SUN AND FEVER
_February 3, 1900._
The day was fairly quiet. Old "Bulwan Billy" did not fire at us at all,
and there was no movement in the distant Boer camps, though the
universal belief is that the enemy is concentrating round Ladysmith for
a fresh attack.
In the evening the rations were issued to the civilians under Major
Thompson's new regulations in the Market House. Each child, or whoever
else is sent, now brings his ticket; it is verified at a table, the cost
is added daily to each account, the child is sent on down the shed to
draw his allowance of tea and sugar, his loaf, and bit of horse. The
organisation is admirable, but one feels it comes a little late in the
day. The same is true of the new biscuit tins which are to be put up as
letter-boxes about the camp for a local post, and of the new plan of
making sandals for the men out of flaps of saddles and the buckets for
cavalry carbines. For a fortnight past, 120 of the Manchesters have gone
barefoot among the rocks.
_Sunday, February 4, 1900._
The sun shone. Women and children went up and down the street. I even
saw two white-petticoated girls climbing the rocks of Cove Redoubt to
get a peep at "Princess Victoria"--otherwise "Bloody Mary." It was a day
of peace, but every one believes it to be the last. To-night an attack
is confidently expected. The Boers are concentrating on the north-west.
A new gun was seen yesterday moving towards Thornhill's Kopje, and
sounds of building with stones were heard there last night. It is
thought the attack will be upon the line from Observation Hill to Range
Post. Every available man is warned. Even the military prisoners are
released and sent on duty again. The pickets are doubled and pushed far
out. A code of signals by rocket has been arranged to inform Buller of
what is going on. It is felt that this is the enemy's last chance of
doing so big a thing as capturing this garrison.
But all that is still uncertain, and in the quiet afternoon I harnessed
up my cart for a gentle drive with Sergeant-Gunner Boseley, of the 53rd
Battery. He is a red Irishman, born at Maidstone, and has done eleven
years' service. During the attack on the 6th he was sitting beside his
gun waiting for Major Abdy's word to fire in his turn, when a 96lb.
shell from "Bulwan" struck him in its flight, and shattered his left arm
and leg. He says he was knocked silly, and felt a bit fluttered, but had
no pain till they lifted him into the dhoolie. He broke the record, I
believe, by surviving a double amputation on the same side, which left
him only about 6 in. of thigh and 4 in. of arm. For every movement he is
helpless as a log. Four of us hoisted him into the cart, and then we
drove round to see his old battery, where the greetings of his mates
were brief, emphatic, and devoid of all romance. We then went up to the
tin camp, and round the main positions, which he regarded with silent
equanimity. I thought he was bored by the familiar scene, but at the end
he told me he had enjoyed it immensely, never having seen Ladysmith by
daylight before! The man is now in magnificent health, rosy as a rose,
and no doubt has a great career before him as a wonder from the war.
_February 5, 1900._
The noise of guns boomed all day from the Tugela. It sounded as though a
battle was raging along miles of its banks, from Colenso right away west
to Potgieter's Drift. I could see big shells bursting again on Taba
Nyama and the low nek above the ford. Further to the left they were
bursting around Monger's Hill, nearly half-way along the bank to
Colenso. From early morning the fire increased in intensity, reaching
its height between 3 and 4 p.m. At half-past four the firing suddenly
slackened and stopped. That seems like victory, but we can only hope.
_February 6, 1900._
Firing was again continuous nearly all day along the Tugela, except that
there appeared to be a pause of some hours before and after midday. The
distance was hazy, and light was bad. The heliograph below refused to
take or send messages, and we had no definite news. But at night it was
confidently believed that relief was some miles nearer than in the
morning. For myself, the sun and fever had hold of me, and I could only
stand on Observation Hill and watch the far-off bursting of shells and
the flash of a great gun which the Boers have placed in a mountain
niche upon the horizon to our left of Monger's Hill, overlooking the
Tugela. Sickness brought despondency, and I seemed only to see our
countrymen throwing away their lives in vain against the defences of a
gallant people fighting for their liberty.
