NEAR THE RACECOURSE,
PRETORIA.
_Friday, August 31st, 1900._
We arrived here on Tuesday last (28th), and since then have been camped
almost on the very spot where we were in June, and are expecting every
moment to receive further marching orders. These we should undoubtedly
have got long ere now, if we had only obtained remounts, which are very
scarce. General Mahon has gone on to Balmoral with the I.L.H., Lumsden's
Horse, and other corps with horses, and this morning Colonel Pilcher
paraded us, New Zealanders, Queenslanders and I.Y., and bade us
good-bye. He has been connected with the Colonials from the beginning of
the campaign, and took the Zealanders into their first fight. I am
feeling awfully fagged to-day, so hope you will, in reading this letter,
make allowance for extenuating circumstances. If you only knew, I think
you do, what these letters mean, the self-denied slumbers and washes,
_fatigues shirked_, books and papers unread, and other little treats
which comrades have indulged in when the rare and short opportunities
have occurred--you would forgive much. On Tuesday (August 21st) we had
five Sussex men and three Somerset in the ranks of our troop of the
Composite Squadron of Yeomanry, the rest being either in the ambulances
or leading done (not "dun") horses with the waggons. In this district we
came across numerous Kaffir villages, from which we drew mealies and
handed in acknowledgments for the same payable in Pretoria. Reference to
these papers reminds me that some of the Colonials in commandeering
horses from peaceful Boer farmers have given them extraordinary
documents to hand in to the authorities at Pretoria. For instance, one
paper would contain the statement that Major Nevercomeback had obtained
a roan mare from Mr. Viljoen Botha, for which he agreed to pay him L20,
others of which I have heard and since forgotten were intensely amusing.
On Wednesday (the 22nd) I had to do a footslog, owing to my horse giving
out. Later I shot him, but I have made a special reference to this
tragic event and its sequence already. That day we did about 25 miles
through the bush veldt bearing about N.W. On the line of march not a
drop of water was to be got. Though thirst is by no means a new
experience, it is always a disagreeable one. On we trudged with dry,
parched mouths and lips sticking together as though gummed, the dust
adhering to our perspiring faces and filling our nostrils and ears. It
is quaint to note how little on the march men converse with one another.
On they stolidly tramp or ride hour after hour, side by side, and often
exchange never a word. On they go, thinking, thinking, thinking. It is
not hard to guess each other's thoughts, because we know our own. They
are of home, home, home, nine times out of ten. At dark we reached our
camp, and from the water-cart, for which we all, as usual, rushed, we
filled our pannikins and bottles with water, thick, soapy-looking water,
but to us, cool, refreshing nectar.
Thursday (the 23rd). There was a rumour (there always is) that we were
to return to Pretoria. But the direction we took on marching belied it.
Of course, I was "footslogging," but this day, having no horse to drag
after me, was able to wander more at leisure. A few miles on the way a
comrade and myself found a lovely flowing stream of the thick water
before alluded to. Here we had a grand wash, and refilling our water
bottles set on our journey refreshed. Some miles further on we came upon
a freshly-deserted Boer store and farmhouse. Near the house we found
some clips of explosive Mauser cartridges which had been buried by some
bushes, and probably unearthed by some of the wandering porkers in the
neighbourhood. Said I to a Tommy of Hamilton's column, as I took a
handful of cartridges, "These will do as curios." Quoth Thomas
scornfully, "Curios be blowed, put 'em in the beggars!" Of course, you
can guess he did not exactly use those identical words, but they will
do. Then having joined in the destruction of a monster hog, and obtained
my share of his inanimate form, I, triumphant and perspiring, continued
to follow the convoy.
