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ON THE HEELS OF DE WET
by
THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
MCMII
_ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.'_
FOREWORD.
This short history is an amplification of a diary kept by the author
during the late war, which amplification, through the courtesy of the
editor, was published as a series of papers in 'Blackwood's Magazine.'
The author is well aware of the shortcomings of his work, which he
presents to the public in all humility, after asking pardon from such
of the performers on his stage as may see through the slight veil of
anonymity in which it has been attempted to enshroud them. If any
should think the few criticisms which have crept into the text unjust,
will they bear in mind that the regimental officer has suffered, in
silence, much for the sins of others. It is the author's conviction
that cases were rare when the ship did not sail true enough: in the
beginning she may have badly wanted cleaning below the water line, but
she never failed to answer her helm. It was more often the man at the
helm than the sailing quality of the vessel that was at fault, and the
marvel is that she was of sufficiently tough construction to be able
to stand the stress incurred by indifferent seamanship.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. THE BIRTH OF THE BRIGADE 1
II. THE MEET! 15
III. BEE-LINE TO BRITSTOWN 45
IV. THE FIRST CHECK 75
V. A NEW CAST 103
VI. A POOR SCENT 133
VII. "POTTERING" 155
VIII. STILL POTTERING 184
IX. TO A NEW COVERT! 214
X. JOG-TROT 246
XI. FULL CRY 292
L'ENVOI 344
ON THE HEELS OF DE WET.
I.
THE BIRTH OF THE BRIGADE.
"De Aar," and the Africander guard flung himself out of his brake-van.
De Aar! After forty-eight hours of semi-starvation in a brake-van, the
name of the junction, in spite of the ill-natured tones which gave
voice to it, sounded sweeter than the chimes of bells. It meant relief
from confinement in a few square feet of board; relief from a
semi-putrid atmosphere--oil, unwashed men, and stale tobacco-smoke;
relief from the delicate attentions of a surly Africander guard, who
resented the overcrowding of his van; relief from the pangs of
hunger; relief from the indescribable punishments of thirst.
Yet at its best De Aar is a miserable place. Not made--only thrown at
the hillside, and allowed by negligence and indifference to slip into
the nearest hollow. Too far from the truncated kopjes to reap any
benefit from them. Close enough to feel the radiation of a
sledge-hammer sun from their bevelled summits--close enough to be the
channel, in summer, of every scorching blast diverted by them; in
winter, every icy draught. Pestilential place, goal of whirlwinds and
dust-devils, ankle-deep in desert drift--prototype of Berber in a
sandstorm--as comfortless by night as day. But as in nature, so in the
handiwork of men, even in the most repulsive shapes it is possible to
find some saving feature. De Aar has one--one only. Its saving feature
is where a slatternly Jew boy plays host behind the bar of a
fly-ridden buffet. Here at prices which, except that it is a campaign,
would be prohibitive, you can purchase food and drink.
But at night it is not an easy place to find. The station is full of
trains, and, arriving by a supply-train, you are discharged at some
remote siding. A dozen wheeled barricades--open trucks, groaning
bogies piled with war material--separate you from the platform. You
dare not climb over the couplings between the waggons, for engines are
attached, and the trains jolt backwards and forwards apparently
without aim or warning. Up over an open truck! You roll on to the top
of sleeping men, and bark your shins against a rifle. Curses follow
you as you clamber out, and drop into the middle way. A clear line.
No,--down pants an armoured train, a leviathan of steel plates and
sheet-iron. You let it pass, and dash for the next barricade. Thank
heaven! this is a passenger train. As it is lighted up like a grand
hotel you will be able to hoist yourself over the footboards and
through a saloon--"Halt! who goes there?" and you recoil from the
point of a naked bayonet. "Can't help it, orficer or no orficer, this
is Lord Kitchener's special, and you can't pass here!" It is no use.
Another wide detour; more difficulties, other escapes from moving
trains, and at last you find the platform.
De Aar platform at night. If the management at Drury Lane ever wished
to enact a play called "Chaos," the setting for their best scene could
not better a night on De Aar platform. Each day this Clapham Junction
of Lord Kitchener's army dumps down dozens of men, who are forced for
an indefinite period to use the station as a home--tons and tons of
army litter and a thousand nondescript details. The living lie about
the station in magnificent confusion--white men, Kaffirs, soldiers,
prisoners, civilians. A brigadier-general waiting for the night mail
will be asleep upon one bench, a skrimshanking Tommy, who has
purposely lost his unit, on the next. Even Kitchener's arrival can
work no cleansing of De Aar. It only adds to the confusion by
condensation of the chaos into a more restricted and less public area.
But our first needs are animal. Stumbling over prostrate forms,
cannoning against piles of heterogeneous gear, we make the buffet. A
flood of light, the buzz of voices, and the hum of myriads of
disturbed flies, and we live again. Filthy cloths, stained
senna-colour with the spilt food and drink of months, an atmosphere
reeking like a "fish-snack" shop, a dozen to twenty dishevelled and
dirty men of all ranks clamouring for food, two slovenly half-caste
wenches. That is all, yet this is life to the man off "trek." There is
even a fascination in an earthenware plate, though its surface shows
the marks of the greasy cloth and dirty fingers of the servitors.
