_Week ending 11th November, 1899_
The three weeks were over, and there was nothing to show that our
inspirations in regard to the duration of the siege might yet prove to
be substantially true. No immediate prospect of relief was observable,
and our thoughts mechanically took a gloomy turn. How sanguine we had
been, to be sure. Hardened sinners there were, of course, to sing that
fine old chorus, "I told you so!" They never did! Nobody had ventured to
tell us anything so inexplicit. The three weeks dogma had never been
questioned. It was not, however, the detraction from our repute as
prophets that saddened us, so much as the wearing off of what was novel
in our beleagured state. It was beginning to pall a little. The day was
beautiful, and notable for an absence of dust. In the morning, the
Colonel sent out a patrol to have a look around. He also issued some
stringent regulations, affecting the privileges and liberties of persons
residing outside the town's barriers. These good people were
thenceforward obliged to submit to the indignity of being searched, as a
condition precedent to permission to come or go like ordinary mortals.
The right to read their newspaper across the breakfast cup was also
denied them; the duty had to be performed In town, lest the wind should
blow the local journal into the hands of the enemy and reveal--nothing
at all. The position of the barrier guard ceased to be--if it ever
were--a sinecure, and he was kept busy picking pockets, examining bills,
perusing love-letters, written in all sorts of prose, and in verse which
was homely, if not exactly Homeric.
As already pointed out, the day was fine, and the Boers were silent; so
that, recent disappointments notwithstanding, there was little credit in
being jolly on such a Sunday. The Tapleys of the city had accordingly no
great trouble in inducing us to amuse ourselves. The united bands of the
Kimberley and Lancashire Regiments were to give a concert in the Public
Gardens; and at four o'clock some thousands of people, arrayed in their
best, had gathered there. The Gardens were crowded; cares were
forgotten; the Boers were chaffed; while the strains of the melodists
were awaited with pleasurable anticipation. At the psychological moment
the music began. The tune was not unfamiliar; we had heard it
before--and prayed that we might not hear it again! It was not from the
bandstand the discord was wafted; when I say, in a word, it was the hoot
of the hooters, sounding the alarm, it will be understood how far from
soothing was its spell. The exodus from the grounds was a treat to
watch; the ladies in their finery made a dash for home, while the
gentlemen rushed for their rifles with equal despatch. The bandsmen laid
aside their lutes for more deadly instruments, and prepared themselves
to give the Boer as much music as he cared to face. It was altogether a
magnificent dissolution, rapidly accomplished. And, of course, it was as
usual, all for nothing. Wessels was a wag.
Monday morning revealed the Boer clans foregathering in force on the
south side of the city. The citizen soldiers were quietly directed to
get behind their sandbags, while a mounted body was ordered out to
anticipate events, and, if practicable, to knock over a few of the
clansmen. But it was only bluff again. Our women folk, although they
dreaded a _fracas_, were particularly impatient of this time-honoured
game. During the day, a good many shells were expended on the Premier
Mine. The mines, it may be said, were the objectives of special
bombardments until the end; but, so far, we were not inclined to think
highly of the enemy's marksmanship. The shells fell a long way short,
albeit not so short as at first; the aim was improving. Given time, the
Boer would yet hit his target; but of course he would not get time.
Practice was resumed next morning at an hour sufficiently preternatural
to deprive us of a portion of our legitimate sleep. We rose early in
Kimberley--long before the lark--to our credit be it sung; but four
o'clock was too far removed from breakfast time, and four was commonly
the hour chosen by the churlish Boers to commence operations throughout
the tedious months of our investment. The whiz and the explosion were
not invariably audible, but the boom was always heard. Our "friends"
rarely missed making a noise, and, to secure proper rest, this
break-of-day _penchant_ sent people early to bed. A big gun had been
placed by the enemy on the top of Wimbleton Ridge, wherefrom--as our
Garrison Orders grandiloquently stated--"the strength of the fortress of
Kimberley was tested." The shells landed safely on the bare veld, and
even when the dissatisfied gunners brought their gun closer, no harm
was done. Wimbleton was three or four miles away, and we were not
therefore in a position to reciprocate the attentions we received from
it. Another assault was subsequently made on the Premier fort. Our
seven-pounders were this time able to do a bit of bowling, and a ball
was hurled at the enemy's wickets that stopped play for the day.
