CAMP,
TWO MARCHES WEST OF PRETORIA.
_Wednesday, August 8th, 1900._
"Oh, darkies, how de heart grows weary,
Far from de ole folks at home."
There goes somebody again! It is always occurring, either vocally or
instrumentally; but to start now, when I want to pull myself together
and give a further account of the doings of the remnants of what was
once the Sussex (69th) Squadron of Imperial Yeomanry, and their comrades
of the West Countrie, is annoying beyond all expression. To commence, I
must really trace out for you our bewildering descent, or ascent, to our
present state, and then you will thoroughly understand why, in all
probability, the papers have been silent as to the doings and
whereabouts of the 69th Squadron of Imperial Yeomanry. At Maitland we
belonged to the 14th Battalion of Yeomanry, under Colonel Brookfield,
M.P. Leaving that salubrious but sandy locality, we travelled on our
very own, by rail and road, till we joined Roberts at the Klip River,
and for a few days were his bodyguard. At Johannesburg we joined the 7th
Battalion of Yeomanry, under Colonel Helyar, of whose murder, in July,
at a Boer's house not far from Pretoria, you must have read. Later on,
men from this battalion having entered the Police and civil berths,
those of us who were left were banded together and formed into one
squadron under Sir Elliot Lees, M.P. This was composed of three weak
troops--Dorset, Devon and Sussex, the latter troop containing
half-a-dozen Somerset men. As such we left Pretoria, and went east as
far as Balmoral. On our return to Pretoria, our weak horses and sick men
being weeded out, we went west nearly as far as Rustenburg, as one
_troop_, composed of Sussex, Devon, and Dorset men, and attached to the
Fife Light Horse.[4] As I write, we are returning in the direction of
Pretoria. And now, if you have skipped the foregoing I will proceed to
give you as brief an account as possible of our adventures since leaving
Pretoria a week ago (Wednesday, August 1st).
[Footnote 4: This fine squadron of Yeomanry, under Captain
Hodge, had also joined Mahon, at Pretoria, on July 16th.]
On that day, forming No. 3 Troop of the Fife Light Horse, we marched out
of Dasspoort and proceeding due west, parallel with the Magaliesberg,
quickly got in touch with the enemy, under Delarey, whom we slowly drove
before us. Soon we came upon Horen's Nek, and the commencement of farms
and orange groves. As we passed the first grove, with the glowing
oranges tantalising us in a most aggravating manner, we cast longing
eyes at them, but hastened on after the unfraternal Boer. The oranges
were not for us--then. A little further on the fighting became warm, and
we galloped up; then, "Halt! for dismounted service!" and the reins of
three horses are thrown at me, or thrust into my hands by their riders,
who double out to the left and proceed to participate in the fun of the
firing line. Considering that I had only once (at Shorncliffe) acted as
No. 3, you can picture to yourself the sort of entertainment which
followed. The intelligent Argentines manoeuvred round me like performing
horses doing the quadrilles or an Old English Maypole dance, while with
the reins we made cat's-cradles, and Gordian knots. That idiot, Mark
Tapley, would indeed have envied my lot, and have been welcome to it.
The row made by the firing was terrific, for pom-poms and artillery were
joining in, and a fair amount of bullets came by us with the led horses.
Suddenly our fellows came doubling back, and with a sigh of relief I
surrendered their horses to them. Then our troop-officer, Captain
Kinderslie, gave us the order, "Fours, right--Gallop!" and off we went
to turn their right flank. Our course lay right across the open, and as
soon as the enemy saw our move they poured their fire in as hot as they
could. Round to their right we flew, with the bullets whistling by, and
striking the earth before and behind us, but divil a man did they hit,
though the air seemed thick with them. At last our exhilarating gallop
was finished, and as our small party advanced to the attack, all they
saw was the last few Boers scuttling off for dear life. Colonel Pilcher,
who was with Mahon, sent round and thanked our little troop for this
service.
After this we returned to an orange grove, near which our force was
encamped. _That night we had oranges._
The next day we were rear guard and, passing through a fat land,
abounding with oranges, tangerines, citrons, lemons, tobacco and good
water, not to forget porkers, fowls, ducks, and the like, "did ourselves
proud," to resort to the vernacular. That night we had a huge veldt
fire, and the whole camp had to turn out with blankets to fight it.
Fortunately a well-beaten track separated the blazing veldt from us, and
the wind blew it beyond, or we could hardly have made a successful stand
against the flames, some being quite a dozen feet in height. Allusion to
veldt fires reminds me that the last time I had to turn out to fight
one was near Johannesburg, and the man who displayed most energy in
smiting the flames with his blanket, and who came away from the charred
veldt with blackened face and hands, was our second in command, the Duke
of Norfolk.
On Friday we continued our advance, and crossed the Crocodile River.
This day we saw nothing of the enemy. Our horses have done well in the
way of forage lately. Sometimes we get bundles of oat hay out of the
barns we visit _en route_, and strap them, with armfuls of green oats
pulled from the fields, fore and aft of our saddles, till we look like
fonts at harvest festivals. Thus equipped, we would form good subjects
for a picture called "The Harvest Home." Yet, in spite of all the
feeding they have been getting, our horses are all nearly done up.
Our present troop officer is great on the _commandeer_, and very
popular. However, the other day he gave us a severe address on parade
about looting, which he wound up as follows:--"Of course, I don't object
to your taking the necessaries of life, such as oranges, fowls, ducks,
mealie flour, or the like, but (sternly) any indiscriminate looting I
shall regard as a crime."