A lieutenant-general and his staff have a table to themselves; we find
a corner at the main board, where the meaner sit. After food, news. De
Wet has invaded the Colony with 3000 men. He was fighting with Plumer
to-day at Philipstown. Then we begin to understand why we were
summoned to De Aar. The little horse-gunner major, who vouchsafed the
news, had just arrived with his battery from somewhere on the
Middelburg-Komati line. Five days on the train and his horses only
watered four times. That was nothing at this period of the war, when
the average mounted man was not blamed if he killed three horses in a
month. The major did not know his destination or what column he was to
join. Delightful uncertainty! All he knew was that his battery was
boxed up in a train outside the buffet, and that it would start for
somewhere in half an hour. It might be destined for Mafeking, or it
might be for Beaufort West; but he was ready to lay 2 to 1 that within
six weeks his battery would be on the high seas India bound. Wise were
the men who took up this bet, for the little major and his battery are
in South Africa to this day.
Food over, it was necessary once more to face the maze of De Aar
platform. It may seem strange, but when you are on duty bound, it is
easier, once the right platform is gained, to find the officials at
midnight than in the day. Under martial law few travellers have
lights; fewer are allowed, or have the desire, to burn them on the
platform. Consequently a light after midnight generally means an
official trying to overtake the work which has accumulated during the
day.
"Railway Staff Officer? Yes, sir, straight in here, sir."
A very pale youth, in the cleanest of kit, whitest of collars, and
with the pinkest of pink impertinences round his cap and neck. He
never looked up from the paper on which he was writing as he opened
the following conversation--
_Pale Youth._ "What can I do for you?"
_Applicant._ "I am here under telegraphic instructions."
_P. Y. (taking telegram proffered)_ "Never heard of you."
_A._ "You must have some record of that wire!"
_P. Y._ "I never sent it. It must have been sent by the Railway Staff
Officer. He's asleep now. Come back in the morning and see him!"
_A. (furiously)_ "You d----d young cub!--is this the way you treat
your seniors? What do you belong to?"
_P. Y. (Jumping up nervously)_ "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I thought
you were one of those helpless Yeomanry officers. They are the plague
of our lives. I will go and wake the R.S.O." [_Disappears. Returns in
five minutes._]
_P. Y._ "The R.S.O. says that you must report to the office of the
line of communications. They may have orders about you. You will find
the brigade-major in a saloon carriage on the third siding outside the
Rosmead line." [_Salutes._]
We go out into the night again, wondering if perdition can equal De
Aar for miserable discomfort, and De Aar officialdom for
inconsequence. The third siding, indeed! It was an hour before the
saloon was found in that labyrinth of cast-iron.
The brigade-major was there, a wretched worn object of a man, plodding
by the eccentric light of a tallow dip through the day's telegrams.
Poor wretch! he earns his pittance as thoroughly as any of us do.
Again we drew blank. "Never heard of you." All we could get out of him
was, "You had better bed down in the station and await events." Poor
devil! so worn with work and worry that he looked as if a simple
little De Aar dust-devil would snap his backbone if it touched him. So
we were turned adrift again in the old iron heap to swell the army of
vagrants who live by their wits upon the communications.
It was about two in the morning before we found our servants. The
soldier servant is a jewel--but a jewel with some blemishes. If you
tell him to do anything "by numbers," he will do it splendidly; but he
does not consider it part of his duty to think for himself,
consequently you have always to think both for yourself and your
servant, and that is why on this occasion we found ours sitting on our
rolls of bedding at the far end of the platform. It had never struck
them that we should want to sleep in a place like De Aar. Disgusted,
we tried the hotel. Here they loosed dogs on us and turned out the
guard. Still more disgusted, we returned to our bedding, and sardined
in with the ruck and rubbish on the platform.
* * * * *
Sunrise in South Africa. The sun knows how to rise on the veldt. When
first seen it is as good as a tonic. It makes one feel joyous at the
mere fact of being alive. But this feeling wears off with a week's
trekking, especially when the season gets colder, or a night-march has
miscarried. Then you never wish to see the sun rise again. There was a
time when a man who boasted that he had never seen the sun rise was
branded as a lazy sloth, an indolent good-for-nothing, who willingly
missed half the pleasures of life. After twenty months continuous
trekking in South Africa one is not sure that one's opinions on this
subject fall into line with those of the majority. For after a baker's
dozen of sunrises one has generally reached that state when the
greatest natural pleasure is found inside rather than outside of a
sleeping-bag. But in spite of the general detestation in which De Aar
is held, the neighbouring hills furnish, in the quickening light of
dawn, studies in changing colour so voluptuous, varied, and fantastic
that the wonder is that all the artists in the world have not
fore-gathered at the place. But familiarity with all this beauty
reduces it to a commonplace. It just becomes part of the monotony of
your daily life, especially if you have, as we had that morning, to
wait your turn before you could wash, at the waste-water drippings
from a locomotive feed-pump. Here you fought for a place, jostled by
men who at home would have stepped off the pavement and saluted. But
after a few months of war, at a washing-pump there is little by which
you can distinguish officers from men, unless the former have their
tunics on. From the washtub to _chota haziri_. The buffet is not yet
open, but a dilapidated Kaffir woman on the platform is doling out at
sixpence a time a mess of treacle-like consistency which is called
coffee. What would you think if you could catch a glimpse of us? What
would the bright little maid who brings in the tea in the morning say,
if she could see us now? Certainly if we came to the front-door she
would slam it in our faces, and threaten us with the police!
