The Last Days of the Boer Capital
[Illustration: Mr. R. H. Davis in Pretoria.]
Before the British advance reached Johannesburg one would never have
known, by merely taking note of the life in Pretoria, that a fierce
war was being waged in the country. The ladies went on with their
calling and shopping, business houses carried on their work as usual,
and the hotels were crowded with a throng of men who looked more like
speculators in a new country than men fighting for their homes and
liberty.
The night I arrived in Pretoria the train pulled into the station just
after dark, and the street lights gave the place an air of mystery. The
blackness of the night heightened one’s imagination of possible plots
and attempted escapes, of spies and sudden attacks. A big Scotchman,
who told me his name was “Jack,” shared the compartment with me; he
was returning from the front, where he had been fighting for his
adopted country. He carried a Mauser, and over his shoulder was slung
a bandolier of cartridges; these, with his belt and canteen, made up
his entire equipment. His pockets were his haversack, his big tweed
coat was his blanket. He gave me the first idea of the real bitterness
of the struggle, for he said he would rather die many times over than
give up to the British. He was fighting against men of his own blood,
perhaps his very relatives; but the spirit of liberty was in him, and
he was defending the home he had built in this faraway land.
As the train rolled around the curve into Pretoria, the Scotch burgher
pointed out a brilliant circle of lights on a far side of the great
group of flickering yellow lamps which showed the position of the town.
The effect of mystery deepened as I peered out at the station platform
and saw little groups of men huddled together in the radius of the
dazzling electric arcs. Here and there a solitary figure with a rifle
walked slowly about. The doors had been locked before we entered the
town, and no one was allowed to leave the train until an official with
a decidedly English air had examined all the passports. I wondered
whether I should be able to make myself understood, and whether, in
case I were mistaken for a British spy, I should be followed by some
secret agent of the Republic. Suddenly a sharp cry at my door broke in
upon my fanciful surmises.
“Free ’bus to the Transvaal Hotel,” shouted a voice from the figure
outlined against the bright light.
“Grand Hotel! The Grand! Grand Hotel!” and in another instant I was
wrestling against an unseen hand for the possession of my luggage.
“Cab, sir? Cab up-town, sir?”
My dream of war’s mysteries was shattered in an instant, and I found
myself on earth again, with the feeling that I was just arriving at the
San Francisco ferry from an overland train. In another moment I was in
a hotel omnibus illuminated with a dingy, smoking oil lamp at the front
end. Under the lamp there was a little sign imparting the information
that the vehicle had been built in Philadelphia. We rumbled along over
the rough streets, and the windows rattled in true hotel ’bus fashion.
We pulled up at a hotel, and a porter greeted us with a sixpence’s
worth of politeness and assistance. “Good evening, sir,” he remarked,
with a “Dooley” accent which was pleasantly reassuring.
The clerk at the desk cordially called me by name--after I had
registered--and informed me that he could give me a room at the top of
the house for five dollars a day. After depositing my belongings I took
a look at the crowd of men in the hotel office. I was reminded of the
gatherings in a California “boom town” hotel, or of a Colorado mining
camp. There were men of all nations and in all sorts of dress; but the
prevalence of top boots and leggins gave to the crowd a peculiarly
Western look. Rifles stood in the corners of the room, but except for
this item there was nothing about the men to denote their connection
with the war. They were nearly all speaking English. By that time I
began to feel that I had been cheated, for I wanted to hear some Dutch.
It is a fact, however, that in all my stay in the Transvaal I found
absolutely no use for any but my own tongue.
Mr. Thomas Leggett, the California mining engineer who, after twelve
years’ residence in South Africa, rose to be the leading engineer in
that country, told me that he did not know five words of Dutch even
after his long stay among the Boers, and, moreover, that he had had no
occasion whatever to use that language.
When I first met the family of Secretary Reitz, I asked a little boy of
about ten if he spoke English.
“No, sir,” he exclaimed with emphasis; “we don’t speak English down
here--we speak American.”
There was formerly a complaint that the English language was not taught
in the schools, but the assertion proved erroneous, and to-day it is
the common tongue of the towns and cities of South Africa.
