On October the 31st we were right flank to Cyperfontein, and came in for
the inevitable sniping. Mushrooms, which were very abundant on the veldt
we were traversing, were collected by many of us, and on our arrival in
camp cooked in a stew or fried in Maconochie bacon fat. We also came
upon two Boer waggons under some trees, from which we obtained a huge
loaf of mealie bread and some useful enamelled tin ware--likewise a
basin of excellent custard. Several women thereupon came up from a house
not far off and protested against our pillaging the waggons, as they
only contained their property. "And their men?" we queried. They had
none, knew nothing about any. A cock crowed in the neighbourhood, was
located and promptly commandeered, and at the same moment, Boleno (not
his real name) triumphantly emerged from one of the waggons with a fine
pair of spurs and a quantity of tobacco; the simple Boer women had to
accept us as unbelievers.
Further afield and unknown to us, the Fifes were having a warm time. It
was only when we got into camp that we heard from our old friend,
Sergeant Pullar, that their gallant and popular Captain (Chapell-Hodge
of the 12th Lancers) had been severely wounded in retiring his men from
a kopje to which they had advanced in scouting. He died the following
night at Vlakfontein,[6] and was buried the next (Friday) morning.
[Footnote 6: It was this Vlakfontein which was destined to
become notorious in the later history of the war. On the 29th
of last May (1901), the 7th Battalion I.Y. lost heavily in a
desperate fight at this place. Of the many gallant officers
and men killed, all the members of the Battalion, past and
present, must specially deplore the death of Surgeon-Captain
Welford, one of the kindest and most self-sacrificing of men.
Also Captain Armstrong, who joined the Battalion from
Strathcona's Horse, as lieutenant, in November last.
Lieutenant Pullar, writing to me in reference to the above,
recently remarked: "It is the same Vlakfontein where the poor
7th Battalion lost so heavily in May, and I fear there must
be many other graves there now."]
As my horse had gone a bit lame, I was riding with the convoy that day,
and so was able to wait and attend the funeral. I doubt the Fifes will
ever forget that day.
With _reveille_ rain began to pour in torrents. The advance and flanking
parties moved out of camp, the Fifes had been told off for rearguard, on
account of the funeral. Presently the convoy began to get under way with
a lowing of oxen and cracking of whips, mingled with the bleating of
captured flocks of sheep and goats. Standing under a tree beside my
horse I waited; through the blinding rain I could see the ox teams by
our Yeomanry lines swinging round in response to the niggers' shouts and
whips, and with a gurring and creaking the waggons one by one took their
place in the lengthy procession, disappearing in the dense atmosphere.
One tent had been left standing, right and left of its entrance were
drawn up the firing party and the rest of the squadron; leaving my horse
I fell in with them. The sergeants presently emerged bearing on a
stretcher, sewn up in the ordinary brown military blanket, the mortal
remains of their captain. Then through the never-ceasing rain, splashing
through pools of muddy water sometimes ankle deep, we slowly made our
way to the back of a farm some fifty yards away, where at the feet of
some huge blue gum trees, a grave had been dug. Several of the firing
party who had no cloaks had their waterproof sheets over their
shoulders, I noticed one man with a corn sack. Colonel Browne read the
Service, the rain splashing on his little Prayer Book. The body was
reverently lowered by means of a couple of ammunition belts from a
machine gun, and the three rounds cracked strangely in the rain-laden
air, the water dripping from the rifles. After the firing, one of the
party, a dour-looking Scot, void of all sentiment I should have thought
(God forgive me!) stooped, and picking some objects out of the mud,
thrust them into a handy pocket. They were his three empty cartridge
cases. Then the Fifes sorrowfully marched away, leaving their beloved
captain behind them. Happy Fifes to have possessed so good an officer!
Unhappy Fifes to have lost him!
* * * * *
Returning to where my poor saturated horse was miserably standing, I
mounted and slowly rode along with the convoy. After going some miles, I
was pleased to see the waggons turning off the slippery track on to the
veldt and outspanning. Seeing close by the road, lying on the site of a
former camp, sheets of corrugated iron from the roofs and other parts of
a few wrecked and deserted houses in the neighbourhood, I dismounted and
secured two large bent ones (these placed on the ground like an inverted
V form excellent shelters for tentless men), and proceeded to carry them
and drag my steed towards the camp. It was a long way and an awful fag.
At length through the pelting rain, there bore down upon the Sussex
Yeomanry lines two large bent sheets of galvanised iron, cursing
horribly and followed by a dripping horse. Suddenly the sheets fell
clattering to the wet ground and his comrades beheld the writer of these
immortal letters. Whiteing, Boleno, and the rest of our special clique
or mess, who had arrived before me had already commenced constructing
Mealie Villas (being the name given to our family residence wherever we
are). The ground was, of course, saturated by the rain, which continued
unceasing all day. Huddled together in the cribbed, cabined and confined
space of our "home, sweet home," half-naked, but fairly cheerful, we
passed the time in everlastingly patching up the leaks and defects in
the construction of the Villas. The next morning we had _reveille_ at
six, and turned out promptly to feed the wretched horses; the poor,
woe-begone looking creatures, hardly one of which was properly picketed,
were standing expectantly amid a perfect cobweb of muddy, tangled
picketing ropes in the quagmire, which represented their lines. One of
the fellows, who had passed the night under our ox waggon, on lifting
his rain-sodden blanket, found to his surprise and disgust a fine
iguana, about four feet long, nestling against his body. The sun began
to smile upon us, and we advanced to a better camping ground a few miles
further on at Leeuwfontein. Here we outspanned and soon had our wet
blankets, clothes, and other articles spread out on the veldt drying.
The Force remained halted on Sunday, though we Yeomanry were sent out on
a foraging patrol and returned with ducks and oranges galore. Late in
the day, "Nobby," sallow, and with a week's beard on him, paid us a
visit. He told us he had been bad and was dying, but bucked up at the
sight of our rifles, which he pronounced as being in a disgustingly
dirty state. "I'd like to be yer sergeant-major. I'd make yer sit up,"
quoth he indignantly, and then proceeded to give us the history of his
own gun, and the godliness of its cleanliness. He also related to us
portions of the history of the Border Regiment. "We're the Unknown
Regiment," remarked Nobby, half bitterly, "but they ought ter know us
now, we was with ole 'Art's Irish Brigade in Natal," and then came
anecdotes of Pieter's Hill, and other places. Of course, he told us of
their great marching feats, and wound up thus: "The other day Clements
said to our ole man, 'Give the Borders a new pair of boots an' a ration
of rum, an' they'll march to h----." Then after a pause, "Of course,
that's a bit o' bunkum to keep us goin';" but his manner showed he was
proud to repeat it nevertheless. On the 5th, we advanced to Doornkom,
getting a fine herd of cattle from a kloof on our way, and having sundry
necessary bonfires, principally of oat hay.
[Illustration: CONSOLATION.