bang and squeal of the shells, the crackle
of the rifle, the terrifying hammer-hammer of the enemy's two Krupp
automatic guns. It was about half-past two and blazing hot. The rest of
the day was quiet, but for rumours of the lamentable disaster of which
one can hardly speak at present. The Gloucesters and Royal Irish
prisoners--1,100 at least after all losses! They say two Boers were
brought in blindfold last night to tell the General. This morning an
ambulance party has gone out to bring in the wounded, and whilst they
are gone with their flag of truce we have peace.
I take the opportunity to write, hurriedly and without correction, for
the opportunity is short. "Long Tom" sent two shells into us this
morning as we were dressing (I should have said washing, only the water
supply is cut), and at any moment he may begin again.
_November 1, 1899._
I may add that the retirement of the battalions of the 60th, with the
Leicesters, is the theme of every one's praise to-day. Its success was
chiefly due to General Hunter, and the dogged courage of the men
themselves.
But the second part of the despatch is after all the main point of
interest. Such a disaster has, I suppose, seldom befallen two famous and
distinguished battalions. After heavy loss they are prisoners. They are
wiped out from the war. The Gloucesters and the Royal Irish
Fusiliers--they join the squadron of the 18th Hussars in Pretoria gaols.
Two Boers came in blindfolded to tell the news last night. All day long
we have been fetching in the wounded. Their wounds are chiefly from
Martini rifles, and very serious. I know the place of the disaster well,
having often ridden there when the Boers were at a more respectful
distance. It is an entangled and puzzling country, full of rocks and
hills and hidden valleys. It was only some falling boulders that caused
the ruin--a few casual shots--and the stampeding mules. That ammunition
mule has always a good deal to bear, but now the burden put on him
officially is almost too heavy for any four-legged thing.