But we must be up and doing. It is an extraordinary day at De Aar.
Every one is bustling about. Staff popinjays hurry up and down the
platform. Stout elderly militia colonels, who would never be up and
dressed at this hour in ordinary circumstances, are heckling the
R.S.O., who has more starch in his tunic than has ever been seen in a
tunic before. What does it all mean? Then we remember the naked
bayonet of the previous night. Lord Kitchener is at De Aar. Oh, Hades!
We feel his presence, but it is not long before we see him. How he
must worry his tailor. Tall and well-proportioned above, he falls away
from his waist downwards. It is this lower weediness which evidently
troubles the man who fashions his clothes. But it is his face we look
at. That cold blue eye which is the basilisk of the British Army. The
firm jaw and the cruel mouth, of which we read in 1898. But presumably
this is only the stereotyped "military hero" that the papers always
keep "set up" for the advent of successful generals. None of it was
visible here. A round, red, and somewhat puffy face. Square head with
staff cap set carelessly upon it. Heavy moustaches covering a somewhat
mobile mouth, at the moment inclined to smile. Eyes just anyhow;
heavy, but not overpowering eyebrows. In fact, a very ordinary face of
a man scarcely past his prime. Hardly a figure that you would have
remarked if it had not been for the gilt upon his hat--in fact it was
all a disappointing discovery. He was pacing up and down with his
hands on his hips, and elbows pointing backwards, talking
good-naturedly to a colonel man, who was evidently just off "trek,"
and with his overgrown gait and ponderous step the great Kitchener
did not look half as imposing as his travel-stained companion.
The chief was explaining something to the colonel. They paced up and
down together for a few minutes, then stopped just in front of us, and
the conversation was as follows:--
_Chief._ "All right; I will soon find you a staff. Let me see; you
have a brigade-major?"
_Colonel._ "Yes; but he is at Hanover Road!"
_Chief._ "That's all right; you will collect him in good time. You
want a chief for your staff. Here, you (_and he beckoned a colonel in
palpably just-out-from-England kit, who was standing by_); what are
you doing here? You will be chief of the staff to the New Cavalry
Brigade!"
_New Colonel._ "But, sir--"
_Chief._ "That's all right. (_Reverting to his original attitude._)
Now you want transport and supply officers. See that depot over there?
(_nodding his head towards the De Aar supply depot._) Go and collect
them there--quote me as your authority. There you are fitted up; you
can round up part of your brigade to-night and be off at daybreak
to-morrow. Wait; you will want an intelligence officer. (_Here he
swung round and ran his eye over the miscellaneous gathering of all
ranks assembled on the platform. He singled out a bedraggled officer
from amongst the group who had arrived the preceding night in the van
of the ill-natured Africander guard._) What are you doing here?"
_Officer._ "Trying to rejoin, sir."
_Chief._ "Where have you come from?"
_Officer._ "Deelfontein--convalescent, sir."
_Chief._ "You'll do. You are intelligence officer to the New Cavalry
Brigade. Here's your brigadier; you will take orders from him.
(_Turning again to the colonel and holding out his hand._) There you
are; you are fitted out. Mind you move out of Richmond Road to-morrow
morning without fail. Good-bye!"
II.
THE MEET!
The driver leaned out of the cab of his engine and gave the brigadier
a little of his mind.
"Look here, I am a civilian; I know my duties. I had my eight bogies
on, and by the rights of things I had no business to take on your
beastly truck--and now I tell you that the line is not safe, and here
I stay for the night. Bear in mind that you are now dealing with
civilian driver John Brown, and he knows his duties."
"My hearty fellow!" answered the brigadier, who had commanded a
Colonial corps too long to be put out by "back-chat" from a
representative of the most independent class in the world, "that is
not the point. If we were all to do our duty rigidly to the letter, we
should get no forwarder. It is not a matter of saving this train, it
is a matter of a gentleman keeping his word. I have given my word that
I will march out of Richmond Road to-morrow at daybreak. You wouldn't
like it on your conscience that not only had you made a pal break his
word, but you had also been the means of leaving a gap in the line for
De Wet. Duty be hanged in the Imperial cause! What did Nelson do at
the battle of Copenhagen? Now this is just a parallel: I know that you
are loyal and sportsman to the backbone; I want you to be the Nelson
of this 'crush.' I know I can't order you--but I know that you are a
sportsman, and as a sportsman you will not give me away. Look here, I
am just going into the telegraph-office for ten minutes. Think it over
while I'm there!"
The driver's face was a study, and as for Fireman Jack, he just smiled
all over his dirty countenance. There is only one way to a Colonial's
heart, and you must be shod with velvet to get there. We then
adjourned to the little shanty that served Deelfontein for a
stationmaster's office. We--that is such of the staff of the New
Cavalry Brigade as the brigadier had been able to collect in De Aar.
"Where's a map?" asked the brigadier. The chief of the staff looked at
the intelligence officer. The intelligence officer looked at the
supply officer. A map! No one had ever seen a map. But a "Briton and
Boer" chart had been part of the chief of the staff's home outfit, and
after considerable fumbling it was produced from his bulging
haversack.