Up to the time of the war but few Americans had lived in Pretoria,
consequently the official duties of our consul to that place had not
been onerous. When the war broke out, Mr. Macrum was the representative
of our government; but, owing to what appeared to be an excess of
desire to aid the burghers’ cause, he overstepped the diplomatic
reserve and was recalled. Several South African officials told me that
he had acted unwisely in endeavoring to do too much, and that had
he been more discreet he might have been of material assistance to
them. When Mr. Macrum was recalled, the Hon. Adelbert S. Hay, son of
Secretary of State Hay, was appointed to fill the position that had now
become a post of great importance. There was much speculation as to the
new American consul’s ability to fill the place, and he was received
with some misgivings by the statesmen of the Transvaal, for fear his
sentiments were in favor of their enemy. But his years of training in
affairs of state under his father, both at home and at the embassy in
London, had made him equal to the task. In a very few days he proved
himself to be a thorough diplomatist, and he came to be heartily liked
by all the burghers who were brought in contact with him.
Mr. Hay had the sole charge of all British interests, as well as the
care of the thousands of English prisoners who were in Pretoria, and
of the transmission of all letters and moneys. All these duties he
performed without arousing the slightest animosity on the part of
the Boers. No American of any class ever went to the consulate on
business, for a social call, or from idle curiosity, without receiving
a hearty welcome from the consul. And to please unanimously the crowd
of resident Americans, soldiers of fortune, correspondents, doctors,
and ne’er-do-wells, was in itself enough to show his worth as a
diplomatist. Mr. Gardner F. Coolidge, of Boston, was the vice-consul,
and in cordial service and discreetness he proved to be made of the
same stuff as his chief. They attended not only to their own official
affairs, as well as the British interests, but they were often called
upon to assist men of other nationalities, which they did as willingly
as though they had nothing else to do.
[Illustration: Consul Hay and Vice-Consul Coolidge bidding good-by to
Captain Slocum at Pretoria.]
During the few weeks before the British occupation there was hardly a
ripple of excitement among the people of Pretoria; in fact, there was
more South African war talk in Washington and New York when I left
the United States than I heard in the capital of the Republic most
interested.
President Krüger was the center of all interest, although when any of
the hundreds of foreigners that swarmed the place wanted anything, they
went to Secretary Reitz, who seemed to have more power than even the
President himself.
My last meeting with President Krüger was on the occasion of the
presentation of the celebrated message of sympathy from 30,000
Philadelphia schoolboys. The voluminous document was delivered by
James Smith, a New York American District Messenger boy, who was
accompanied by one of the editors of a Philadelphia newspaper, Mr.
Hugh Sutherland. This opportunity afforded an excellent chance to study
the wonderful old man who has piloted the Cape Dutch through so many
national storms.
If President Krüger had been a handsome, polished, and dignified man
the world’s opinion of the Transvaal burgher would have been entirely
different, for the descriptions of the typical Boer have had their
origin in his personality. He is far from prepossessing; he is entirely
lacking in polish or distinction of appearance. He wears a shabby frock
coat that looks as though it had never been brushed or cleaned since
the day it left a ready-made stock. His clothes, however, are not the
most notable nor the most repellent characteristic of the head of the
Transvaal government. Mr. Krüger smokes a pipe incessantly, and has
an unpleasant habit of expectorating in any place that pleases his
momentary fancy, and with very little accuracy of aim; even the front
of his clothes shows signs of this habit. His eyes are inflamed, and
are seemingly afflicted with some ophthalmic disease which causes the
lids to show lines of red under the eyeball. His hair and beard are
unkempt, except on state occasions and Sundays, when they are brushed
to an oiled nicety. His hands are heavy, as though from great toil; but
when he shook hands, he did so in the cordial manner of one who wished
to show a heartfelt welcome to his guest.
Secretary of State Reitz arranged this meeting at which Jimmie Smith
should present the message he had carried so far, and when the little
party arrived at the President’s house, he was waiting to receive them
in his library.
The house in which President Krüger lives is a little, low,
unpretentious cottage, such as might be owned by an ordinarily
prosperous mechanic or tradesman in a country village. It is a
one-story building, with a wide veranda along the front. On either side
of the entrance is a marble figure of a reclining lion, the gift of
Barney Barnato a few years ago, when he wished to gain favor in order
to further some of the great schemes which eventually were the direct
cause of the downfall of the two South African republics.