One cannot help noticing the notable change of feeling towards the enemy
which the war has brought. The Boers, instead of being spoken of as
"ignorant brutes" and "cowards" have become "splendid fellows,"
admirable alike for strategy and courage. The hangers-on of Johannesburg
capitalism have to keep their abusive contempt to themselves now, but
happily only one or two of them have cared to remain in the beleaguered
town.
At a mess where I was to-night, all the officers but one agreed there
was not much glory in this war for the British soldier. It would only be
remembered as the fine struggle of an untrained people for their liberty
against an overwhelming power. The defence of the Tyrol against Ney was
quoted as a parallel. The Colonel, it is true, pathetically anxious to
justify everything to his mind and conscience, and trying to hate the
enemy he was fighting, stuck to his patriotic protests; but he was
alone, and the conversation was significant of a very general change.
Not that this prevents any one from longing for Buller's victory and our
relief, though the field were covered with the dead defenders of their
freedom.
_February 7, 1900._
We have now but one thought--is it possible for Buller to force his way
across that line of hills overlooking the Tugela? The nearest summits
are not more than ten miles away. We could ride out there in little more
than an hour and join hands with our countrymen and the big world
outside. Yet the barrier remains unbroken. Firing continued nearly all
day, except in the extreme heat of afternoon. We could watch the columns
of smoke thrown up by the Boers' great gun, still fixed above that niche
upon the horizon. The Dutch camps were unmoved, and at the extremity of
the Long Valley a large new camp with tents and a few waggons appeared
and increased during the day. Some thought it was a hospital camp, but
it was more likely due to a general concentration in the centre. Here
and there we could see great shells bursting, and even shrapnel. The
sound of rifles and "pom-poms" was often reported. Yet I could not see
any real proof of advance. Perhaps fever and sun blind me to hope, for
the staff are very confident still. They even lay odds on a celebration
of victory next Sunday by the united forces, and I hear that Sir George
is practising the Hundredth Psalm.
_February 8 to February 24, 1900._
I had hoped to keep well all through the siege, so as to see it all from
start to finish. But now over a fortnight has been lost while I have
been lying in hospital, suffering all the tortures of Montjuich, "A
touch of sun," people called it, combined with some impalpable kind of
malaria. On the 8th I struggled up Cæsar's Camp again, and saw parties
of Boers burning all the veldt beyond Limit Hill, apparently to prevent
us watching the movements of the trains at their railhead. On the 9th I
could not stand, and the bearers, with their peculiar little chant, to
keep them out of step, brought me down to the Congregational Chapel in a
dhoolie. There I still lie. The Hindoo sweepers creep about, raising a
continual dust; they fan me sleepily for hours together with a look of
impenetrable vacancy, and at night they curl themselves on the ground
outside and cough their souls away. The English orderlies stamp and
shout, displaying the greatest goodwill and a knowledge of the nervous
system acquired in cavalry barracks. Far away we hear the sound of
Buller's guns. I did not know it was possible to suffer such atrocious
and continuous pain without losing consciousness.
Of course we have none of the proper remedies for sunstroke--no ice, no
soda-water, and so little milk that it has to be rationed out almost by
the teaspoonful. Now that the fever has begun to subside I can only hope
for a tiny ration of tea, a brown compound called rice pudding,
flavoured with the immemorial dust of Indian temples, and a beef-tea
which neighs in the throat. That is the worst of the condition of the
sick now; when they begin to mend it is almost impossible to get them
well. There is nothing to give them. At Intombi, I believe it is even
worse than here. The letters I have lately seen from officers recovering
from wounds or dysentery or enteric are simply heart-rending in their
appeals.
