NEAR THE RACECOURSE, PRETORIA.
(A Return Visit.)
_Wednesday, June 20th, 1900._
"Here we are again" at Pretoria, that is, all that is left of us, for
about fifty have joined the Military Police, others are wounded, sick,
or missing, and the horses now in our lines number about two dozen
moderately sound ones. All of this suggests, to minds capable of the
wildest imaginings, a near return to England, home, and beauty. Some
experts have actually fixed the date, which varies from within the week
to within the next two months.
Last Saturday (June 16th) we left Pienaarspoort in the morning, and
marched for about five miles in an easterly direction, many of us doing
"a foot slog," having, as I have already mentioned, surrendered our
mounts to the policemen; the mounted men had only just unsaddled for the
mid-day halt, and collected wood to cook coffee and in some cases ducks
obtained from inhospitable farmers flying the white flag, an emblem of
which the Boer has made the best use for himself times innumerable, when
the order was heliographed from a distant kopje for the 7th Battalion
I.V., attached to the 4th M.I., to march back to Pretoria. Then, in my
opinion, a great event happened. We footsloggers determined to detach
ourselves from our particular convoy and march into Pretoria, a distance
of twenty miles or more, in addition to the four we had already tramped.
I believe it was in my brain that this memorable (to us) march
originated. We were certain that the mounted men would not reach the
capital that night, as of course they had to keep in touch with the
ox-waggons, and as we had to tramp, we determined to tramp to some
purpose. Our goal was no cold bivouac on the hard earth outside
Pretoria, with the usual weary waiting for the ox-waggons stuck in a
spruit about four miles astern, but Pretoria itself, where bread and
stores were to be obtained, a square meal at a table, and, oh! ye
gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease, _a bed_. Imbued with
this idea, with sloped rifle we gaily commenced our return march. Soon
we came upon miles upon miles of convoys with straggling Colonials,
Highlanders, Guardsmen, C.I.V.'s, indeed, representatives of all
branches of the service, and all parts of the Empire, one and all
toiling in the direction of Pretoria. We started at about mid-day, and
reached our destination, tired and famished, at seven. After the first
ten miles, behold a string of four men, tramping with never a halt, over
rocks and grass, through spruits, past unutterably aromatic defunct
representatives of the equine race, and through dust ankle deep, towards
the city of their desire. Darkness came on swiftly, as it does out here,
and past hundreds of camp fires they limped, footsore but as determined
as ever, though in no good temper, for this is the order of some of
their questions and answers towards the end of their march:
"How far off is Pretoria?"--"Three-and-a-half miles."
"How far off is Pretoria?"--"Seven miles."
"How far off is Pretoria?"--"Nine miles."
"How far off is Pretoria?"--"Three miles."
"Have you a Kruger penny?"--"No."
After tramping another two miles:
"How far off is Pretoria?"--"Three or four miles."
At last we beheld lights, not camp lights, but electric lights, and
cheered by these, we quickened our pace. Alas! they seemed to play us a
sorry game, and mocking, Will-o'-the-Wisp-like, retreated as we
advanced. Then, too, we cursed those once blessed electric lights.
Finally we reached the outskirts of the town, and seeing a closed store,
with rifle butts and threatening tones persuaded the German dealer to
open unto us. Here, speaking personally, I disposed of over half a tin
of biscuits and two tins of jam. _Note by the Way_: These South African
fresh fruit jams are, I am convinced, made of the numberless pumpkins
and similar vegetables that one sees in nearly every field, and then
indiscriminately labelled (I nearly wrote _libelled_) "peach,"
"apricot," "greengage," and--so help me, Roberts!--"marmalade." One of
the manufacturers even has the audacity to boldly proclaim his preserves
"stoneless plum and apricot";--as a matter of fact, pumpkins do not
usually have stones.