"Well, you are a fine lot of 'was-birds' with which to run a brigade:
but this will do. Now, Mr Intelligence, jot down this wire:--
"_From O.C. New Cavalry Brigade to O.C. first squadron 20th
Dragoon Guards to arrive at Richmond Road._
"On receipt move with all military precautions at once to Klip
Kraal, twenty-six miles on the Britstown Road. I will follow
to-morrow morning. Look out for helio. communication on your
left, as another column is moving parallel to you to the south."
"There," said the brigadier, "we have got over that difficulty, and
anticipated Kitchener's orders by twelve hours. May Providence protect
those raw dragoons if old Hedgehog[1] is in the vicinity. Three days
off a ship and to meet Hedgehog is a big thing!"
The dirty and smiling face of Fireman Jack was poked in at the
doorway.
"Please, sir, the driver says as how he is ready to move, and would
like to start as soon as possible."
"Hearty fellow!" said the brigadier; and then as we climbed into our
saloon again he added: "There is only one way of treating these
fellows. Treat them as men and they are of the very best on earth;
combat them, and they won't move a yard. Some one at De Aar ordered an
extra truck on to this man's train, and he has been sulking ever
since. Now that he's on his mettle and emulating Nelson, you will see
that he will bustle us along. Nothing but a dynamite cartridge will
stop him. My fellows in Natal were just the same."
Two hours later, just before it was dark, we ran into Richmond Road.
The driver jumped off his engine and strode across the platform.
"General," he said, with the frank familiarity of the Colonial, "I
should just like to say that I had shaken hands with you. I wish that
there were more like you; we should all be better men. Good-bye and
good luck to you, sir!"
* * * * *
It is not intended in these papers to compile a historical record of
the operations in South Africa to which they relate. But in order that
the part which the New Cavalry Brigade played in the campaign which
arrested De Wet's invasion in February 1901 may be intelligible, and
in order that the readers may better understand the peregrinations of
our own particular unit, it may be expedient here to give a brief
outline of the initial scheme which, sound as it may have appeared,
within twenty-four hours of its birth became enshrouded in the usual
fog of war. After outlining the scheme all we can hope is that these
papers may furnish occasional and momentary gleams of light in that
fog, since their object is not to build up contemporary history, but
to furnish a faithful record of the life and working of one of the
pieces on the chess-board of the campaign--a piece which, in this De
Wet hunt, had perhaps the relative importance of a "castle."
[Illustration: ROUGH SKETCH MAP SHOWING DE WET'S INVASION
(_from the Note-book of a Staff Officer_)]
De Wet's long-promised invasion--of which Kritzinger's and Hertzog's
descent into Cape Colony had been the weather-signal--was now an
accomplished fact. He had invaded with 2500 to 3000 men and some
artillery. Plumer had located him at Philipstown, had effectually
"bolted" him, and, in spite of heavy weather, had pressed him with the
perseverance of a sleuth-hound in the direction of the De Aar-Orange
River Railway into the arms of two columns in the vicinity of
Hautkraal. A week previous to this, as soon as it was known that De
Wet had evaded the force intended to head him back when moving south
down the Orange River Colony, the railway had been taxed to its utmost
to concentrate troops on the Naauwpoort-De Aar-Beaufort West line. Day
and night troop-trains, bulging with khaki and bristling with rifles,
had vomited columns, detachments, and units at various points upon
this line--Colesberg, Hanover Road, De Aar, Richmond Road, Victoria
West, and Beaufort. Lord Kitchener himself, at a pace which had
wellnigh bleached the driver's hair, had hied down to De Aar in his
armoured train. Plumer had diverted the invasion west, Crabbe and
Henniker and the armoured trains had kicked it over the railway-line.
Kitchener was content. If De Wet followed his jackal Hertzog into the
south-western areas, the columns on the line from De Aar downwards
were to move west as parallel forces and tackle the invader in turn.
Each would run him till exhausted, with a fresh parallel to take up
the running from them as soon as they were done; while at the end,
when the last parallel was played out, De Lisle as a stop stood at
Carnarvon, ready to catch the ripe plum after the tree had been well
shaken. Admirable plan--on paper. Admirable plan if De Wet had only
done what he ought to have done--if he had only allowed himself to be
kicked by each parallel in turn, churned by relays of pom-poms, until
ready to be presented to De Lisle. But De Wet did not do the right
thing. He was no cub to trust to winning an earth by a direct and
obvious line, where pace alone would have killed him. He was an old
grey fox, suspicious even of his own shadow, and he doubled and
twisted: in the meanwhile Plumer ran himself "stone-cold" on his
heels, and the majority of the parallel columns, played by his screen
of "red herrings," countermarched themselves to a standstill. The old,
old story, which needs no expansion here. Admirable plan, if only the
British columns had been as complete at their rendezvous as they
appeared on paper. We were the New Cavalry Brigade--the 21st King's
Dragoon Guards and the 20th Dragoon Guards, just out from home; the
Mount Nelson Light Horse, newly raised in Cape Town; a battery of
R.H.A., and a pom-pom. But where were we. We were due to march out of
Richmond Road at daybreak on the morrow. Two squadrons of the 21st
King's Dragoons and one of the Mount Nelson's were with
Plumer--Providence only knows where--learning the law of the veldt.
The rest of the Mount Nelson's and one squadron of the 21st King's
Dragoons were at Hanover Road. One squadron of the 20th Dragoon Guards
was at Richmond Road; two squadrons were in the train on the way up
from Cape Town. The guns at least had arrived. Yet we were about the
value of a "castle" on the chess-board designed to mate De Wet.
