_Week ending 18th November, 1899_
Sunday again! the most popular day of the seven; pre-eminently so since
the war began. The peace that marked an occasional week-day was the
certain accompaniment of the Sunday. The conditions of life were normal
on Sunday; its advent made us happy. Following upon the unpleasant
experiences of the previous day it was peculiarly welcome, albeit,
mayhap, the herald of troublous times. The death of the poor washerwoman
had opened up a world of possibilities; morbid forebodings were conjured
up by morbid people, and nobody dreamt of measuring future fatalities by
so low an average as one per day. But yesterday, we were as safe as if
we were "in Piccadilly." A great man had said so--a great man and
millionaire. His name was Rhodes, Mr. Cecil Rhodes, Chairman of the De
Beers Corporation, and "no mean judge of a situation," our newspaper
stated in substantiation of his Piccadilly peccadillo. He had come up
specially for the siege, it was said by some who, had they but half his
foresight, would have "specially" gone away for it. Well, Mr. Rhodes,
felt safe and we, too, had felt safe until the sad event of Saturday
rather neutralised the confidence inspired by the shrewd, but human,
millionaire. There was a minority, indeed, who could not logically look
for aught but ruin and disaster as a sequence to the shock of Saturday.
"Look at the narrow escapes so many had," the minority argued. There
were plenty of stories. Legends of hairbreadth escapes were legion. They
were well told by fluent liars, by such raconteurs as _talk_ of
prodigious things in fishing, and _catch_ nothing but colds. The narrow
escapes were yet to come. Our wounded in the hospital were doing well;
some of them had already been discharged. _Their_ escapes had been
narrow enough, in all conscience; but they were not romantic; they
occurred on the field of battle.
The enemy apparently "slept it out" on Monday. There was no firing until
eight o'clock when a beginning was made with Wesselton. A number of
shells fell in the vicinity of the mine; but, as a lady afterwards
reported: "they did not hit even a dog." Some missiles fell also on the
Bulfontein side, and were buried in the debris heaps. A more serious
assault was subsequently opened on the town itself; for several hours
shells came pouring in from Kamfers Dam and the Lazaretto Ridge. The
firing did not cease until upwards of seventy missiles had burst in the
streets. In the market square a horse was killed--one of two attached to
a Cape cart. The other animal remained alive, very much alive, as its
kicking testified. The driver of the vehicle, a Dutchman, received a
wound in the arm. Another Dutchman, curiously enough, was injured
slightly while injudiciously exposing himself on top of a debris heap.
Happily, no more serious casualities occurred. The Municipal Compound
and the Fire Brigade Station had to bear the brunt of the bombardment,
but the damage done was small.
Despite the real element of danger now attending the mania, the thirst
for souvenirs was unquenchable yet, and the masses of struggling
humanity that seemed to drop from the clouds simultaneously with every
missile to be in at its dismemberment, were as fierce as and _more_
reckless than before in the fight for fragments. When the shells had
been wont to crumble accommodatingly, as would a clay pipe, the winning
of a curio had--I mix the metaphor advisedly--merely involved
participation in a football scrimmage. But since the ball had, as it
were, begun to turn "rusty" the popularity of the game, so far from
diminishing, increased. All day long its devotees "scrummed" and
"shoved" for the coveted trophies. Quite a brisk trade was done in
souvenirs, the smallest scrap of iron fetching a tickey (threepence),
and so on in proportion to weight and size as far as half a sovereign.
These souvenirs included sundry nuts and bolts which had been kicked
about the neighbourhood of De Beers workshops for a quarter of a
century. Whole shells, intact, were sold for a couple of pounds each,
and the hundred or so received up to date circulated a good bit of
money. One of the funny spectacles of the bombardment was a local
entomologist, who had a sense of humour, endeavouring to catch the
missiles with his butterfly net; the "buzzing," he said, attracted him.
This humourist is still alive--he caught nothing.
Healthy folk who lived to eat were at this stage beginning to complain
of hunger, and to assert--not quite truthfully--that they got but "one
meal a day." Eight ounces of meat was not enough for them; they could
devour it all at a single sitting; they were slowly starving. Little
sympathy was felt with these uneasy gourmands. Our sources of supply
were by no means inexhaustible, and the Colonel's restriction was
intelligible to all reasonable men. The Boers, on the other hand,
appeared to possess more live stock than they needed, and it was upon
this hypothesis that the plan of confiscating a portion of the one to
equalise the other was conceived by the artful and gallant Colonel. No
sooner thought of than done. From among the coloured fraternity whose
love of looting had occasioned trouble in the past he selected the most
expert, and commissioned them to resume their bad ways. On the Monday
night operations were commenced, and carried out successfully. By dint
of much patience and caution, the trusty looters were enabled
(unperceived) silently to segregate some seventy oxen and drive them
into Kimberley. Splendid animals they were, too, and an addition to our
depleted flocks and herds which gave us solid satisfaction.