Finally we entered the town, where every shop was closed, but, thanks to
the guidance of a kindly German, after about half-a-dozen unsuccessful
efforts we at length obtained food and shelter at a house called "The
Albion." Oh, the pleasure of sleeping in a bed and under a roof after
_aeons_ (to me) on the hard earth beneath the stars and dew! The next
morning (Sunday) as we were breakfasting, we beheld unseen, the 7th
Battalion ride past, and later, after purchasing a few stores, joined
them where they were camped near the now historic Racecourse. I omitted
to mention above that as we lay in our comfortable beds that eventful
Saturday night, we heard the rain pouring in torrents upon the
galvanised iron roof above our heads, and grimly smiled as we thought of
the other less fortunate officers, non-commissioned officers and men of
the I.Y., lying out in the open, vainly trying to get shelter and
protection under narrow waterproof sheets. Alas, we only had the laugh
of them that night--I am writing on Friday, June 22nd--for since then we
have had rain every night, and a fair amount in the daytime as well, and
when it rains out here there is no compromise about it. Without tents we
have had a "dooce" of a time. Of course, we have to improvise shelters
with our blankets. Our place is known as "The Moated Grange,"--a trench
having been dug round it for reasons not wholly connected with _Jupiter
Pluvius_. Others are, or would be, known to the postman, did he but come
our way ("he cometh not") as "No. 1 Park Mansions," "The Manor House,"
"Balmoral," "Belle Vue," "Buckingham Palace," and "The Lodge." _Apropos_
of something which concerns a lot of A.M.B.'s, the following may not be
devoid of interest:
_Scene_: Any chemist's shop in Pretoria. Enter gentleman in khaki
shrugging himself. With a scratch at his chest and side.
"Er--have you any--er--Keating's powder?"
_Chemist_: "No, zaar, de Englis' soldiers haf bought it all. It is
finish." (Exit gentleman in khaki, scratching himself desperately.)
Our numbers are now considerably reduced, over half of the Battalion
have joined the Military Police, others having taken over civil
employment in the Post Office and Government buildings. Many who were
not desirous of joining the Police have finally done so, thanks to the
innumerable fatigues, pickets on the surrounding kopjes, and the
crowning discomforts of the rainy nights (now over, I am happy to say,
Sunday, June, 24th). At present our particular, or unparticular,
company, numbers twenty-one men, with five troop horses and some
officers' chargers, all that is left of the hundred and twenty mounted
men that left Maitland Camp in May. Does this sound Utopian? Those men
who are anxious to obtain civil employment are allowed (or persuaded) to
join the Police, while the authorities are exerting themselves to obtain
berths for them at salaries ranging from L300 to L500 or more per annum.
While nominally with the Police these men do no duties, but draw ten
shillings a day, besides having the advantage, when it rains, of
possessing a roof over their heads, and the pleasurable knowledge that
their pig-headed comrades who have joined as Yeomen and elect to remain
so to the end, are in the diminished lines about two miles out of the
town, doing fatigues and guards innumerable, and drawing therefor the
munificent sum of 1s. 5d. per _diem_. Every day for the last week the
captain and officers have been asking the men if they wish to join the
Police or would like to have civil employment found them; and the
company has been more like a registry office than anything else I can
think of. To-day (Sunday) we--nine of us and a sergeant--went to church
with other detachments of the 7th I.Y. It was no open-air church parade,
where one has to stand all through the service, but a genuine church
with pews that we went to. It is called St. Alban's Cathedral, and is
evidently the chief English Church in Pretoria. It was the first time we
had been in a church since leaving Shorncliffe; the service was very
reminiscent of a home one and exceedingly restful. The illusion was
complete when, at the conclusion of the service, _a collection was
taken_. Now that the rain is all over, we have had tents served out to
us. The battalion sergeant-major came round a few days ago with "Now,
then, you fellows, down with those _rabbit hutches_ ("The Grange") and
put these tents up." They are Boer tents, small and oblong in shape.
Ours is very rotten, and has a big hole burnt in the top as well as a
large rent at one end. These we have, however, patched up to our
satisfaction and comfort. As we are here for the deuce knows how long,
the beloved army red tape and routine is coming into vogue again.