[Illustration: 'Nobby'.]
We often get some of the Border men in our lines, and, like all of the
Regulars, they are most entertaining, though their statements usually
require a few grains of salt before swallowing. One of these bold Border
men, known to us as "Nobby," is awfully disgusted at my bad habit of
letter writing. As a rule I am scribbling when he strolls up, and get
greeted with the jeering remark, "At it again." Some days back, after
reflectively expectorating, he delivered himself thus on letter writing:
"I don't often write. When I do, I sez 'I'm all right; 'ow's yerself?' A
soldier's got too much to do to write blooming letters." Then he
retailed terrible stories of Spion Kop, Pieter's Hill, and other
affairs. Amongst his loot stories I know the following to be a fact; its
hero has since been court-martialled. One of the men in Clements' Force,
being _en route_, visited a house, and, producing his emergency rations
(these are contained in a curious little tin case), threatened to blow
the house and its occupants to kingdom-come unless they complied with
his request for eggs, bread, coffee, etc. They complied, but,
unfortunately for the man in question, a nigger belonging to the place
followed him into camp, and reported the case. Mr. Thomas Atkins of the
Line has curious notions about the distances he marches. Of course, he
is a grand marcher, and has done remarkable distances and times in this
campaign; still, occasionally he makes one smile, when it is a known
fact that the Force has just covered ten miles, by emphatically swearing
that his battalion has done twenty. For cheeriness, the fellows I have
met would take a lot of beating, and their pride in their own particular
regiments is a very pleasing trait, though frequently it leads them to
be rough on other by no means unworthy corps.
From the dry canteen of the Border Regiment I was fortunate enough
yesterday to procure two dozen boxes of matches, a packet of six
candles, a quarter-of-a-pound of Navy Cut, notepaper and envelopes. The
latter I got none too soon, as my last gumless envelope I stuck down
with jam. Candles are a luxury I have been without for many months, and
matches have been worth sixpence a box. I bought them at a penny, and
the candles at 1/6 the packet. We have the Yorkshire Light Infantry with
us now in place of the Worcesters.
Saturday, October 13th.
The law which sways our generals' ways,
Is mystery to me;
Though we of course, both foot and horse
Fulfil each strange decree.
This morning we had _reveille_ at five and moved off up the valley at
about seven, the Infantry going on the Magaliesberg. This being the
case, of course our progress was slow, and the distance covered at the
most six miles. We are going to be joined in a few days' time by
detachments of our Police, who are coming out from the flesh pots of
Pretoria. Two Sussex officers are coming with them and we expect about
fifty men. To-day I had to go into a barn and pry about for arms and
ammunition on the off chance. I did not find anything in that line, but
got covered with fleas, a hundred or so--so I have been well occupied
since I have been in camp. We rode through some grand crops of oats,
wheat and barley; in one field the wheat was so high as to reach to our
horses' ears. Where I got my fleas, or rather they got me, there was a
grand garden with orange trees (no fruit), peaches coming on, figs also,
and pomegranates in blossom. In a corner of this deserted garden I came
across a real, old-fashioned English rose, of the kind usually and
irreverently called "cabbage." The occasion seemed to call for an
effort, so here it is:
An old-fashioned English rose
In the far-off Transvaal land;
Smelt by an English nose,
And plucked by an English hand.
This evening we had tents served out to us. Last night we had a deal of
thunder and lightning, but no rain. It was very close, and most of us
slept, or tried to sleep, in our shirt-sleeves. About four days before,
on the high veldt, we had frost on our blankets in the morning.
Monday, October 15th. Yesterday we only marched a few miles, and to-day
we have done even less. The Infantry marching along the Magaliesberg
searching the kloofs, farms at the base, and such-like, rendering
progress, of necessity, slow. Behind us, every day now, we leave burning
houses and waggons. Colonel Legge, who has taken over Ridley's command,
is doing the same a little ahead of us on our left front, and Broadwood
likewise on the other side of the Magaliesberg. Since leaving Commando
Nek our column has found and destroyed nearly three dozen good waggons
and numerous deserted farms. It seems rather rough, but leniency has
proved the stumbling block of the campaign, and now we are doing what
any other than a British Army would have done months ago. Our camp is
near a deserted farm. The house is, of course, now gutted out, but
around it are fields of bearded barley, golden wheat and oats, a lovely
grove of limes, and rows of ripening figs, peaches and red blossoming
pomegranates. This morning I had a fine bathe in a pool near by, and was
washing my one and only shirt, when I heard that honey was being got
near the lime grove, so jumped into my breeks and boots, and tying my
wet shirt round my neck, rushed up to have a look in. A lot of silly,
laughing niggers were the principal _personae_ in the little comedy.
There were two or three hives, and after a little smoking I went and
helped myself; at the next hive I did pretty well, but at the next,
after I had inserted my hand into it and taken several pieces of comb,
the bees went for us in style. I had put on my shirt by that time,
fortunately for me; as it was, I had them buzzing all round my head, and
got fairly well stung; two got into one of my boots and jobbed their
tails, which were hot, into my bare ankle, several stung my hands, arms
and forehead, and one got me exactly on the tip of my nose. However, I
have felt no inconvenience from any of the stings, in spite of being
without the blue-bag. Our reinforcements of ex-Police have not turned up
yet; we are looking forward to seeing them, because they are sure to
bring our mails. My horse has developed a bad off hock, now. Like the
poet:
"I never had a decent horse,
Which was a treat to ride,
But came the usual thing, of course,
It sickened or it died."