* * * * *
"Now we shall have to take our coats off."
The brigadier was right. It was no mean affair to arrive at sundown at
a miserable siding in the Karoo, called by courtesy a station, to find
its two parallels of rails blocked with the trucks containing the
nucleus of a cavalry brigade, and to get that nucleus on the road by
daybreak. The supply column was all out, the battery half out--these
were old soldiers; but the two squadrons of 20th Dragoon Guards had
not yet awakened to the situation. The brigadier looked up and down
the platform, gazed a moment at the long tiers of laden trucks, and
then made the above remark.
And we had to take our coats off. The 20th were new but they were
willing; and it is difficult to say which hampers you most, an
over-willing novice or an unwilling expert. You who sit at home and
rail at the conduct of the campaign, rail at the wretched officer,
regimental or staff, little know what is expected of him. You have
your type in your mind's eye--an eyeglass, spotless habiliments, and a
waving sword; you pay him and expect him to succeed. Your one argument
is unanswerable. You place the greatest man that you can select to
guide and cherish him, therefore if he does not succeed it must be
through his own shortcomings. In your impatience you opine that he has
not succeeded. Therefore he must be ignorant, indifferent, and
incompetent. Little do you realise the injustice of your opinion. You
sweat, during a war, an intelligent class--the same class, be it said,
from which the best that your universities can produce is drawn,--you
sweat it as no other educated class would allow itself to be sweated
in the whole civilised world, and yet, though men drop in harness for
you by dozens every month, you turn upon them and revile them. Can you
not appreciate the fact that it is not always the medium, through
which the Great Head you have selected works, that is in error,--that
the pilot's hand may be at fault, and not the steering-gear? Take us
that night at Richmond Road. New troops, new staff, little or no
information, and an order to be in position at a point 50 miles
distant in 36 hours. If bricks have to be made, has not the workman a
right to expect to be supplied with the ingredients? Is the blame
altogether his if, when exposed to the heat of a tropical sun, his
hurriedly constructed clay crumbles to pieces for want of the straw
with which his taskmaster failed to supply him? We think not. But that
night at Richmond Road we had no time to ruminate upon our
difficulties. We had to surmount them, and with our brigadier we took
our coats off and buckled to the job.
Telegrams:--
1. _To Intelligence, New Cavalry Brigade, Richmond Road, from
Intelligence, De Aar._
"You must organise your intelligence locally, impossible to
supply so many columns with men from here. Will see what can be
done later. Authorise such expenditure as you think fit."
2. _To Int. N.C.B. from Int. De Aar._
"De Wet Expert[2] reports De Wet moving towards Vosberg. Plumer
still in touch. Hertzog, Brand, Pretorius, all between Prieska
and Vosberg with large quantities remounts for De Wet. Theron
has been detached by De Wet, moving south rapidly to join Brand,
intention attacking Britstown. Local farmers Hanover and
Victoria West districts collecting to assist invaders. Inform
New Cavalry Brigade. This wire is repeated to Intelligences
Victoria West, Carnarvon, Fraserberg, 'Chowder'[3] Cape Town,
Orange River, Beaufort, and Chief Pretoria."
3. _From Brigade-Major New Cavalry Brigade, Hanover Road, to O.C.
N.C.B. Richmond Road._
"Hope to move out from here to-morrow. No trains available. As
ordered by you, proceed by road to Britstown. Saddles for Mount
Nelson's not yet arrived."
4. _From Ass. Director Transport De Aar to O.C. N.C.B. Richmond
Road._
"Impossible to equip you with more mule transport than has been
forwarded to you; will make up your deficiencies with ox
transport, which will be waiting for you at Britstown when you
arrive."
5. _From O.C. De Aar to O.C. N.C.B. Richmond Road_ (60871).
"Proceed with extreme caution, as local rebel commando under Van
der Merwe said to be collected at Nieuwjaarsfontein between you
and Britstown. As extra precaution you may take the company of
Wessex Mounted Infantry, stationed at Richmond Road, with you as
far as Britstown."
6. (Six hours later) "_Vide_ my 60871. Wessex M.I.
countermanded."
These only represent a portion of the communications which were
waiting for us in the telegraph-office at Richmond Road. But
they are a fair enough sample to illustrate the difficulties
with which the brigadier had to contend. The communication about
the rebel gathering at Nieuwjaarsfontein moved him to moralise.
"Alas for my advance squadron! If I believed that it were true,
I would move out at once with what we have got and nab those
rebels. But as it is I will leave it to the advance squadron,
and we will supply the burial-party in the morning! Look here,
Mr Intelligence, you have got to form an Intelligence Department
to-night. You had better set about it at once."
* * * * *
The Intelligence officer walked out into the clearing in front of the
station and surveyed the scene. It was now too dark to see his face;
but there was that something in his attitude that betrayed the feeling
of utter hopelessness which possessed him. It is in just such an
attitude that the schoolmaster detects Smith Major's failure to
prepare his Horace translation before that youth has hazarded a single
word. The Intelligence officer had been ordered to raise an
Intelligence Department for the brigade. Trained in the stern school
of army discipline, he had no choice but to obey. And with this end in
view he left the precincts of the station. Then the absolute
impossibility of the situation dawned upon him. Not a soul was in
sight, and even if there had been, though the powers of the press-gang
officer were vested in him, he did not know a word of the Dutch or
Kaffir tongues. He stood upon the fringe of the gaunt Karoo. On either
hand stretched a waste of lone prairie--a solitude of gathering night.
