AN IGNOMINIOUS DISPERSAL.
Commandant-General Botha, who was then invalided at Hector's Spruit
Station, now sent word that we were to join him there without delay.
He said I could send part of the commando by train, but the railway
arrangements were now all disturbed, and everything was in a muddle.
As nothing could be relied on in the way of transport, the greater
number of the men and most of the draught beasts had to "trek."
At Crocodile Gat Station the situation was no better than at
Nelspruit, and the same might be said of Kaapmuiden. Many of the
engine drivers, and many of the burghers even, who were helping in
destroying the barrels of spirits at the stations, were so excited (as
they put it) through the fumes of the drink, that the strangest
things were happening. Heavily-laden trains were going at the rate of
40 miles an hour. A terrible collision had happened between two trains
going in different directions, several burghers and animals being
killed. Striplings were shooting from the trains at whatever game they
saw, or fancied they saw, along the line, and many mishaps resulted.
These things did not tend to improve matters.
It was not so much that the officers had lost control over their men.
It seemed as if the Evil Spirit had been let loose and was doing his
very best to encourage the people to riotous enjoyment.
Hector's Spruit is the last station but one before you come to the
Portuguese frontier, and about seventeen miles from Ressano Garcia.
Here every commando stopped intending of course to push on to the
north and then to cross the mountains near Lydenburg in a westerly
direction. The day when I arrived at Hector's Spruit, President Steyn,
attended by an escort of 100 men, went away by the same route.
Meanwhile General Buller was encamped at Glyn's mines near Spitskop
and the Sabi River, which enabled him to command the mountain pass
near Mac Mac and Belvedere without the slightest trouble, and to block
the roads along which we meant to proceed. Although the late
Commandant (afterwards fighting General) Gravett occupied one of the
passes with a small commando, he was himself in constant danger of
being cut off from Lydenburg by a flank movement. On the 16th of
September, 1900, an incident occurred which is difficult to describe
adequately. Hector Spruit is one of the many unattractive stations
along the Delegoa Bay railway situated between the great Crocodile
river and dreary black "kopjes" or "randjes" with branches of the Cape
mountains intervening and the "Low Veldts," better known as the
"Boschveldt." This is a locality almost filled with black holly
bushes, where you can only see the sky overhead and the spot of ground
you are standing on. In September the "boschveldt" is usually dry and
withered and the scorching heat makes the surroundings seem more
lugubrious and inhospitable than ever.
The station was crowded with railway carriages loaded up with all
sorts of goods, and innumerable passenger carriages, and the platform
and adjoining places filled with agitated people. Some were packing
up, others unpacking, and some, again, were looting. The majority
were, however, wandering about aimlessly. They did not know what was
happening; what ought to be done or would be done; and the only
exceptions were the officers, who were busily engaged in providing
themselves and their burghers with provisions and ammunition.
I now had to perform one of the most unpleasant duties I have ever
known: that of calling the burghers together and telling them that
those who had no horses were to go by train to Komati Poort, there to
join General Jan Coetser. Those who had horses were to report
themselves to me the next morning, and get away with me through the
low fields.
Some burghers exclaimed: "We are now thrown over, left in the 'lurch,'
because we have not got horses; that is not fair."
Others said they would be satisfied if I went with them, for they did
not know General Coetser.
Commandant-General Botha did not see his way to let me go to Komati
Poort, as he could not spare me and the other commandos. Those of the
men who had to walk the distance complained very bitterly, and their
complaints were well-founded. I did my best to persuade and pacify
them all, and some of them were crying like babies when we parted.
Komati Poort was, of course, the last station, and if the enemy were
to drive them any further they would have to cross the Portuguese
border, and to surrender to the Portuguese; or they could try to
escape through Swaziland (as several hundreds did afterwards) or along
the Lebombo mountains, via Leydsdorp. But if they took the latter
route then they might just as well have stayed with me in the first
place. It was along this road that General Coetser afterwards fled
with a small body of burghers, when the enemy, according to
expectations, marched on Komati Poort, and met with no resistance,
though there were over 1800 there of our men with guns.
A certain Pienaar, who arrogated unto himself the rank of a general on
Portuguese territory, fled with 800 men over the frontier. These,
however, were disarmed and sent to Lisbon.
The end of the struggle was ignominious, as many a burgher had feared;
and to this day I pity the men who, at Hector's Spruit, had to go to
Komati Poort much against their will.
Fortunately they had the time and presence of mind to blow up the
"Long Tom" and other guns before going; but a tremendous lot of
provisions and ammunition must have fallen into the hands of the
enemy.
At Hector's Spruit half a score of cannon of different calibre had
been blown up, and many things buried which may be found some day by
our progeny. Our carts were all ready loaded, and we were prepared to
march next morning into the desert and take leave of our stores. How
would we get on now? Where would we get our food, cut off as we were
from the railway, and, consequently, from all imports and supplies?
These questions and many others crossed our minds, but nobody could
answer them.
Our convoys were ready waiting, and the following morning we trekked
into the Hinterland Desert, saying farewell to commissariats and
stores.
The prospect was melancholy enough. By leaving Hector's Spruit we were
isolating ourselves from the outer world, which meant that Europe and
civilisation generally could only be informed of our doings through
English channels.
Once again our hopes were centred in our God and our Mausers.
Dr. Conan Doyle says about this stage of the war:--
"The most incredulous must have recognised as he looked at
the heap of splintered and shattered gunmetal (at Hector's
Spruit) that the long War was at last drawing to a close."
And here I am, writing these pages seventeen months later, and the War
is not over yet. But Dr. Doyle is not a prophet, and cannot be
reproached for a miscalculation of this character, for if I, and many
with me, had been asked at the time what we thought of the future, we
might have been as wide of the mark as Dr. Doyle himself.