Whether it was that the enemy was engrossed in a vain search for the
missing cattle--if they were missed at all--he gave no expression to his
indignation next morning. Not until lunch time had we any indications of
annoyance. The vials of Boer wrath were then let loose in earnest, and
from the Lazaretto Ridge we were peppered furiously. The shells fell
thickly in the principal thoroughfares--eighty or ninety of them--one
for every bullock "pinched." Fortunately again, the assault was
unattended by loss of life. The tin walls of Saint Cyprian's Church were
perforated by pieces of shell. Another hissing monster dropped in
Dutoitspan Road in front of a tobacco-shop, but thanks to the
picturesque array of pipes and pouches in the window the missile, as if
it had an eye for art, refrained from bursting; instead it made a little
grave to the depth of several feet and buried itself with honour. Three
or four buildings were struck, and a funny man spread an alarming rumour
relative to the loss of _eighteen_ lives in the Queen's Hotel! On
enquiry it transpired that _two_ cats had met their doom. The victims
had been serenading in an out-house when the fatal missile (very
properly) slit their throats. The dear people of the neighbourhood
affected little sympathy for the slain whose orgies had kept them awake
at night. Indeed a wish was expressed that a few more of the cult might
get hissed off the world's stage. And curiously enough a second shell
_did_ fall at the hotel; but the feline minstrels were out of the
way--and their well-wishers so much _in_ it that they made peace with
the cats at once.
The night had been dark, with vivid flashes of lightning to brighten it
now and then, and nature's artillery had rolled until the Boers on
Wednesday morning took Up the refrain with theirs. One poor old man was
wounded in the arm as he lay sleeping in his bed. Houses here and there
up Newton way were damaged, the occupiers escaping injury. The firing
went on for several hours until heavy rains came down and put a stop to
it.
A further note was received from Mr. Wessels. The Dutch folk in our
midst were fairly numerous and not only as liable to laceration as the
British, but, judging by our records so far, rather more so. They had
experienced rank bad luck altogether, and a little bird may have
whispered it to Wessels. However that may be, the Commandant reiterated
his former request in their regard. Now, Colonel Kekewich was only too
willing to accede to the request, in proof of which he wrote up a
special proclamation on the subject. But the Dutch adhered to their
first determination; there is no place like home; leave it they would
not. Mr. Wessels, they insinuated, would not find them new houses and
gardens; nor too much to eat--not even half a pound of meat (perhaps).
There were only three or four families prepared to pack up and with more
reluctance than exultation take their departure.
The possibility of springing something in the nature of a surprise upon
the enemy was a thought which had long exercised the mind of Colonel
Kekewich. The idea culminated in a stiff fight on Thursday. Three or
four hundred of our mounted men had remained up all night, and two guns
of the _Diamond Fields' Artillery_ had no sleep either. It was still
dark when the cavalcade fell into line and proceeded noiselessly along a
ridge leading to Carter's Farm (occupied by the Boers). Daylight had not
yet broken when the men in khaki reached their destination--reached it,
because owing to the recent rains a thick mist obscured the landscape,
and the invaders found themselves in closer proximity to the Farm than
they desired to be--in fact they were right among the "Grabbers." The
surprise was complete--far too complete, for the attackers were as much
astonished as were the yawning Boers. Both sides, however, retained
sufficient presence of mind to shoot at each other; and they did. The
enemy roused from their slumbers had their vision clarified
effectively, an operation which had the drawback of enabling them the
better to see their visitors. The battle waxed fierce, and when
re-inforcements came galloping to the assistance of the Boers it looked
as if the Light Horse must be worsted. But the artillery was behind
them, and from it was belched forth a hail of shrapnel which compelled
the re-inforcements to draw rein and "pant to the place from whence at
first they flew." Our guns away back at the Reservoir also contributed
to this result. Thus it was that the task of evicting the Boers was in
the end a comparatively easy one. Thirteen of their number lay dead or
wounded on the Farm. We had one killed and three severely wounded, seven
others, including Major Peakman, getting slightly hurt.
