WITHIN SIGHT OF EERSTIE FABRIKEN,
E. OF PRETORIA.
_June 10th, 1900._
Fortunately for you in my last I left off rather abruptly in order to
catch the post, or I should have bored you with a long account of my
search with our ammunition cart for the company along the road to
Pretoria from Johannesburg. For seven miles we--a comrade, myself, the
blank Kaffir driver and mules--struggled and stumbled between long halts
after our crowd, past waggons, carts, dhoolies, and chaises of all
descriptions, the drivers of most of which were all inquiring for
various divisions, brigades, battalions, companies, and such like. At
last, at about one o'clock, having come up with the 11th Division, we
halted and outspanned near the Guards' Brigade. At the first sign of
daybreak I arose, and going forward about a quarter of a mile or less,
came up with our company. The captain told me to get the mules inspanned
and follow on. Owing to the infernal slowness of Tom, the driver, we got
off late and had another terrible search, this time by daylight, to find
the 7th Battalion I.Y., which at last we found camped at Orange Grove,
about two miles from where we had bivouacked the preceding night. The
next day (Sunday) we were looking to spending in a restful way, but this
was not to be. We suddenly got the order to "saddle up," and forward to
Pretoria we went. At about two in the afternoon we halted and picketed
our horses not far from a farm. There rather a curious, though perhaps
trivial, thing happened. Amongst the hundred-and-one little
_contretemps_ to which the Imperial Yeoman on active service is heir to,
I had lost my nosebag on our night march from Johannesburg. This
contained, besides the horse's feed, a tin of honey--of which I am as
fond as any bear--and a pot of bloater paste, obtained (good word) at
the Golden City from a "Sherman Shoe." Well, wandering in the direction
of the farm, I came near a duck-pond and a clump of small trees, from
which smoke was arising. My curiosity being aroused, I approached, and
found that some Australians and Cape Boys were smoking out some bees. I
arrived in the nick of time, and got a helmet-full of the most delicious
honey in the comb I have tasted for many a day. On Monday, June 4th, we
started for what we understood was to be our last march to Pretoria. We
had the good fortune to be in the advance party. Soon after starting the
Duke of Norfolk's horse fell in a hole and put his thigh out, so he lost
the fun, for it was not long before, from the hills ahead of us, came
rap, rap, and then the rat-tat-tat-tat of a machine gun. We dismounted,
advanced extended, and opened fire. I aimed at the hills, so I know I
hit something. The Boers retiring, we (that is the battalion) occupied
one kopje and then another, the dust flicking up in front of us. Then
boom! whish-sh-sh! a cloud of red dust shot up, and crack! and their
artillery had come into action. One shell burst directly over our heads,
then we were told to retire to our led horses, which necessitated
crossing a road on which their fire was directed. Needless to say this
was not an altogether uninteresting proceeding. And so the game went on,
our guns coming into action in grand style. We got in for rather a warm
rifle fire once; we galloped up, dismounted, and advanced to the top of
a kopje which was covered with rather long grass. Buzz-buzz-buzz went
the busy bullets seeking unwilling billets. They came very close there,
snipping the grass tops close beside us. Here there were casualties in
several of the other companies. One of our fellows was shot through the
leg, and Mr. Ashby was knocked on the waist-belt by a spent bullet or
piece of shell and rendered unconscious for some time. Later, in
galloping across an exposed space to occupy another kopje, the captain's
horse was shot under him, as well as several others. I think that is
more than enough of the affair; I have no doubt you know better what
really was done than we. No waggons coming up that night, we had no
rations nor breakfast next day, so you see we do the thing in style, for
we had started the day at four and only had a pannikin of coffee and a
biscuit for breakfast. The next day we heard that the Pretoria Forts had
surrendered and the Boer Forces withdrawn, and the whole army advanced
at last on its final march to Pretoria, and this humble _Ego_, who
months ago at home had thought and talked of this great event, and not
for a moment anticipated participation in the same, formed a modest unit
of the victorious horde. However, that day we (the 7th I.Y.) did not go
into the capital, but camped outside of it. Not to be done, after we had
picketed our horses, I made my way into a Kaffir suburb near us, and did
well at a couple of stores, kept by German Jews, coming back with a sack
of tinned edibles and some Kruger pennies. The next day a friend and I
were lucky, and got leave into Pretoria. We returned to a grateful and
enthusiastic troop, laden with quite a score-and-a-half of loaves, at
six in the evening, and concluded a pleasant day with a high tea (very
high) and a camp-fire sing-song. "Chorus, gentlemen!":
It's 'ard to sye good-bye to yer own native land,
It's 'ard to give the farewell kiss, and parting grip of the 'and,
It's 'ard to leave yer sweetheart, in foreign lands to roam;
But it's 'arder still to sye good-bye to the ole folks at 'ome.