Out of its deepest shades rose masses of jet-black hill: the ragged
outline of their crests bathed purple and grey in the last effort of
the expiring twilight. Already the great dome of heaven had given
birth to a few weary stars, and but for the shrinking wake of day
still lingering in the west the great desolate pall of night had
fallen upon the veldt--the vast, mysterious, indescribable veldt!
But as treasure-trove is found when the tide is at its lowest ebb, so
often when the wall of impossibility seems an insuperable mass of
concrete, it is found to be the merest paper. As the Intelligence
officer, awed by the great solitude of the sleeping veldt, stood
musing on its fringe, a voice hailed out of the darkness--
"What ho! Whose column is that?"
A moment more and a mounted man cantered up, and a young Africander
threw himself out of the saddle.
"Whose column?" asked the new-comer.
"The New Cavalry Brigade!"
"Not Henniker's?"
"No; who are you?"
"I'm one of Rimington's Tigers.[4] I'm attached to Henniker's column,
and I've been sent down here to round up a man who lives about these
parts!"
"Have you got him?"
"No. Who may you be? Have you got a match?"
The Intelligence officer felt in his pocket, and an inspiration came
to him as he fumbled for the matches.
"How did you see me? I never saw you, and you were against the
sky-line."
"A cigar is a big beacon, old chap!" Then the Tiger struck a light,
and for the first time realised that he was talking to an officer.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought that you were a civilian."
In the short life of the match each had taken stock of the other,--the
one, a pleasant-faced Imperial officer, the other a hard-bitten
Colonial. The Intelligence officer was the first to speak.
"Do you speak Dutch and Kaffir?"
"I do."
"Are you in a giant hurry to get back to Henniker's?"
"I'm not wearing myself out with anxiety."
"Well, look here, we shall probably meet Henniker in the course of the
next few days. Come along with us till we strike your column. I am
Intelligence officer of this brigade, and I want to get together some
sort of an Intelligence gang to-night. We start at 4.30 to-morrow
morning."
"In what capacity do you want me?"
"As my chief guide. Do you know this country?"
"I have often been through it; but I'll soon find some one who does.
Have you got any boys?"[5]
"Not a soul. I've only just this moment arrived!"
"Well, we must have boys. Where are we to go?"
"To Britstown."
"Then we want a white guide and at least four boys. Yes, I'll come,
sir. What's the force?"
"It's an embryo brigade; but when we get it together it will be quite
a handsome force--three regiments and six guns!"
"Any Colonials?"
"Yes, the Mount Nelson Light Horse."
"Never heard of them, but you now want to raise these boys. What kind
of a man are you? Do you go straight in up to the elbows, or do you
play about in kid gloves?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, will you come down to a farm over there, and back me up in
everything that I do? We can get all we want there!"
"I'll back you up in everything that is in accordance with the
exigencies of the service."
"Which means----?"
"That I don't wear kid gloves----?"
"Come along, then; we'll soon round up a gang!"
* * * * *
A quarter of a mile brought the two men to the enclosure of a little
Karoo homestead, nestling in a hollow in the veldt. The Tiger was
leading his pony, and after he had tied it to the rail outside, they
walked boldly up to the verandah. They were greeted by an excited dog,
and a minute later the door was opened by a tall cadaverous-looking
youth.
"What do you want?"
The Tiger answered in Dutch. The farmer had evidently seen him before,
as he bridled angrily.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" came the answer. "You have come back again.
Well, I am sorry we have no forage for you!"
"It is not forage I want. Where is your father? Here is an officer who
must see the 'boss.'"
"I tell you the 'boss' is not here. But will not the officer come in.
Good evening, mister, come in here. I will bring a light!"
The two men were shown into a sitting-room, and the youth disappeared.
A moment later a slender girl of about seventeen whisked into the room
with a lamp, put it on the table, and disappeared. But the light had
shone upon her just long enough to show that she was very comely. The
true Dutch type. Flaxen hair, straight forehead and nose, beautiful
complexion, and faded blue eyes. The farm evidently belonged to people
of some substance. The room, after the manner of the Dutch, was well
furnished. Ponderously decorated with the same lack of proportion
which is to be found in an English middle-class lodging-house.
Harmonium and piano in opposite corners,--crude chromos and distorted
prints upon the walls; artificial flowers, anæmic in colouring and
glass-protected, on the shelves; unwieldy albums on the table; coarse
crotchet drapings on the chairs; the Royal Family in startling
pigments as an over-mantel. For the moment one might have fancied that
it was Mrs Scroggins's best parlour in Woburn Square.
After considerable whispering in the passage, the mother of the
family, supported by two grown daughters and three children with
wide-opened eyes, marched into the room.
"Good evening," and there was a limp handshake all round.
The attitude and expression of the good dame was combative. She was
stout, slovenly, and forty. And the first impression was that she had
once been what her pretty daughter was now at seventeen. There is
nothing of the beauty of dignified age in the Dutch woman past her
prime.
"Where is your man?"[6] asked the Tiger.
"He has gone to Richmond to sell the _scaapen_."[7]
"And your sons?"
"I have no sons."
The Tiger threw open the photograph album on the table, and put his
finger on a recent photo of two hairless youths in bandoliers. The
likeness to the good lady in front of us was unmistakable.
