KRUGERSDORP,
_December 5th, 1900._
As the English mail leaves this benighted place to-morrow at mid-day, I
am dropping you a few lines, though I feel in anything but a scribbling
humour. Clements moved out on Monday for about a week's jaunt, and left
us, the Sussex Squadron and sick men, behind in charge of about a
hundred remounts, mostly Argentines; and with the pleasant task of doing
pickets and such like, about two miles out from the town. As I write I
am very wet, it having been raining for the last two days. This morning
the other four occupants of Mealie Villas had to clear off at 3 o'clock
to do a picket, and so, as they naturally withdrew the support of their
rifles from their blankets, there was not much shelter for me. I wonder
what your opinion was on the statements of Mr. Burdett-Coutts, M.P., as
regards certain hospitals out here, and also what you think of the Army
doctor? It was my duty to parade the sick men before one of these august
beings this morning. I received the order at a quarter past nine from
our Squadron Sergeant-Major to parade before the doctor's tent, in the
lines of Marshall's Horse, at 9.30. So at that time, behold me with
fourteen sick men in the driving, drenching rain waiting in puddles of
water outside the well-closed tent of the disciple of Esculapius. There
we waited till at last an officer entering the tent, in response to my
inquiry, as to whether I was at the right place or not, replied in the
affirmative and informed an unseen being that there was a sick parade
outside. Apparently without even rising, the great unseen was heard to
remark shortly, "Sick parade is at seven o'clock every morning," the
tent was again closed, and the men with fever, dysentery, colds and
sores wended their ways through the rain and mud, back to the damp
interiors of their leaking blanket hovels. They were men of the Fife,
Devon, Dorset, and Sussex Yeomanry Squadrons, and that is how some of
your dear patriotic volunteers get treated occasionally by certain
doctors out here. Our Battalion doctor (the 7th) is a very good sort,
and if you are bad will see you at almost any time.
On Wednesday (November 29th) a friend and I went into the 'Dorp and got
a few stores (alas! the Field Force canteen is almost empty and the
prospects of its being replenished are drear). Afterwards we strolled up
to the station to see if there were any mails, and to see a train again.
The Johannesburg train came in while we were there, and a sergeant-major
of Kitchener's Horse shot an officer of the same corps soon after
alighting from the train. The officer had put him under arrest for
misbehaviour in Johannesburg. I had my choice of a dozen yarns as to the
real cause of the tragedy. The officer was buried the next day. The fate
of the sergeant-major I have not heard yet, though it is not difficult
to guess. Mr. Wynne, our troop leader left us this day for England,
having applied for leave on business. A statement of the losses among
our officers may not be uninteresting. All of the following, save the
last, are home or on their way: The Duke of Norfolk, injured thigh; the
Hon. T. A. Brassey, elections; Mr. Ashby, reasons unknown, but
undoubtedly excellent; Mr. Williams-Wynne, business reasons; Mr. Cory,
still out here but working with the transport--hard.
Which leaves us Mr. McLean, of rowing fame, as our captain and only
officer.
Saturday, apart from lifting us into December, was I believe,
uneventful.