The library where the President met the party was a dark room with a
low ceiling. At the farther end of the apartment was a desk table,
at which the Chief Executive sat. The ornaments about the room were
tawdry and cheap, showing how little attention was paid to appearance;
nevertheless, everything was scrupulously clean. Books and papers were
scattered about in confusion; but, as we afterwards learned, this grand
disorder was due to the fact that the President was preparing for his
departure from the capital, a fugitive from the conquerors who were
even then just outside the city.
All thought of the peculiar personal appearance of President Krüger was
dispelled when he spoke, or even when he was listening to anything of
importance; for he conveyed the impression of being the possessor of
a great reserve force, and of a wonderful mental power which grasped a
subject instantly and with precision. Once in touch with the workings
of his great brain, his untidy appearance was forgotten, and you
thought of him as a magnificent relic of the noble Dutch blood, one
who had reclaimed a new continent from wild beasts and wilder savages;
a man who had fought his way, foot by foot, into the great veldt and
into the mountains, and had built a home for thousands of contented
followers, only to be driven out by a more powerful nation.
At the time when the messenger boy presented the greetings from the
young Americans, the President was visibly worried and his mind was
evidently occupied by other matters. Within a few hours he expected to
move once more from the place where he had settled, as he had done when
he was a young man. But this time he was to go he knew not where, a
fugitive from an overwhelming foe.
As Mr. Reitz translated the speech which little Jimmie Smith cleverly
delivered when he presented the documents he carried, the President
listened graciously and thanked the boy heartily for the expressions
of sympathy conveyed in the message. Coming at that time, it must have
given him some little hope that the first republic of the world would
do something towards saving to the list of nations these two republics
of South Africa.
A granddaughter of President Krüger told me that, after he left, Mrs.
Krüger, who stayed in Pretoria, spent much time reading the book of
American newspaper and magazine clippings regarding the Boer war which
accompanied the message from Philadelphia. She was deeply gratified
to note the sympathetic sentiments so strongly stated in the American
press.
[Illustration: A. D. T. Messenger James Smith, in front of President
Krüger’s house, immediately after presenting the message from the
American children.]
As soon as the presentation took place the President shook hands with
every one present, and then dismissed them politely, saying, “You must
excuse me now, as matters of great importance concerning the state
occupy my mind.” That night, just before midnight, the President and
Secretary Reitz left Pretoria.
James Smith, A. D. T. Messenger, No. 1534, was well chosen for his
mission, and he proved himself to be worthy of the task. After the
message was delivered he stayed in Pretoria for several weeks during
the British occupation. During the battle of Pretoria he amused himself
by running about in the district near the American consulate, where the
shells were falling thickest, picking up chunks of the deadly missiles,
unmindful of the great danger he was incurring. Very few men have been
under a heavier fire than was this American messenger boy on the day
of the taking of Pretoria. That night he told of how he waited for the
shells to explode, and then ran and picked up the pieces wherever he
saw them kick up the dust.
“It was just like the Fourth,” was his comment on an all day’s battle
which did as much to reëstablish England’s prestige as any that has
been fought in many years. The fight itself lasted but one day, but the
effect of the occupation of the capital of the South African Republic
by the British army worked wonders in the opinion of the world as to
the progress of the war.
As Lord Roberts’s army came nearer and nearer to the doomed capital,
the excitement grew more intense and the air was filled with alarming
rumors. General Botha came back to Pretoria and established his
headquarters there in order to reconstruct his forces, which were badly
scattered, and to provision them from the government stores. Extra
calls for burghers to rally to the cause were issued every day and were
responded to by hundreds. Pretoria was the turning point of the war, at
which men were called on to decide for themselves whether they would
continue the struggle to the bitter end, or leave on the last trains
for Delagoa Bay and sail for Europe, or remain in the city and quietly
allow the British to overtake them, thus being possibly overlooked
among the hundreds of peaceable citizens.