_February 25, 1900._
Nearly all the patients who have passed through the field hospital
during the fortnight have been poor fellows shot by snipers in arms or
legs. Except when their wounds are being dressed, they lie absolutely
quiet, sleeping, or staring into vacancy. They hardly ever speak a word,
though the beds are only a foot apart. On my left is the fragment of the
sergeant gunner whom I took for a drive. His misfortunes and his
cheerful indifference to them make him a man of social importance. He
shows with regret how the shell cut in half a marvellous little Burmese
lady, whose robes once swept down his arm in glorious blues and reds,
but are now lapped over the bone as "flaps."
Another patient was a shaggy, one-eyed old man, between whose feet a
Bulwan shell exploded one afternoon as he was walking down the main
street. Beyond the shock he was not very seriously hurt, but his calves
were torn by iron and stones. He said he was the one survivor of the
first English ship that sailed from the Cape with settlers for Natal. He
was certainly very old.
On the night of the 22nd a man was brought into the hospital where I
lay--also attacked by sunstroke--his temperature 107 degrees, and all
consciousness happily gone. It was Captain Walker, the clever Irish
surgeon, who has served the Gordons through the siege as no other
regiment has been served, making their bill of health the best, and
their lines a pleasure to visit. His skill, especially in dysentery,
was looked to by many outside the Gordons themselves. Nothing could save
him. He was packed in cold sheets, fanned, and watched day and night.
For a few moments he knew me, and reminded me of a story we had laughed
over. But yesterday evening, after struggling long for each breath, he
died--one of the best and most useful men in camp.
If it was fated that I should be laid up for a fortnight or more of the
siege it seems that this was about the best time fate could choose. From
all the long string of officers, men, telegraph clerks, and civilians,
who, with unceasing kindliness have passed beside my bed bringing news
and cheering me up, I have heard but one impression, that this has been
the dullest and deadliest fortnight of the siege. There has been no
attack, no very serious expectation of Buller's arrival. The usual
bombardment has gone wearily on. Sometimes six or seven big shells have
thundered so close to this little chapel, that the special kind of
torture to which I was being subjected had for a time to be interrupted.
Really nothing worthy of note has happened, except the building by the
Boers of an incomprehensible work beside the Klip at the foot of Bulwan.
About 300 Kaffirs labour at it, with Boer superintendents. It is
apparently a dam to stop the river and flood out the town. No doubt it
is the result of that German specialist's arrival, of which we heard.
On coming to my first bit of bread to-day I found it uneatable. In the
fortnight it has degenerated simply to ground mealies of maize--just the
same mixture of grit and sticky dough as the peasants in Pindus starve
upon. Even this--enough in itself to inflame any English stomach--is
reduced to 1/2 lb. a day. As I stood at the gate this afternoon taking
my first breath of air, I watched the weak-kneed, lantern-jawed soldiers
going round from house to house begging in vain for anything to eat. Yet
they say the health of the camp as a whole has improved. This they
attribute to chevril.
During my illness, though I cannot fix the exact day, one of the saddest
incidents of the siege has happened. My friend Major Doveton, of the
Imperial Light Horse, a middle-aged professional man from Johannesburg,
who had joined simply from patriotism, was badly wounded in the arm in
the great attack of the 6th. Mrs. Doveton applied to Joubert for leave
to cross the Boer lines to see her husband, and bring medical
appliances and food. The leave was granted, and she came. But amputation
was decided upon, and the poor fellow died from the shock. He was a fine
soldier, as modest as brave. Often have I seen him out on the hillside
with his men, quietly sharing in all their hardships and privations. I
don't know why the incident of his wife's passage through the enemy's
lines should make his death seem sadder. But it does. On Saturday night
I drove away from the hospital in my cart, though still in great pain
and hardly able to stand. I was unable to endure the depression of all
the hospital sights and sounds and smells any longer. Perhaps the worst
of all is the want of silence and darkness at night. The fever and pain
both began to abate directly I got home to my old Scot.
[Illustration: GENERAL RT. HON. SIR REDVERS HENRY BULLER, V.C., G.C.B.,
K.C.M.G., K.C.B.]