"Who are these?"
"My sister's children," came the glib answer.
"Good," said the Tiger, as he slipped the photograph out. "I shall
keep this. Who is the young man who opened the door."
"Bywoner."[8]
"Good; then he can come along with us. How many boys have you on this
farm?"
"They have all gone with my man."
"All right, I am going round to see--bring a candle. All right, don't
make a fuss, my good lady. Don't take that lamp; the officer will stay
here while I go out."
The stout _frau_ produced a piece of paper, and laid it on the table
with all the confidence of a poker-player displaying a Royal Flush.
The Tiger picked it up and read:--
"This is to certify that Hans Pretorius can be implicitly
trusted to give all assistance to the military authorities. He
has furnished the required assurances.
"(Signed) L----,
_Resident Magistrate_."
The Tiger held the slip of paper and photograph side by side for a
moment, and then slowly lit the former in the flame of the lamp. The
women and children stood solemnly and watched the blaze. Only the
pretty girl showed any emotion. The faded blue of her eyes seemed to
darken. She said something. It sounded like "hands opper."[9] How the
Dutch hate the English Africander!
The Tiger only laughed as he said, "You wait here, sir, while I go
round the premises. Come along, Mrs Pretorius."
The Intelligence officer had not been alone five minutes before the
door opened and the pretty daughter appeared with a glass of milk on a
tray. The look of indignation had disappeared--a smile lurked on the
pretty features. Now the Intelligence officer was tired and thirsty--a
glass of milk was most refreshing. Moreover, he was an Englishman--a
pretty face was not without its charms for him.
_The Daughter._ "Please, sir, the Kharki[10] is taking Stephanus with
him. You will not let him do that. There will be no one left to look
after the farm and to protect us from the boys."
_Intelligence Officer._ "Who is Stephanus?"
_D._ "He does not stay here; he is" (_then the blue eyes filled with
tears_)--"he is--my sweetheart!"
_I. O._ (_softening_) "But we will not hurt him; you will have him
back in a few days."
_D._ "Who can say? You are going to make him fight, and then I shall
never see him again. Oh, please, sir, don't take him" (_and a hand--a
fair dimpled hand--rested on the Intelligence officer's sleeve_).
_I. O._ (_moving uncomfortably_) "I am afraid that I must; but no harm
shall come to him, that I promise!"
_D._ "But he doesn't know the way, and you will shoot him if he shows
you a wrong road."
_I. O._ "He will know all that we want him to know."
_D._ "Where will you want him to take you? I know he doesn't know the
way."
_I. O._ "Why, he has only to go to Britstown!"
_D._ (_the tears drying_) "And you promise me that you will not harm
him?"
_I. O._ "Of course I won't."
_D._ "Oh, thank you." She was gone, and the Intelligence officer was
left to his own thoughts. It had slipped out unawares. He had been
caught: he realised that much as soon as the word had left his lips.
He had yet much to learn.
There was a noise in the verandah. The Tiger had arrived with
Stephanus, four ponies, and three native boys.
"This will do for a start, sir; we will amplify on the march!"
But as the Intelligence officer handed over his department to the
quarter-guard of the 20th Dragoon Guards for safe keeping until the
morrow, Miss Pretorius was saddling a pony in the kraal. She had to
find her father before daybreak. Her father with his two sons was at
Nieuwjaarsfontein!
* * * * *
Richmond Road is not a township. It is only a railway-station, but it
boasts of one _winkel_[11] adjoining the railway buildings. Here the
O.C. of the New Cavalry Brigade had taken up his quarters for the
night, and here the Jew proprietor had arranged food and lodging for
the staff. Part barn, part shop, and part dwelling, this dilapidated
hostelry is typical of its kind. You meet with them all over the South
African veldt. You bless them when they shelter you from the wind and
rain; curse them when, housed in a six-storeyed mansion, which boasts
the same legend over the door--hotel--you remember to what you were at
one time reduced by the chances of a soldier's life.
The brigadier was just sitting down to the only meal that the
slatternly wife of the Jew could produce--a steaming mess of lean
boiled mutton--when the Intelligence officer returned from his
adventure.
"Come and sit down, Mr Intelligence; have you raised a band of robbers
yet?"
"Yes, sir; I've collected a trooper of Rimington's Guides and some
boys."
"You seem a brighter fellow than I took you for. Well, here you are;
here is another telegram for you. We ought to come right on the top of
the swine to-morrow."
_To Intelligence N.C.B. from Int. De Aar._
"Gathering of rebels at Nieuwjaarsfontein confirmed from two
sources. Repeated, &c."
The Intelligence officer kept his own counsel. He felt certain that
there would be no gathering at Nieuwjaarsfontein when the force
arrived. But he had bought his experience, and determined to profit by
the same in the future.
"I think that we have a chance of a show this jaunt," said the
brigadier, after somebody had produced a bottle of port. "This is
about the best plan that K.[12] has thrown off his chest. But I am
afraid that Plumer will spoil it. He is a holy terror when he gets on
a trail. That is his great fault: you will never catch these fellows
by holding on to a trail after you have been on it three days. I don't
care how red-hot it may be. You run yourself stone-cold, only to find
that your quarry has outlasted you. Now, after De Wet crossed the
railway at Hautkraal, Plumer's obvious move was to Strydenburg. They
could have pushed stuff out there to him from Hopetown. K. wants De
Wet to go south-west into the loop of the J which our five columns
make. Now, if Plumer, Crabbe, & Co. stick to him, he'll break back to
the Orange River as sure as fate. But if Plumer lets him alone, and we
are not messed about by too many general-men, we'll have him. Once De
Wet gets south as far as Britstown he's a dead bird. But we shall be
messed about by too many generals. See, how many have we?--Five.