There was considerable elation in town at the non-success of the Boer as
an artillerist, and the belief was entertained that his stock of
ammunition would soon be blown to the winds. Nearly a hundred shells had
been thrown at us, without angering or damaging anyone or anything
save--a cook and his cooking-pot! The cook resided in a redoubt; his pot
had had the lid broken, and worse still, the stew it covered driven
through the bottom of the utensil, to be incinerated in the blaze
beneath; and he vowed--well, the profanity entwined in his vow of
vengeance will not admit of its publication. The whole bombardment was a
grand joke. In the Law Courts, where the Criminal Sessions were being
conducted in the ordinary way, the lawyers waxed witty. The witnesses
responded. Even the prisoners laughed sorrowfully as each abortive boom
rang out. It was a superb joke. The judge let fall some funny things and
the jury smiled--without prejudice. His lordship said it was a novel
experience for him, as indeed it was for all of us, who were to live and
learn that--the last laugher laughs best.
The results of the Colonel's mild and forbearing efforts to keep the
natives in check were not satisfactory. The exuberance of the Kafirs
knew no bounds; they continued to glory in intoxication, and to "do" the
_breadth_ of the streets, like the gay Bohemians of more advanced
civilisations. They did more; they defied authority, and varied their
pleasures with occasional bouts of house-breaking and burglary. They
appropriated such property as they could lay hands on in the sequestered
houses of the West End, and played tug-of-war with mahogany that lacked
the merit of being portable. An epidemic of looting prevailed--and fine
sport it seemed to offer.
But Colonel Kekewich did not think it a time for sport, and lost no time
in ventilating his thoughts on the subject. Drastic measures were
adopted to suppress the fun. Another proclamation adorned the dead
walls--decreeing that native bars and canteens were to be closed
altogether. To deal effectively with the hooligan school stern methods
were necessary, and total prohibition was the initial step--a step
highly lauded by the public in general, and by the _white_ topers of the
city in particular. The coloured bibbers were thus suddenly reduced to
water, and some twenty of them--caught red-handed in crime--were lashed
and sent to prison for two years. One or two got off with a caution, and
with instructions to preach to the locations on the heinousness of
hooliganism, and of the power of Martial Law to hang "boys" for less
than murder--as the next roost-robber would learn to his cost. No
remarkable curiosity to be learned in the "Law" was afterwards
manifested for some time.
As for the aggrieved liquor people, the Colonel's proclamation well-nigh
broke their backs. Their feelings must be left to the sympathetic
imagination of the reader. That thirty thousand of her Majesty's
subjects should be "by law forbid" to quench their thirst was
incredible. That men in the "trade" should by consequence suffer
financial loss, and have the sweat of their brows, as it were,
confiscated, was an evasion of the Constitution (superseded though it
was by Martial Law) which outraged the name of liberty. It was a bitter
pill to swallow; but it had to be swallowed under pain of penalty for
even a grimace. Some of the patients could not let the purgative down;
they deliberately let nature take its course--the sequel to which was
the mobilisation of the Trapper Reserves for active service. And still
the slimness of the native contrived to dodge the wiles of civilisation.
With the assistance of some Coolie shop-keepers (who acted as middlemen)
he yet managed to drink a fair share. But the middlemen, too, were
hauled over the coals. A few Indians went so far as to establish without
license little canteens of their own, thereby outraging all law, civil
and military. In such cases the canteens were confiscated. The Summary
Court had altogether a busy time, and the Official Interpreters, Dutch,
Kafir, and Indian, were "sweated" at last.
Wednesday was quiet; so also was Thursday, our peace being marred by
neither shells nor hooters. The hooters, indeed, were never to do it
again--a graceful concession, for which we gave thanks; their cat-calls
had been so nerve-shaking. The monotony was relieved on Friday by some
shells which came right into the city--as far as the Post Office. They
omitted to burst. The boom of a gun, which had been wont to play havoc
with the nervous, had come to be regarded as of no consequence, a mere
tap on a drum, eliciting a _nonchalant_ "Ah, there she goes," and
nothing more. Everybody was alive for fragments of the dead missiles;
curio-hunting was a craze, and hundreds of people were ever ready to
pounce upon the projectiles that wasted their sweetness on the desert
air. The tiniest crumb of metal was treasured as a valuable memento. The
shells fell and broke as would a tea-pot, a brick, or an egg of the
Stone Age. No explosion followed; no fragments flew to hurt one's ribs,
or to play the dentist with one's teeth. The missiles declined to burst.
It was natural that much speculation should arise as to the cause of
this anomalous state of things; and there were people to doubt its being
so much due to obstinacy on the part of the shells as to inexperience on
the part of the Boers. One wiseacre held that the missiles were antique
and obsolete relics of the 'eighty-one struggle. Others questioned
whether "the Boer" then knew that shells were invented. A lot more
contended that "the Boer" was unacquainted with the mysteries of a fuse,
and knew as little about "timing" a shell as he did about discipline.
