The Yeomanry is a Volunteer Force, and as is generally known, was
embodied in Great Britain during the wars of the French Revolution.
History records that at the period named, the County of Sussex
possessed one of the finest Corps in England. _Autres temps, autres
moeurs_, and so from apathy and disuse the Sussex Yeomanry gradually
dwindled in numbers and importance, until it eventually became
extinct. Then came the dark days of November and December, in the
year eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-nine. Who will ever forget them?
And who does not remember with pride the great outburst of
patriotism, which, like a volcanic eruption, swept every obstacle
before it, banishing Party rancour and class prejudice, thus welding
the British race in one gigantic whole, ready to do and die for the
honour of the Old Flag, and in defence of the Empire which has been
built up by the blood and brains of its noblest sons. The call for
Volunteers for Active Service was answered in a manner which left no
doubt as to the issue. From North, South, East, and West, came
offers of units, then tens, then hundreds, and finally, thousands,
the flower of the Nation, were in arms ready for action. The Hon. T.
A. Brassey, a Sussex man, holding a commission in the West Kent
Yeomanry, applied for permission and undertook, early in February,
1900, to form a squadron of Yeomanry from Sussex. The enlistment was
principally done at Eastbourne, as were also the preliminary drills.
We went into quarters at Shorncliffe where we trained until the last
week in March, when early, very early, one dark cold morning, a
wailing sleepy drum and fife band played us down to the Shorncliffe
Station, where we entrained for the Albert Docks, London. There the
transport "Delphic" received us, together with a squadron of Paget's
Horse (the 73rd I.Y.), and soon after noon the officers and troopers
were being borne down the river, and with mixed feelings, were
beginning to realise they were actually off at last. Many, alas,
were destined never to return.
It is more amusing than ever, now, to recall the remarks of cheerful,
chaffing friends, who indulged in sly digs at the poor Yeomen previous
to their departure. At that time, as now, "the end was in sight" only we
had not got used to it. It was a common experience to be greeted with,
"Ha, going out to South Africa! Why it'll be all over before you get
there," or "Well, it'll be a pleasant little trip there and back, for I
don't suppose they'll land you." Subsequent experience of troopships has
dispelled even "the pleasant trip" illusion. Another favourite phrase,
was "Well, if they do use you, they'll put you on the lines of
communications." Sometimes a generous friend would confidentially ask,
"Do you think they'll let you start?" And one, a lady, anxious on
account of gew-gaws, observed, "Oh, I hope they'll give you a medal."
Eventually the slow but sure S.S. "Delphic," having stopped at St.
Helena to land bullocks for Cronje, Schiel and their friends, disgorged
us at Cape Town. Our anxiety as to whether the war was over was soon
allayed, and we gaily marched, a perspiring company, to Maitland Camp.
Here amid sand and flies we began to conceive what the real thing would
be like. An extract or two from letters written while at that salubrious
spot may serve to give an idea of the life there:
"This place is a perfect New Jerusalem as regards Sheenies, every
civilian about the camp appearing to be a German Jew refugee.
They have stalls and sell soap, buns, braces, belts, &c., and so
forth. Every now and again a big Semitic proboscis appears at our
tent door, and the question 'Does anypody vant to puy a vatch' is
propounded."
Hungarian horses were drawn and quartered by our lines, and saddlery
served out. By-the-way, I have always flattered myself there was at
least one good thing about the 69th Squadron I.Y., they had excellent
saddles. The first time we turned out in full marching order was a
terrible affair, and the following may help to convey an idea of the
_tout ensemble_ of an erstwhile peaceful citizen:
"Please imagine me as an average Yeoman in full marching order.
Dangling on each side of the saddle are apparently two small
hay-ricks in nets; then wallets full, and over them a rolled
overcoat and an extra pair of boots. Behind, rolled
waterproof-sheet and army blanket, with iron picketing-peg and
rope, and mess-tin on top. Elsewhere the close observer mentally
notes a half-filled nosebag. So much for the horse, and then,
loaded with the implements of war, bristling with cartridges,
water-bottle, field-glass, haversack, bayonet and so on, we
behold the Yeoman. With great dexterity (not always) he fits
himself into the already apparently superfluously-decorated
saddle, and once there, though he may wobble about, takes some
displacing.