That's enough in the way of cooks to spoil any pottage. But personally
I don't think De Wet will be the good little fly and walk into our
pretty parlour. They don't ask me for opinions; but if I was running
this show, I would have halted Plumer on the railway, left the J as it
is, and collected an infernal 'push' of men north of the Orange River.
I should have held a line from Mark's Drift to Springfontein. When I
had got that, I would have turned our sleuth-hound Plumer loose again.
Then all we fine fellows could have played with De Wet until he was
sick of the Colony. We could then escort him to the Orange River, and
the 'pushes' on the far side would have picked up the pieces. But here
we are; may Providence guide him to us! I'm for bed. Good night!"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Commandant Judge Hertzog.
[2] A special Intelligence officer was told off to watch De Wet's
movements.
[3] "Chowder" was telegraphic address of general commanding line of
communications in Cape Colony.
[4] Rimington's Guides wear a piece of leopard-skin in their hats, and
are known as Rimington's Tigers.
[5] Native boys.
[6] Husband.
[7] Sheep.
[8] Farm working hand.
[9] Traitor. Lit., Hands upper--_i.e._, surrendered man.
[10] The Boers speak of all British soldiers as Kharkis.
[11] Store.
[12] Lord Kitchener is commonly spoken of as "K." in South Africa.
III.
BEE-LINE TO BRITSTOWN.
"Not bad for a green crush."
The brigadier sat down on the edge of a great slab of rock to watch
the baggage over the nek. It was a typical South African nek. An
execrable path winding over the saddle of a low range of tumbled
ironstone. Just one of those ranges which force themselves with sheer
effrontery out from the level of the plain. Loose sugar-loaf
excrescences which stud the sea of prairie with a thousand flat-topped
islets, and weave the monotony of landscape peculiar to this great
continent. The rough post-cart track led down into a vast
amphitheatre, so vast that Western Europe can furnish no parallel to
it. Yet its counterparts are met and traversed every day by the
countless British columns now slowly darning the gaping rent in
Africa's robe of peace. Who, if they had not known, would have said
that the beautiful panorama, which the morning sun now unveiled before
us, was a theatre of war? Away at our feet stretched mile upon mile of
rolling Karoo and blue-grey prairie. True it was punctuated and ribbed
with stunted kopjes. But still the everlasting plain predominated,
until it was lost in an autumn haze which no sun could master.
Immense,--a land without a horizon, a land every characteristic of
which inspires a sense of independence and freedom. A sensation--an
intoxication, to be felt, not to be described. Why should men fight in
a land such as this? Surely there is room for all! The very animals of
the field, ignorant of the selfishness bred of a limited pasturage and
restricted space, are docile and free of vice. But with man it is
different.
The dweller on the open plain learns freedom. The lesson of cramped
cities is avarice--that the fittest may survive. Who shall blend the
two? There, as we stood with our loins girt for war, did that great
peaceful prairie unfold before us. As the morning sun grew stronger,
the everlasting grey of the Karoo became jewelled with brighter tints.
The middle distance of the plain was spangled with a streak of winding
silver. A river tracing its erratic course between the kopje islets.
At intervals along its banks the eye rested upon the patches of darker
green. The home plantation of some farm, glimpses of whose whitewashed
walls even now caught a glint from the strengthening sun-rays. Here
was a stretch of yellow furrow--the finger of civilisation on a virgin
waste. Here spots of shimmering white, where the surface of a dam
reflected the flooding light of day. Here and there a flock of sheep
relieved the monotony of the everlasting grey. While across our front
a bunch of brood-mares were galloping in the ecstasy of day and
freedom, and a bevy of quaintly pirouetting ostriches gave life to the
wonderful picture. And presently a little fan of brown dots opened out
on the grey below--opened out and diverged in pairs. Dots so small and
insignificant that they looked like ants upon a carriage-drive. Out
and out they spread, till they seemed lost and merged with the
brood-mares and ostriches, now ceasing their wild movements and
grouping in mild amazement at the strange invasion. And still the dots
diverge. It is the advance-guard of our column--heralds of selfish man
bringing horrid war into this peaceful vale. As the dots mingle with
the ant-heaps on the plain, or are lost in the folds of the grey
prairie, a pillar of dust rises from the centre of the fan. A larger
mass of brown--the battery and its escort--a great kharki caterpillar
creeping across the grey,--it is time to be moving, the last
mule-waggon has topped the nek, and the last of the rear-guard are
leading their horses up the post-cart road.
"Not bad for a green crush!" said the brigadier as he prepared to
follow down the hillside. "Hullo! what is that?"
A spark had shown out of the misty distance. A little glitter. It
came, trembled a second, and disappeared. Again it came, a
many-pointed star, winking and shivering.
"Some one is calling up. Here, signaller!--where is the brigade
signaller?"
A great dragoon tumbles out of his saddle and begins to arrange his
tripod. In a few seconds his mirror has caught the sun in answer to
the twinkling star in front.