Friday (the 24th). This day we expected a big fight, but, as usual,
because it was expected, it did not come off. Baden-Powell the day
before had hustled them pretty considerably. We were so close on the
Boers, that we got half of their ambulances, one being a French
presentation affair, and driven by a woman, also some waggons. This day
we did not go very far, our objective being a place known, I believe, as
Warm Baths (the Harrogate or Sanatorium of the Transvaal). It lies due
north of Pretoria, and about 40 miles from Pietersburg. Of course, here
we struck the railway. After picketing the horses, a sick sergeant's
horse was handed over to me. Most of us got permission to go and get a
wash. The place was empty--save for some of Baden-Powell's men, who had
got in at the enemy the day before--a desolate, wind-swept, sandy plain
on the edge of the bush veldt and at the base of a range of kopjes,
comprised of about thirty large corrugated iron bath houses (each
containing two bath rooms), a fairly large hotel and small station--such
is Warm Baths. The baths were well patronised. Some of our fellows,
prisoners the Boers had been obliged to leave behind in their
flight--the rogues had taken the linchpins out of some of the Boer
waggon wheels to impede them as much as possible--were using them as
sleeping apartments. As about a score of men were after each bath and
the doors had no bolts, a bath, though luxurious, was not an altogether
private affair, the person bathing having continually to answer the
question of a string of "the great unwashed," "How long shall you be?"
and having the uneasy knowledge that about half-a-dozen impatient beings
were waiting, sitting on the door-step and exhorting him "to buck up!" A
couple of us managed to secure a fine bath, which we enjoyed without
interruption worthy of mention. The water, which is naturally hot, was
grand, and so hot that we had to use a lot of the cold, which was also
laid on.
The next day, Saturday (25th), we rested at Warm Baths, and I think we
deserved it. If "early to bed and early to rise, make a man healthy,
wealthy and wise," excepting occasionally the first clause "early to
bed," I consider we ought all to live the health and longevity of
Methuselah or Old Parr, the wealth of Croesus or Vanderbilt, and the
wisdom of Solomon, blended with the guile of the Serpent. Mention of the
guile reminds me of a simple little incident which occurred to-day, and
which, months ago, we simple Yeomen would never have perpetrated. A
terrible thing happened during the night; the sergeant-major's horse had
got loose from our lines and was missing. Down came that indignant
officer and sent the whole troop out to find it. Months ago I should
have gone and searched diligently, and then been cussed for not finding
the animal. But now, what does the fully-fledged Imperial Yeoman do?
Grumbling and scowling (you must always do this, as it shows how
successful the powers have been in delegating a distasteful task to you,
and pleases them accordingly) with razor, soap and shaving brush in my
pocket, and a growling, sullen comrade with a towel and sponge in his,
we two set out in search of the noble steed. However, once out of sight,
we hied us down to some running water, where we shaved and washed, then,
filling our pipes, we sat down for an hour and chatted. Finally, we
returned disconsolate and horseless, only to find that the great man had
found it himself.
[Illustration: The Government has yet to strike the happy medium in the
sizes of the uniforms etc. which it provides for its troops.]
Sunday (26th). We got definite orders to march to Pretoria, the sick and
horseless men having left by rail the previous day in trucks drawn by
bullocks, till they could get on a more unbroken line. We paraded at 3
o'clock, and very shortly after starting my new horse became bad and I
had to again join the convoy. To-day we marched to Pienaars River, the
bridge here representing a badly-made switchback railway, and those
marvels of energy, the Engineers, working away merrily at it, with the
assistance of Kaffirs.
On Monday (27th) our _reveille_ was at five, and we marched to Waterval,
where we saw the fine, large aviary in which the Boers kept the British
prisoners till June, and the next day (Tuesday) we were up at 2.30, and
marched into Pretoria and camped on the Racecourse at 11 o'clock. No
sooner had I dragged my horse in and picketed him in our lines, than I
managed to obtain town leave, and, having hastily washed, I boarded a
mule waggon and was soon jolted into Pretoria. There I got Mails galore,
found my kit bag had come up from Cape Town, and met dozens of old
comrades in the Police, who insisted on making me have tea with them
(with _condensed milk_ in it, oh, ye gods!) and jam on real _bread_, and
generally made a fuss of me, and listened with amused attention to a
truthful account of the death of _Bete Noire_ and my subsequent
Dreyfus-like degradation. Rattling good fellows they were to me, and
under their benign influence the petty trials and inconveniences of the
past seven or eight weeks faded away like a dissolving view. The
authorities have also served us out with clothes. I have received a
lovely khaki tunic with beautiful brass buttons stamped with Lion and
Unicorn, "_Dieu et mon Droit_," and a' that. And the fit is a wonderful
fit; it is truly marvellous how they can turn out such a well-fitting
coat for--a big boy of twelve. And I have boots! A grand fit for a
policeman. Only I am neither a boy of twelve nor a policeman.