Arms were issued from the arsenal to all those who wished to continue
the fight or who wished to cast their lot for the first time with the
army of the two states. There were arms and ammunition in abundance
for hundreds more men than came to take them, for the supply had been
laid in with the idea of eventually arming every man and boy in the
Transvaal. Many of the burghers exchanged their well-battered rifles
for new ones; all filled their ammunition belts, and took in other ways
all they could besides.
Hundreds responded to the final call to arms. Many burghers collected
their entire families and secured arms for them to assist in the
struggle. It is not possible for any one who has not seen that army
fighting in South Africa to realize how deadly is their earnestness.
Some of the men are so old as to appear incapable of sitting in a
saddle for a march of even a few miles, to say nothing of the marches
they often make, covering several days. There are young men in the
prime of life, strong and sturdy; there are boys in knee trousers,
who do not look old enough to have sufficient strength to endure the
hardships of war or to know how to do any real fighting. There are even
women who have followed their husbands or brothers through it all,
attending the wounded, and cooking when necessary, but often going into
the fighting line and matching the men with a rifle.
[Illustration: The battle of Pretoria: Boers awaiting the British
advance under artillery fire.]
[Illustration: The battle of Pretoria: British naval guns shelling
forts.]
The Boer army entered the second year of the war a far more formidable
force than the one that fought through the first year, and especially
during the first months of the war. At that time the army was filled
with men who had been commandeered and who were compelled to go into
the field, but who were not obliged to fight, and often did not fight.
There were also many adventurers from other nations, seeking a little
fame, and perhaps fortune. But now there is not a man in the field who
is not there to fight, and when they went out of Pretoria they knew
they were burning their bridges behind them. It was for this reason
that fathers took their young sons with them, and it was for the same
reason that the women followed the men.
One day I was in General Botha’s headquarters, just before he was
leaving Pretoria for good, when an old gray-haired burgher came in to
see him. He waited some minutes, as the general was busy, but finally
stepped up to his desk. He did not give the regulation military salute,
but merely shook hands with General Botha and wished him health in the
Dutch fashion.
“What can I do for you?” asked the Boer leader, still looking over some
papers before him.
“I would like to get an order for a carbine from you,” answered the
burgher.
“You cannot get a carbine, for they are very scarce just now, and every
one seems to want them; but I will give you an order on the commandant
at the arsenal for a rifle,” said the general, and he began to write
the order at once.
“Well, I’m sorry; but a rifle won’t do,” hesitated the man.
General Botha looked up quickly, and said with some sharpness:
“I’d like to know why a rifle won’t do; you will use a rifle or
nothing.”
The old burgher still hesitated; then finally said, “I’d just as soon
have a rifle, but I’m afraid my boy isn’t big enough to carry one.” He
turned and motioned to a little smooth-faced lad to come forward.
He was not yet ten years old--a bashful yet manly little fellow, ready
to follow his grandfather and to fight for the cause for which his
father had died. Not big enough to carry a rifle, he must needs fight
with a carbine. He got his carbine.
This incident is typical of the spirit that prevails among the Boers
who are now in the field, and it is that unconquerable spirit that will
fight on as long as there is a man still free on the wide veldt or in
the mountains.
It was thought at first that the capital would be defended to the last,
according to the intention when the forts were first built. But after
long debate it was decided that Pretoria should not be defended, and
two very excellent reasons were given for abandoning the capital to the
British without resistance. One was that the officials did not wish to
subject their families and the families of their men to the suffering
of a siege, or their buildings to the mercy of the British guns. The
principal reason, however, was that if they should defend the capital
it would be necessary to use all the troops of the Transvaal army
and would allow the English troops to surround them, cutting off all
possibility of escape or retreat. Thus their cause would be lost. But
with the removal of their forces to the high veldt or to the mountains
they could continue the struggle many months.
[Illustration: General De la Rey and staff at Pretoria; his nephew,
twelve years old, is serving on the staff.]
An air of suppressed excitement pervaded all Pretoria when the people
knew that the Volksraad was in session to decide the fate of the city.
It meant either a long period of suffering or British occupation within
a very few days. Little knots of men gathered here and there to discuss
the situation and to speculate on the result of the deliberations of
the few men who held the fate of all in their hands.
[Illustration: Field cornets in Pretoria receiving orders from a
general.]
