HOREN'S NEK,
NEAR PRETORIA.
_Wednesday, July 11th, 1900._
(More _kopje?_)
Here I am again on the outlying picket racket, and renewing my studies
of kopjes. I am now up on them every day as well as night. When we
arrived here last night, the party we relieved told us that a Russian
doctor's house, about five miles out, had been raided and sacked by
Boers, and no waggons were being allowed through the Nek, as the enemy
were evidently waiting to catch any they could, and take them on to
their commandos. Since daybreak a big action has been in progress. From
the west heavy guns have been banging, and the fainter sound of volleys
and pom-poming have reached our ears as we lay drowsily smoking,
writing, reading and (one of us) watching on this, our observation post.
In the middle of a letter to a friend a short while ago, a machine gun,
apparently very close, rapped out its angry message, rat-tat-tat-tat!
which startled us immensely. The whish-sh-sh of the bullets also was
undoubtedly near, but as smokeless powder has usurped the place of
villainous saltpetre, we failed to locate the gun, which has fired
several times since.
The distant firing still continues, and as Baden-Powell is (or was) in
that direction, I should imagine he is in action. It seems curious that
though we are here and may at any minute be involved in the affair, yet
you at home will know all about it, and we here little or nothing. But
so it is. Huge vultures, loathsome black and white birds, keep flying
past us from the west. Now and again, some of them pause and circle
slowly over us, as if to ascertain whether we are dead or not. A small
piece of the kopje jerked at them by the most energetic member of our
party, usually assures them of the negative, and with a few flaps of
their wings they go whirring on. Ugh! I forgot to mention for the
edification of any of our lady friends that at night rats emerge from
beneath the various rocks and sportively run over one's recumbent form.
So, for guarding kopjes, no Amazons need apply.
[Illustration: The Mealie + Bad Fatigue (What the Patriot did not
altogether take into his reckoning.)]
Here, as "I laye a thynkynge" (to quote dear old Ingoldsby), it occurs
to me that we of the Imperial Yeomanry are, in many respects, far wiser,
I don't say better, men than we were six months, or even less, ago. To
commence with, we know Mr. Thomas Atkins far better than we did. Now we
know, and can tell our world on the best authority (_our own_) that he
is the best of comrades, many of us having experienced his hospitality
when in sore straits. That he will do anything and go anywhere we are
certain. As regards ourselves, we have learnt to appreciate a piece of
bread and a drink of water at its true worth, a thing probably none or
few of us had done before--"bread and water" being usually regarded as a
refreshment for the worst of gaolbirds only. And, finally, to sum our
acquirements up roughly, we have learnt to shift for ourselves under any
circumstances. We are hewers of wood, drawers of water, cooks (though,
may be, not very good ones, our resources having been limited), beasts
of burden (fatigues), and exponents of many other hitherto unknown
accomplishments. Allusion to fatigues reminds me of that known as "wood
fatigue." It has been a usual jest of those in command to halt and
bivouac us for the night at some place where there is no wood
procurable, and then send us out _to get it_. Another of their little
jokes has been to serve each man with his raw meat for him to cook when
wood has been unobtainable. One really great result of this war already
is the dearth of wood wherever the troops have been. All along the line
of march, and especially where there have been halts, the wooden posts
used in the construction of the various wire fencings have been chopped
down or pulled up bodily and taken away, deserted houses have been
denuded of all the woodwork they contained--the tin buildings collapsing
in consequence. It was only a short time ago that an elderly
non-combatant complained to me when I asked if he had any wood, "No,
they haf take my garten fence, my best trees, and yestertay dey haf go
into my Kaffir's house and commence to pull down der wood in der roof!"
I am sure it is a fortunate thing that the telegraph posts are of iron.
Were they wooden ones I fear stress of circumstances would have been
responsible for innumerable suspensions in the telegraphic service. A
scout has just been in down below with the information that we shall be
attacked to-night or early to-morrow morning. The machine gun which was
fired a short while ago, was one of our Colt guns at the entrance to the
Nek, getting the range of a kopje opposite. These scouts (I refer to the
few attached to us) are really wonderful (the battalion sergeant-major
invariably alludes to them as "those d----d scouts"). Their information
is always startling and mostly unreliable--still it is interesting and
usually affords us vast entertainment. The scouts referred to are
Afrikanders, and really chosen because they know Dutch and Kaffir. The
fellows will call them interpreters, and they don't like it. On Monday I
went into Pretoria to take the man of ours, who was so nearly done for
in an ambush near Hatherly last month, his kit. He is now well enough to
go home. He is a curious, good-natured old fellow, and in his account of
the affair amused me not a little. After he had been hit and lain on the
ground some time, the Boers cautiously advanced from their cover, and
standing on a bank near where he laid, fired a few shots in the
direction of his long-since departed comrades and then called out to
him, "Hands up!" His reply, as he told me, struck me as quaint and
natural, "'Ow can I 'old my 'ands up?" And seeing the reasonableness of
his remark, they took his water bottle and left him where our surgeon
found him. From Pretoria I have acquired quite a number of books,
including half-a-dozen of Stevenson's. At present I am re-reading his
"Inland Voyage."