[Illustration: _A Camp Sing Song._ "_They call me the Jewel of Asia._"]
That night we entertained several ex-British soldier prisoners from
Waterval.
My horse (late of the R.H.A.), picked up at Kroonstad, is going very
strong. He is very useful to me as a means of locomotion, but otherwise
no good feeling exists between us, for he is the most senseless, clumsy
brute that I have ever come across in the animal kingdom. He is always
treading on me and doing other idiotic and annoying acts. A few days ago
he got entangled in the picketing ropes, and on my going to his
assistance promptly fell forward upon me (he is the biggest horse I have
seen in any Yeomanry Company) and nearly broke my instep. I have lately
re-christened him "Juggernaut," which I think is not an inappropriate
name. I had not much time to spare when we went into Pretoria, but could
not help stopping to watch a couple of regiments go through--the Derbies
with their band and the Camerons with their pipers. It was a grand sight
to see those dirty, ragged, khaki-clad fellows tramping past the
Volksraad, over which the Flag was flying, and note the tired but grim
smile of satisfaction with which they regarded it. Quite two out of
every four infantrymen I saw limped along with feet sore from marching
over all sorts of roads and "where there was never a road." Some were
getting along with the aid of sticks--most, if not all, of the officers
march with sticks.
On Thursday, June 7th, we were still in camp outside of Pretoria, with a
hospital, containing interesting cases of leprosy, small-pox and fever
behind us; and about 200 yards to our left front hundreds of dead horses
and a few vultures. At mid-day the usual unexpected thing happened, and
it was "saddle up," and off we rode through the captured capital,
passing Kruger's house, with the two lions outside the entrance,
presented to him by Barney Barnato, and a group of typical old Boers
seated at a table on the stoep. We bivouacked about six or eight miles
east of the town, and the next morning caught up the army and took our
place in advance again. At mid-day we halted within sight of Eerstie
Fabriken.[1] Some of us were having a _siesta_ and others eating
biscuits and bully beef, or smoking the pipe of peace (peace, when there
is no peace!), when--Boom! whish-sh! over our heads, and about 100 yards
behind us a group of horses was lost in a cloud of brown earth and dust.
Then another and another came, and we got the order to take cover to our
right, which was promptly obeyed. Our guns came into action, and later
an armistice was arranged, for the convenience of Brother Boer, I
presume, which to-day (Sunday) still continues.
[Footnote 1: Otherwise known as the "Hatherly Distillery,"
owned by a chameleon millionaire German-Jew, named Sammy
Marks. Oh, that fine old Scotch whisky! The labels announcing
this un-fact are, I understand, obtained from the Old Country
and gummed on the bottles at Hatherly.]
[Illustration: _The Great Small Game Quest(ion)._]
This morning (Sunday, the 10th) we had the first Church Parade we have
had for a long time. The sermon was good, and from it I gathered that it
was Trinity Sunday. Yesterday it was a curious sight to see us
employing our leisured ease in stripping ourselves, scratching our
bodies, and carefully examining our shirts and underwear. A brutal
lice(ntious) soldiery! Most of us have had quite large families of
_these_ dependent upon us; a more euphonious term for them is "Roberts'
Scouts." Men to whom the existence of such insects was once merely a
vaguely-accepted fact, and who would have brought libel actions against
any persons insinuating that they possessed such things, after having
been disillusioned of the idea that they were troubled with the "prickly
itch," were calmly, naked and unashamed, searching diligently for their
tormentors in their clothes as to the manner born. Being fortunate
enough to find an officer's servant with a bottle of Jeyes', I finally
washed both myself and clothes in a solution of it, so once again I am a
free man, but the cry goes up "How long?" and echo repeats it. I have
been told that the best way to get rid of these undesirable insects is
to keep turning one's shirt inside out; by this means _their hearts are
eventually broken_.