"And far and wide,
They have done and died,
By donga, and veldt, and kloof,
And the lonely grave
Of the honored brave,
Is a proof--if we need a proof."
_E. Wallace._
Tuesday, September 18th. We buried Lieut. Stanley yesterday at mid-day,
the sergeants acting as bearers, we Sussex men (of the dozen of us, two
were with him at Eton and one at Oxford) composed the firing party,
while the whole squadron, officers and men followed. About
three-quarters of a mile from our present camp, in the garden of a
Scotchman, named Jennings, by a murmuring, running stream, and beneath
some willows, we laid him. By the side of the grave was a bush of
Transvaal may, covered in white blossom, at the end were roses to come,
and away back and front were the white-covered pear trees and
pink-covered peach, perfuming the clear, fresh air, while on the sides
of the babbling stream were ferns and a species of white iris. Sewn up
in his rough, brown, military blanket, he was lowered to his last
resting-place, the major reading the Burial Service.
"---- Is cut down like a flower."
He could not have been more than twenty-five. Then, "Fire three volleys
of blank ammunition in the air. Ready! Present! Fire!" Again and again,
and the obsequies of a brave officer and true English gentleman and
sportsman were over.
I am sorry to say that we have a Sussex sergeant missing--killed or
prisoner. We are most anxious to know his fate, poor fellow. So, out of
the seven of us in that hot corner, one is dead, one is not, and Heaven
only knows how the others escaped, myself in particular.
Wednesday, September 19th. This morning we advanced about half-a-dozen
miles, and pitched our camp here--Doornkloof is the name of the place, I
believe.
Thursday, September 20th. Ridley's column has gone back in the direction
of Pretoria to Rietfontein, as escort to a convoy, principally composed
of waggons loaded with oat hay. I hear, and hope it is true, that he has
our letters.
Friday, September 21st. Had to do a picket on an outlying kopje. The
stable guard, who should have _reveilleed_ us at three forgot to do so,
and later, when we were aroused, we had to saddle up and clear off at
once. I had to go off _sans cafe_ (which is breakfast), and worse still
in my hurry _sans_ pipe. Oh, how that worried me, my pipe which I have
kept and smoked through all till now. Somebody might tread on it and
break it, or find it and not return it. On the kopje a friend lent me
his emergency pipe, over which a lot of quinine powder had been upset,
so I had a few smokes, in which the flavour of quinine prevailed
unpleasantly. Still, I have no doubt it was healthy. But, oh, where was
my pipe, should I ever see it again? "There is a Boer outpost over
there." "Yes, but I wonder what the deuce has become of my pipe," and
then I bored my vigilant fellow sentinel with the history of that pipe.
With the sun pouring down on us without shelter, without any grub, and
not a drop of water (my bottle I left by Stanley), we were stuck up on
that kopje till past sunset. Where was my pipe, should I get it all
right? At last we got back to camp, and, overjoyed, I received from a
friend my pipe, which he had picked up in the lines. Then, having
partaken of tea, I found myself in for a sleepless night as stable
picket. But it didn't matter, I had got my pipe.
Saturday, September 22nd.
"There is a foe who deals hard knocks,
In a combat scarce Homeric:
It's _not_ the Boer, who snipes from rocks,
But fever known as Enteric."
The idea I have partly expressed in the above lines, is as you know,
correct. The Boer from behind his rock snipes you at a distance, but
Sister Enteric, though unseen, as Brother Boer, is nearer to us. She is
with us in our camps, when we eat and when we drink--often parched,
recklessly drink--and close, unseen and unheard, deals her blows. And
when they are dealt, the nervous ones amongst us _think_. For common
report hath it that the illness takes roughly about three weeks to
develop, and the nervous man thinks back what did he drink three weeks
ago, or thinking of what he ate or drank the day before, dreads the
developments three weeks may bring. When we came in last night we heard
that a poor fellow of our squadron had succumbed to it, and was to be
buried the next morning at 5.30. We bury soon out here. So once again
this week, I formed a unit of the firing party, and did the slow march
with reversed arms. We clicked the three volleys at the grave. Later, we
had two more funerals, the result of Brother Boer's handiwork. They were
two men of Kitchener's Horse, who had dropped behind Ridley's force at
Hekpoort, and had ridden to Mrs. Jennings' farm to buy some bread. These
two were shot by over half-a-dozen concealed Boers at about twenty yards
range. No attempt was made to make them prisoners, and they were
practically unarmed, having revolvers only. Their bodies were riddled.
Sunday, September 23rd.
"Oh, happy man in study quiet,
On data and statistics,
Making copy of our diet,
Please soften our biscuits!"
This afternoon having borrowed a magazine from a Rough, in exchange for
an old one I picked up in the Fife lines, I have in common with the
sharer of my blanket shelter derived infinite entertainment from an
article therein contained, entitled "Feeding the Fighting Man." Of
course, it is illustrated with photographs, the first one depicting a
sleek and stiff Yeomanic-looking, khaki-clad being standing by the side
of a swagger little drawing-table covered with a fringed tablecloth, and
obviously groaning under what we learn are the gentleman's daily
rations. Apart from the article, this picture alone is calculated to
make one's mouth water. The article opens with an extract from that
great book, "The Soldier's Pocket Book." Here it is, "It may be taken as
an accepted fact that the better the men are fed the more you will get
out of them, the better will be their health and strength, the more
contented will they be, and the better will be their discipline," all of
which is gospel truth. The article, as I have already remarked, is very
entertaining. Here is a little extract--"fresh meat and bread have been
issued daily, almost without a single exception, to troops at the
front." We know the fresh meat, good old trek ox! Always delightfully
fresh--and tough. And the bread, yes, the bread, well-er-the bread, yes,
the bread! If I had read this article at home, being somewhat of a
gourmand, I should certainly have rushed off and enlisted directly after
reading as far as the middle, where we learn that every soldier is
allowed daily--oh, the list is too long to give you. There is one little
thing the scribe overlooked, and that is the waggon crowd, the
quartermaster-sergeant and his satellites. It may also be of interest to
you to know that certain non-coms. and men of the A.S.C. have made large
sums of money out here. I have heard of one who made three or four
hundred pounds in a few months, hem! Of course, they are exceptions in a
corps which has, as everyone knows, done grand work. Our running
commentaries as I read the article through, would have made excellent
marginal reading, if such notes could have been added for a future
edition.
Yesterday, a fresh epidemic visited our camp--football. Some person,
evilly disposed I presume, produced a football which after a "good blow
out" (oh, happy football) was kicked in the midst of a crowd of wild
enthusiasts. We soon had a casualty, a sergeant stubbing his big toe
badly on a boulder; now he can hardly walk. I believe there were a few
other minor casualties. Thirty enteric cases were taken into Pretoria
with the last convoy. I am slowly but surely learning to spread jam very
thinly on biscuit, one of the most difficult accomplishments I have had
to learn out here. My jam spreading having hitherto been at once the
scandal and horror of my messmates.
On Monday morning one of Bethune's Horse came into our camp, he had been
a Boer prisoner, and had escaped from Rustenburg, which they are at
present occupying (I think it is their turn this month). He had been
wandering for fourteen days, or rather nights, for it was then he
travelled--a native chief had supplied him with a guide, who piloted him
about, and kept him going on berries and such like. He said to me, "I
was glad to see English faces again," and I, who in a small way know
what it is to be hunted, believed him, you bet.