One or two suggested, tentatively, as a solution of the puzzle, that "he
had forgotten to put the powder in." Another argued that he did not know
how; while there were a few who doubted whether "the Boer" considered
powder in any sense explosive. There was a garrulous "bore" (from
somewhere over-sea, not Holland) who advanced a still clearer
elucidation of the mystery. "What was Rhodes doing in Germany for twelve
months," he cried, "tell me that?" The relevancy of this rather
startling query was a little obscure, but somebody replied: "He was
visiting the Kaiser." This was too much for our interlocutor; he pitied
our ignorance of the world, lamented our neglected education, and, as if
our weakness in arithmetic was peculiarly discreditable, deplored our
inability to put "two and two together."
Alarms were now nightmares of the past, and the people could pursue
their avocations undisturbed and undistracted. There was little firing
in the afternoon--nothing more deafening than a rifle-shot. A Boer, on
sniping bent, was hit by one of our sharpshooters; three men approached,
and two only were observed to rush back _with_ their shields. Of what
the British troops were doing we knew nothing. Thousands of them, it was
said, were congregated at Orange River (seventy miles away), and we were
curious to know when they were to "move on"; only curious--not
impatient. The summer was yet in its infancy (as also was the siege) and
our patience was destined to be lost soon enough. Meanwhile, we had not
much cause for complaint in the matter of food. Meat, some said, they
found it hard to procure; one young lady asserted positively that her
family had had no meat for dinner on Sunday, and that she herself had to
dine off "tea." She was the daughter of a public house, too! Just fancy
the daughter of a public house having to do with "tea" for dinner! Hers,
however, would have been a case of exceptional hardship; there was the
"half pound" for everyone who went shopping in time.
We were startled from our slumbers at an early hour on Saturday morning
by the booming of artillery and a succession of very distinct
explosions. The shells fell broadcast, and whistled--while we sought
vainly to see them--with a disconcerting whiz above our heads. Their
contact with mother earth resulted in a loud crash; it was hard to
believe that the theorist who opined that the Boers had "forgotten the
powder" (before) was a clever fellow. They had remembered it this time;
its odour was everywhere. It was our first real taste of a bombardment,
and a nauseating taste it proved. Men and women had a vague belief that
hundreds must be dead. Consternation reigned; and when it was reported
that a woman had been killed in Dutoitspan Road, the excitement was at
its height. The fatality sent a thrill of horror through the people, who
awaited in dread anticipation the news of further massacres. The victim
was a poor washerwoman, and the possibilities it conjured up before the
mind's eye made her death doubly unfortunate. But, happily, no further
damage to life or limb was to be recorded. A good many houses were hit,
though not injured materially. A shell entered the Gresham Bar, and it
was surprising that so few glasses should have been smashed; more
marvellous still that the fair bar-tender should have remained fair; she
was merely frightened. As for the proprietor, he held up fairly well.
There was a hole in his roof (I don't mean his head), but he made the
price of a decent patch in ten minutes. The men about town flocked in to
have a laugh at the mess, and were amazed to find a bottle intact, or a
bigger utensil to drink from than a "thimble" indeed.
Feeling against the Boers grew strong. Enquiries about the British
troops, their movements, their dilatoriness, were sternly renewed; it
was reckoned time to "clear the border." That Colonel Kekewich was
angry goes without saying; he despatched two mounted forces in opposite
directions to record a general protest. One of these, led by Colonel
Scott-Turner, rode towards Otto's Kopje. The enemy, however, were
apparently prepared for Turner; they opened fire with a gun, and
endeavoured to cut him off. In this they failed; they drew rather too
near, and so far from intimidating the fighting Colonel, enabled him to
register his protest very forcibly. Nine Boers were shot down; three on
the British side were injured. Meanwhile the force under Major Peakman
was protesting at Carter's Farm. The enemy there made a bold effort to
silence Peakman. But a Maxim gun has a remarkable gift of the gab; the
Major had one with him, and he let it do all the talking--with results
that quickly drove the Boers beyond the range of its Phillipics.
Notwithstanding these castigations, or perhaps because of them, the
bombardment was resumed in the afternoon. Wesselton was assailed; a few
shells also fell into Kimberley, with no serious consequences. Silence
reigned at six o'clock. It was an exciting _finalé_ to the week. The
morrow would be Sunday, and glad we were to hear it. And still relief
was deferred; but the troops _were_ at Orange River, and seventy miles,
they told us, was a trifle in darkest Africa. That they (the troops)
would soon arrive did not admit of a doubt. And then?--and then the Boer
would run away or die.