Finally the word came--it was “Retreat.” Once more they were to retire
before the hordes of khaki that were steadily pouring in from all
directions. There were no noisy newsboys shouting “Extra!” There
were no bulletins placarded in public places. But the news seemed to
proclaim itself in the very air. From mouth to mouth it flew, carrying
with it feelings of terror, defiance, and sadness. The moment which
had been half expected and dreaded for years had come at last. Their
enemy was upon them in irresistible force, and they were to abandon
their homes and their chief city to the foe. The little groups of men
melted away as if by magic, and the streets were suddenly alive with a
hurrying mass of people, each person with but one thought--to escape
before the British arrived. The town was filled with rumors of the
movements of the enemy, and runners said that they would be upon us
within a few hours; that the advance was already on the outskirts of
the town; that Botha had been defeated; that Pretoria was completely
surrounded--every runner had some kind of unpleasant news to tell.
During the next hour or so men were obliged to decide quickly what was
to be done with their families and personal effects. It was the crucial
moment of the war, as it was then thought that it was but a matter of
minutes before the British would arrive.
I happened to be at the railway station on the night the President and
Secretary Reitz left with the State documents and moneys, removing
the capital and head of the government from Pretoria. About half-past
eleven a special train, consisting of three or four luggage vans, a
few passenger carriages, a few goods carriages, and, at the end, the
President’s private coach. Nothing had been said about the removal,
but from some remark coming from Mr. Reitz I imagined that something
unusual was about to happen, and therefore awaited developments. There
was no unwonted excitement about the station, and, with the exception
of a few burghers who were awaiting the departure of the train, there
was no one about except Mr. Sutherland and myself. In a few moments a
small wagon drove hurriedly up to the station, a couple of men jumped
out and gave orders to the driver to drive out on the platform near
the train; this being done, they began to transfer a load of books and
papers into the luggage van. Another cart arrived before the first one
was emptied, also containing huge bundles of papers and documents.
During the next half hour there came a stream of vehicles of every
description, loaded with bags of gold and silver. Even cabs had been
pressed into the service of transferring the treasure of the state from
the mint to the train. Bars of the precious metal were thrown out of
the cabs or wagons like so much rubbish.
[Illustration: Boer women bidding good-by to their men off for the
front.]
[Illustration: Russian hospital corps with the Boers: the wounded man
is Colonel Blake, formerly U. S. A.]
There was bustle and activity, but no noise and no excitement. A few
burghers on the platform crowded about in the glare of the electric
light, to watch the work; but there was hardly a word spoken, except
an occasional command from one of the clerks attending to the removal.
Cab after cab drove up to the station without any guard whatever; some
of them, containing as much as £20,000 in sovereigns, had been driven
by boys through the dark streets from the treasury to the station. The
cabs were hurriedly unloaded and sent back for another load, while the
men on the platform were busily throwing the bags and bars into the car.
One boy had driven away a hundred yards into the darkness when he
called out that there was a sack in his cab that had been overlooked.
An attendant went after it and brought it back--a sack containing
several thousand dollars’ worth of gold coin.
It was an extraordinary sight, under the glare of the electric lights,
to see this train being loaded with all that was left of the capital
of the Republic. It was done decently and rapidly. As soon as the
last sack of gold was transferred to the train the doors were closed.
Secretary Reitz alighted from a cab and walked towards the train. As
he passed under the light I saw an expression of sadness and anxiety
on his face that forbade my speaking, although I knew him well and
realized that I might not see him again. He entered the private car,
and in a few moments the train departed, President Krüger boarding it
a few blocks from the station, and for a few weeks the capital of the
South African Republic was on wheels.
Many have blamed President Krüger for running away, as they call it,
and for leaving the country and going to Europe. But there is no doubt
that he was pursuing the proper course. He was an old man, much too
feeble to follow the commands in their marches through the mountains.
Had he attempted to do this he would have been merely a hindrance to
the rapid movements of the army. He is charged with taking away gold
for his personal use; but if he took any of the state funds with him I
do not think they were for his own use. He is a very wealthy man. Money
was of no value to the burghers in the field, but it could be used in
Europe to their advantage. It would have availed nothing for Mr. Krüger
to remain in the Transvaal only to be captured and sent to St. Helena.