_Thursday, July 12th._
We were not attacked last night, although expectation ran high. We had
about a thousand rounds of ammunition between the six of us, and at two
o'clock in the morning had the various posts strengthened by a party of
Burma Mounted Infantry (a composite corps from Burma, of Durham, Essex
and West Riding Tommies). Fifteen of these were added to our small
number, and between us occupied four sangars at the most suitable parts
of the kopje. Had we been attacked, we ought to have given a good
account of ourselves, as it was a lovely moonlight night. Poor Tommy
Atkins! You should have heard some of our reinforcements express
themselves on the social, military, political and geographical phases of
the situation. They had been rushed up from Kroonstad, and, after
various vicissitudes, had been despatched to us--without rations, of
course. This one wished that the By'r Lady war was over By'r Lady soon;
and his next cold, hungry, tired comrade agreed with him emphatically,
and consigned the whole By'r Lady country to a sort of perpetual
Brock's Benefit; also the By'r Lady army, and their By'r Lady military
pastors and masters, and so on. After Burma they found this country
cold, especially the nights, and with them the British soldier's wish to
get back to Mandalay, as expressed in the song, was a veritable fact. As
usual, their experiences were worth listening to. Amongst other things,
coming up from Kroonstad, they had found the burnt remains of the mails
destroyed by some of De Wet's minions a little while ago (some of mine
were there, I know), and had amused themselves by reading the various
scraps. Some of these, they told me, were very pathetic. In one, for
instance, a poor old woman had apparently sent her son a packet of
chocolate, bought with her last shilling, (she was just going into the
Workhouse), and she hoped that it would taste as sweet as if she had
paid a sovereign for it. Had they had any mails? No, not since they had
been here. They thought all their people must be dead, and "it does
cheer one up to get a letter." In Burma they always give a cheer when
the English mail comes in. I gave four of them some pieces of stale
bread, a handful of moist sugar, and four oranges; while another of ours
gave the others some bread and the remains of a tin of potted bloater.
The latest news, which I believe is quite authentic, is that the
remnants of the Dorset, Somerset, Devon and Sussex Yeomanry, about
seventy in number, are to be remounted and attached to the 18th Hussars.
This looks like more marching. I have bought, and intend bringing home
with me, a few sets of the surcharged Transvaal stamps. I am doing this
in a self-defensive way; my reason being that among my friends and
acquaintances in the dear homeland I number certain strange beings
commonly known in earlier and ruder days as stamp collectors, but now
politely known and mysteriously designated _philatelists_. Now I know
for a fact that these persons will, on first meeting me, demand at once,
"Have you brought any sets of surcharged Transvaal stamps back?" and if
I answer "Nay," what will they think of me? All the vicissitudes of the
past few months, my travellings by land and water, my fastings and
various little privations and experiences, will have been stupidly borne
for naught in their opinion. And why? Because I have not returned laden
with Transvaal stamps.
PRETORIA.
_Friday, July 13th._
Back in camp again. At sunset, yesterday, when we came down from the
observation post to get a little tea, preparatory to occupying the kopje
we had been guarding at night, we found everybody on the move, and were
ordered to mount and clear at once. This meant rushing up to the kopje,
getting our blankets and other impedimenta, and down again, flinging
them on the first horse (already saddled), and dashing away, orders
having been given to abandon the post, as the Boers were in strong
numbers, and between us and the town sniping. A staff-officer had told
our captain that he was in charge of the valley, and wanted it to be a
happy valley. We being a source of anxiety, he requested us to withdraw.
I fear it had not proved a happy valley for the Lincolns and Greys, who
were at Nitral's Nek, some eight miles to westward of us, and had been
attacked and suffered badly in the morning. (The explanation of the
heavy firing already alluded to.) Near the town we came on a broken-down
ambulance waggon in a donga, out of which the wounded were being
assisted as well as the circumstances permitted. Close by, on the
ground, was something under a blanket, which we nearly rode over. A man
close by, lighting his pipe, revealed it to us. It was one poor fellow
who had died on the way. Further on, we came on numerous pickets and
bivouacked troops, and men of the Lincolns and Greys at frequent
intervals, asking anxiously where the ambulance waggons were, and if any
of their fellows were in them. On arriving here we found our horse lines
full of remounts, which looked like business. We join Mahon's Brigade on
Sunday, so we are very busy looking out and cleaning up saddlery and
such like.
Well, I do not feel in a letter-writing mood this morning, so shall as
far as possible arrange my kit and possessions for the next move on the
board, on which this poor Yeoman is a humble pawn. I have just finished
the "Inland Voyage," which you may remember concludes thus, in the final
chapter, "Back to the World":--
"Now we were to return like the voyager in the play, and see what
re-arrangements fortune had perfected the while in our surroundings;
what surprises stood ready made for us at home; and whither and how far
the world had voyaged in our absence. You may paddle all day long; but
it is when you come back at nightfall, and look in at the familiar room,
that you find Love or Death awaiting you beside the stove; and the most
beautiful adventures are not those we go to seek."
Good, isn't it?