Tuesday, October 16th. The animal referred to above went a lovely purler
with me this morning, turning a somersault and finishing by laying
across my right leg. It was some time before I could get help, and then
only a man came and sat on the brute's head to keep him down. I was
grasping his two hind hoofs, which were within a few inches of my face,
and preventing them from "pushing it in." At length, the doctor and his
orderly galloped up, and the latter, dismounting, grasped the horse's
tail, and pulled him off far enough for me to free my leg. Apart from
rather a bad back, I am all serene.
Our friend, "Nobby of the Borders," visited us last night. I don't think
that is his real name, and am not anxious to know. To us he is, and
always will be, "Nobby." He was tired, having been on the kopjes for the
best part of the day, but interesting as ever.
"Art thou weary, art thou langwidge?"
he quoted after a reflective expectoration, which just missed my right
foot. "That's a hymn, ain't it?" he queried with the air of a man of
knowledge. We replied in the affirmative, and then, curious to hear his
religious convictions, asked him about them. "Yes, I believe in
religion," said Nobby, "I was confirmed and converted or whatever it is,
some time ago. And I tell you, since I've been out 'ere in this war I've
felt certain about Gawd. Spion Kop and Pieter's 'Ill made yer think, I
can tell yer." And then waxing wrath about certain of his comrades, he
inveighed thus: "And yet there's some ---- ---- fellers in the reg'ment
'oo will ---- ---- say there ain't a Gawd. But those ---- ---- ----
beggars are always ---- ---- arguing about every ---- thing." If Mr.
Burdett-Coutts wants any corroboration in respect to his exposure of the
inner working of certain military hospitals, let him apply to Private
"Nobby" of the Borderers. He was an enteric patient at No. 1 Field
Hospital, Modderspruit, and the tales he tells of his own uncared-for
sufferings, and the even worse ones of comrades, show, alas, that the
hospital can, and does often contain, as well as kind, self-sacrificing,
skilful doctors, doctors and medical orderlies who are brutal, selfish,
and absolutely callous. He speaks well of the nurses, I am glad to say.
"THE ROUGHS" LEAVE US FOR PRETORIA.
NOOITGEDACHT,
(A little beyond Hekpoort).
Wednesday, October 17th, 1900. Late last night our friends the Roughs
(72nd I.Y.) received the order to return to Pretoria at once. So they
left us this morning. And here are we, the Silly Sussex, still sticking
to it, like flies on treacled paper. As Nobby says, "Grouse all day and
you're happy. That's the way in the Army." He is quite right, and I am
sure most of us Yeomen, myself unexcepted, have the true military
spirit. For we really ought to be very good and contented in this
charming valley, where, "if it were not for the kopjes and the snipers
in between," we might lead a perfect Arcadian life. I shall miss our
Roughs. Some of them are rare good fellows, and always cheery. To see a
Rough come into camp after a good day's scouting on the farmhouse side
of the valley, was a sight never to be forgotten. Across his saddle, _a
la_ open scissors, would be two large pieces of wood, usually fence
posts; oranges dropping from his nosebag; on one side of his saddle a
fowl and a duck on the other; a small porker from his haversack; the
ends of onions or such like vegetables would be protruding, and his
broad-brimmed hat or bashed-in helmet would be garlanded with peach
blossoms, resembling a joyous Bacchanalian, and the unshaven, dirty face
underneath wreathed in smiles. We have destroyed a lot more waggons and
houses, and lifted several hundred of cattle, besides getting some
prisoners. How the women must hate us! Their faces are invariably
concealed by the large sunbonnets which they wear, year in and year out.
These articles of headgear have huge flapping sides, which their wearers
apparently always use for wiping their eyes or noses with. This custom
or fashion saves them a deal of time and trouble in fumbling for the
usual inaccessible pocket. I daresay you have often read that the veldt
is burnt by the Boers, to make our khaki visible on the black ground.
More often than not a veldt fire is caused by accident, not design, a
carelessly-dropped match doing the trick. As regards showing up our
khaki, it is bad for dismounted fellows, but for the mounted men
preferable to the sun-dried grass, for as nearly all our horses are
bays, roans, chestnuts or blacks, they show up terribly on unburnt stuff
and are almost invisible on the burnt.
Thursday, October 18th. We are very up-to-date out here, as the
following will show you:
'Twas uttered in vast London city
By _lion comiques_ without pity,
Provincial towns were not belated,
But showed they, too, were educated;
In many a rustic, quiet retreat,
Bucolics, too, would not be beat;
At last _It_ crossed the mighty main,
Did Britain's latest great inane,
And we out here in deep despair,
Have been informed that _There is 'air_.
I am pleased to record that the beauty of this epoch-making remark and
the evident subtle charm underlying it, has not yet dawned upon any of
the troops with which I have come in contact, and so, apart from being
aware of its existence, it has molested me in no degree. Even the
Transvaal has its compensations. Look at the moral and intellectual
damages one escapes--occasionally. Whiteing managed to get some rather
good books at an untenanted house a few days ago. Byron's Complete
Works, two Art Journal Christmas numbers (Burne-Jones and Holman Hunt),
"Henry Esmond," and others. He gave me Henry George on "Progress and
Poverty," and two or three works of a devotional nature. The latter I
gave Nobby last night in the dark. Our conversations in the ranks are
very diversified. A few days back we were arguing as to which is the
better--a treacle pudding or a plain suet pudding with treacle. We were
interrupted in the middle by a few snipers potting at us. This morning
we stopped in the midst of a most interesting discussion on Aubrey
Beardsley as a decorative artist and the influence of Burne-Jones and
Japanese art on his earlier work, to kill fowls and loot eggs. Our bag
was eight cacklers and six eggs--which have just proved to be, as I
feared, addled. Lately we have had a really lazy time of it, the poor
Infantry scouring the hills and we leisurely riding a few miles along
the plain as advance or rearguard, and then camping by about mid-day.