Such an event would have helped the British immensely, and would have
given a certain plausibility to the assertion that the war was over.
The criticism against the President because he left the country was
confined entirely to those who ran away themselves, for among the
loyalists in Pretoria there was not a word of complaint against his
course.
One commandant reminded me that the capital of the United States of
America was for months wherever General Washington’s headquarters were,
and that even in the war of 1812 the capital was removed before the
advance of the British on the city of Washington. He asked if any one
had ever criticised the American President for not remaining to be
taken prisoner, or for not leaving the gold in the treasury to fall
into the hands of the enemy.
Following the departure of the President and other officials, on the
last of May, came a couple of days of panic, during which all sorts of
rumors flew about, while the lawless element of the town played havoc.
As soon as it was decided to abandon the capital, all the government
stores which had been gathered for the use of the army in the event of
a siege were turned over to the people for their own use. The stores,
which were in large warehouses, were broken open and rifled by a wild,
excited crowd from every station of society. Well-dressed men and women
jostled with half-naked Kaffirs in their efforts to secure a goodly
share of the stores. Every sort of vehicle was brought to carry away
their plunder. Not one in a hundred had any idea that the stores had
been turned over to the public by the officials in charge; they thought
they were looting without permission, and were correspondingly mad with
excitement.
The doors of the warehouses proved too small to admit the immense
crowd; then they tore off sheets of the corrugated iron of which the
building was constructed, so that they could get at the contents more
quickly. At one door a big woman stood guard with an umbrella, beating
back any of the blacks who attempted to enter, but admitting any white
person. She plied her weapon on the heads of the blacks when they came
within reach, and it was not long before they abandoned the attempt to
go in at that entrance. The looters worked in squads, a few carrying
out the plunder of sugar, flour, coffee, and other stuffs, while some
stood guard over it until a means of carrying it away was found.
Wheelbarrows, carts, children’s wagons, and baby carriages were brought
into service to take the provisions to the homes of the people, and for
several hours the streets were alive with hurrying crowds. Cabs at last
could not be hired at any price, as the cabmen took a hand on their own
account in the general looting.
I was driving past the main warehouse when the scramble for plunder
began, and stopped to watch the wild scene. In a few moments my driver
caught the fever and asked permission to join the mob, saying he would
be back by the time I needed him. He carted away enough sugar, flour,
coffee, and candles to last him a year, and came back in such a happy
state of mind that he did not want to accept any fare for driving me
about.
Very few of the burghers of the army took any hand in the looting,
although many of them looked on and shook their heads in disapproval
that so much of this good store should go to the stay-at-homes.
When Lord Roberts occupied the capital and heard of that day’s work,
he sent a large detail out to search for the plunder, and recovered a
considerable amount, which he turned over to the use of his army.
For some time it appeared as though there might be serious trouble, and
that the looting would be extended to shops and banks. Nearly all of
these barricaded their doors and windows and placed a guard inside. A
plot was hatched to break into the Union Bank, which was known to be
British in sentiment; consequently all the bank officials spent several
days and nights inside the building, armed with rifles, to protect the
property. The attack was not made, however, probably because the fact
of the guarding of the bank was known.
During all this time the burghers were retreating towards Middleburg,
and by the first of June there were not half a dozen of the army left
in the capital. Each day the British were expected to march in, but
they did not come; and each day the situation became more serious,
until finally a committee, appointed by a proclamation issued by
General Botha, formed a special police corps for the protection of
property until the British forces should arrive and take possession.
The corps was composed of all the foreign consuls and their _attachés_,
and such men as were not directly in the army. At the request of Mr.
Hay I was sworn in and received a white band for my arm, on which
was stenciled “P. C. No. 161,” and a pasteboard card imparting the
information to all lawless persons that I was authorized to take them
to jail. But an officer without the backing of the majesty of the law
is not impressive, and in my one official act I have not yet decided
who came out ahead--only the other fellow didn’t get the horse.
When the retreating burghers began to straggle through Pretoria towards
the north, they commandeered any horses that seemed better than the
ones they were riding. Cab horses and carriage horses were outspanned
on the street, and the vehicles and harnesses left lying on the ground.