"I really must remark on the marvellous head for figures that we
Yeomen are expected to have. Read this. Comment from myself will
be superfluous.
"My Company number is 51.
"My regimental number is 16,484.
"My rifle and bayonet, 2,502.
"The breech-block and barrel of the rifle are numbered 4,870.
"My horse's number is 1,388.
"There may be a few more numbers attached to me; if so, I have
overlooked them."
_En passant_, I must mention we were with our proper battalion, the
14th, commanded by Colonel Brookfield, M.P., at Maitland. Eventually,
thanks to the fact of his Grace the Duke of Norfolk being attached to
our squadron, when we got the order to go up country we left the rest of
the battalion behind at Bloemfontein, cursing, and proceeded by rail as
far as Smaldeel, where we detrained with our horses and commenced
treking after the immortal "Bobs."
His Grace's servant, rather an old fellow, did not seem to particularly
care for campaigning, and, often, dolefully regarding his khaki
garments, would sorrowfully remark, "To think as 'ow I've served 'im all
these years, and now 'e should bring me hout 'ere. It does seem 'ard." I
think a pilgrimage would have been more to his liking.
Our first experience of "watering horses" on the trek was both
interesting and exciting, it occurred at Smaldeel.
"The horses we proceeded to water at once; I had the pleasure of
taking two and of proving the proverb, _re_ leading horses to the
water. _En route_ were dead horses to the right and dead horses
to the left; in the water, which was black, one was dying in an
apparently contented manner, while another lay within a few
yards of it doing the same thing in a don't-care-a-bit sort of
way. Regarded from five hours later, I fancy my performances with
the two noble steeds in my charge must have been distinctly
amusing to view, had anyone been unoccupied enough to watch me.
Vainly did I try to induce them to drink of the
printer's-ink-like fluid, water and mud, already stirred up by
hundreds of other horses. When they did go in, they went for a
splash, a paddle, and a roll, not to imbibe, and I had to go with
them a little way, nearly up to my knees, in the mud. I have
arrived at the conclusion that the noble quadruped is not an
altogether pleasant beast. Still, I suppose he has an opinion of
us poor mortals. In death he is also far from pleasant, as was
conclusively proved when night came on, and a dead one near us
began to assert his presence with unnecessary emphasis. Phew!
It's all very well saying that a live donkey is better than a
dead lion, but judging from my experience of dead horses, which
is just commencing, I should say that the dead lion would prove
mightily offensive."
The water in the Free State, as a rule, was most unsatisfactory.
Marching in the wake of an army of about 50,000 men, however, one would
scarcely expect water to remain unstirred or unpolluted. I always found
my tea or coffee more enjoyable when the water for it was drawn by
somebody else. Even though that comrade would jestingly call it
"Bovril," and unnecessarily explain that the pool it came from contained
two dead horses and an ox.
One more extract and I have done.
"Yesterday (Friday, May 25th) we got as far as Leeum Spruit. So
far they had succeeded in getting the railway in working order,
but there the scene was one of utter destruction, three or four
bridges being blown up, and the rails all twisted and sticking up
in the air. Hundreds of Kaffirs were at work getting things
straight, which to any ordinary person would seem impossible.
"It is a marvellous sight to see the convoys toiling in the track
of Roberts' army, the blown-up bridges and rails, and the
deserted farms. Of course, some are still inhabited. It may
interest linguists and admirers of Laurence Sterne to know that
the language of the British Army in South Africa is the same as
it was with our army in Flanders in Uncle Toby's days--of course,
allowing for an up-to-date vocabulary.
"Sunday, May 27th.--Up with the unfortunate early worm, as usual.
Our _reveille_ generally consists of a shout and a kick, as our
bugle is not used. It seems hard to realise that to-day is
Sunday, and while the church bells at home are ringing, or the
service is in progress, we dirty, unshaven beings, who once had
part in the far-away life, are either riding or leading our
horses across the flat and, in many places, charred veldt, past
blown-up bridges, torn-up rails, convoys leisurely drawn by
languid oxen, demolished houses, bleached bones of oxen, horses
and mules, as well as the so-often-alluded-to dead beasts known
by Tommy as 'Roberts' Milestones,' and all that goes to
war--glorious war. We are making a fairly long march to-day, as
we hope to catch Roberts at last. Anyhow, to-night should see us
at the frontier--the Vaal River."