Stables were entered and the best of the stock was taken for remounts.
As a war proceeding this was perfectly legitimate, although it was
rather hard on those who lost their horses. The American consul drove
a fine pair of large Kentucky animals, which were probably the finest
horses in the town, and he had considerable difficulty in keeping
them. Several times the burghers began to unharness them, but a word
telling them to whom they belonged stopped these orderly robbers in
their attempt. When it became known that many unscrupulous persons were
taking dishonest advantage of the fact that the commands were taking
remounts and state horses under the name of the government, an order
was issued against commandeering horses for any purpose.
After this state of unrest and terror had continued for three or four
days without an appearance of the British, the excitement wore off,
confidence was restored, and many of the burghers of General Botha’s
command who had retreated now returned to the city.
The last Sunday before the British came dawned quiet and peaceful as a
New England Sabbath; not a sign of war was to be seen; the streets were
thronged with men, women, and children on their way to church to pray
for their cause and their dead. The soldier laid aside his rifle and
bandolier for the day, and not one was to be seen throughout the crowds
which were moving towards their respective places of worship, while
the bells rang summons and welcome. The day was warm enough for the
women to wear white gowns, which served to make the many black ones the
more noticeable. The children were stiff and starched in their Sunday
cleanliness, and half the church-going crowd was composed of these
little ones. In many a pew there was no father or brother, but only a
sad-faced woman in sombre black.
The churches were crowded to the doors, and I tried two or three places
before I finally gained admittance to the church opposite President
Krüger’s house, where he had himself often occupied the pulpit. It
was a typical country church, such as may be seen in hundreds of our
smaller towns; the windows were open, and a soft breeze blew gently
through the room. The people entered deeply into their worship, and the
sadness that prevailed made it appear like a service over the dead who
had fallen in battle. Many families were worshiping together for the
last time, for on the morrow a battle was to be fought, and all who
were going to continue the fight were to be separated that night from
their loved ones.
[Illustration: Boers under heavy shell fire, awaiting British advance
behind their defenses.]
[Illustration: Burghers’ horses during battle of Pretoria.]
There was not one in the whole church who was not weeping. Near me
sat a young girl of about twenty, who sobbed aloud during the entire
service, as though her heart was broken beyond all comfort; and I
afterwards learned that her father and four brothers were all dead, and
that her one remaining brother was at St. Helena with Cronje. In the
pew in front of me sat an old grizzled burgher with a heavy gray beard;
he needed no rifle to show that he had been for months on command,
for his face was burned by wind and sun. His arm was around his wife,
whose head rested on his shoulder. She did not weep, but at frequent
intervals she huddled closer to him and grasped his arm more firmly, as
if afraid he would leave her. On his other side sat a little girl, who
looked around with big, frightened eyes, wondering at the scene.
The pastor preached from his heart a sermon of hope and encouragement,
his words being interrupted by the sound of sobbing. Hardly a man there
but had his arm supporting the woman at his side, or grasped her hand
in his. The text was from Ezekiel, xxxvii. 3-9:
And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I
answered, O Lord God, thou knowest.
Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto
them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord.
Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause
breath to enter into you, and ye shall live:
And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you,
and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall
live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord.
So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there
was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together,
bone to his bone.
And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon
them, and the skin covered them above: but there was no breath in
them.
Then said he unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of
man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the
four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may
live.
Tender, with infinite pathos, yet manful, and with a virile faith
that seemed to make the impossible actual, the sermon went on. It was
a prophet’s opportunity, such as comes to but few preachers in all
history, to stand at the final threshold of a nation’s life, to bid
farewell to the men leaving for the forlorn hope of the last struggle,
and to embrace in one cry of faith both the heartbreak and the
resolution of a people. It was in the Dutch tongue, but the preacher
repeated it to me in English the next day, and I was the witness of the
effect of its simple eloquence on the people.
When the service was over, there was a solemn and tearful handshaking
before the congregation scattered for the last time to their homes;
the men to buckle on their bandoliers and rifles for the next day’s
battle, the women to pray for the safety of those brave hearts so dear
to them, or to weep alone with memories of those they had loved and
lost.
[Illustration: The Boer retreat from Pretoria.]