That a bombardment would follow these events was to be expected: nor
were we disappointed. The town, its thoroughfares and houses were left
alone for the nonce, while the guns were trained on the redoubts. This
was a precedent we could have wished to see followed oftener; but it was
mainly the heart of Kimberley that was assailed at all times. The new
departure did not prove successful; no great harm was done, for the
shells lighting on the soft veld were kinder than the shellers, and
generally failed to burst. As for the citizen soldiers, they received
these attentions with a _nonchalance_ that would reflect credit on older
campaigners. They did not get enough of them; there was money in the
missiles; and the local army had a way of appreciating a good cigar,
with a puff of "Cape Smoke." A barter in souvenirs would admit of these
things, and their indulgence would not be the less sweet because
payment of the damage would really fall upon the _producer_ (President
Kruger).
It was at this stage in the vicissitudes of our siege existence that the
authorities and the public were confronted with a fresh difficulty and
made to feel the presence of a new danger. The outbreak of hostilities
had sent a large number of natives from the adjoining districts into
Kimberley, and these added to the permanent coloured population
increased our responsibilities. There was not sufficient work for so
many. This idle host was a menace to the maintenance of law and order,
and unless something was done for it internal trouble of a serious kind
was sure to arise. These men had no money wherewith to buy food, and
although they could not get liquor to drive them to deeds of
desperation, hunger would soon supply an impetus. And so it came to pass
that the philanthropic spirit was awakened in the breasts of
philanthropists and simulated by others who loved themselves only. That
work must be found for the coloured horde was the unanimous verdict of
the Upper Ten. It was a problem, peculiarly complex at a time when the
"first law of nature" (in a restricted sense) was so stern in its
exactions. But it was a problem which had to be solved and which puzzled
everybody until--Mr. Rhodes entered the breach with a solution. He had
been relieving distress in a quiet, unostentatious way, and he now
settled the native question with characteristic celerity. He held a
short conference with the Mayor; evolved a scheme of road-making; had
some thousands of men employed next day; and, in fine, completed
arrangements to pay away two thousand pounds per week with as little
fuss as another man--or millionaire--would make about a collar lost in
the wash. Indigent "whites," also, were provided for; Mr. Rhodes made
himself responsible for the formation of an auxiliary Fire Brigade for
the behoof of refugees more accustomed to a pen than a pick. The
Colossus had some enemies in Kimberley; but they were less severe--less
numerous, perhaps--from that day onward.
Our defences were by this time in thorough ship-shape, and the
connection of the several redoubts by telephone had just been completed.
From the reservoir another brand new searchlight beamed down upon the
Boers. The Town Guard had taken up permanent residence in the camps. Its
members were supplied with soldiers' rations; also with professional
cooks--who knew better hotels--to cook them. The camp cook was quite a
character, much deferred to and patronised, and was ever eager to drop
his ladle in favour of the refrigerator which he kept ready to make cold
meat of the cool Boer who ventured within range of it. The _chef_ whose
cooking-pot had been scuttled was particularly thirsty for "the
vengeance blood alone could quell."
On Friday a party of the enemy approached the reservoir, presumably to
see if there were water in it. But when our gunners metaphorically
advised them that there was danger of falling in, the party took the
hint and retired. Later on, the Boers advised us with numerous tokens of
their good-will. While this was being done a large force of the enemy
were massing at Alexandersfontein, as if they had finally decided to
take Kimberley without more ado. They deployed in battle array,
preparatory to sweeping all before them. The hooters had been relegated
to oblivion and already, swan-like, sung their sad, sweet song. Whether
the silence of these atrocious mimics induced the Boer to fancy that he
might surprise us, is not known. Certain it was that we did see him, and
were awaiting his coming with composure. It was a long wait. The mounted
men got tired sitting in their saddles, and were ordered out to query
the delay. They broke up into skirmishing parties and shook their fists
at the foe. But it was all to no purpose; the foe declined to be caught
with chaff, and decided "to fight another day."
The townspeople expected a sensational sequel to the affair and
assembled in thousands to greet the returning horsemen. Mr. Cecil
Rhodes, attired in duck pants, a slouch hat, and a necktie, happened to
be passing in a cart at the same moment, and to his profound disgust was
greeted with cheers. He raised his hat, however, and smiled, with a
sigh.
Saturday, contrary to expectation, was quiet. There was the capture of a
lot of cattle to avenge. A good haul had been made on the Friday
night--of fine corpulent cows, worth a deal of money, dealers said. They
were worth a deal of beef, and that was the feature about them of most
immediate interest. We had had no news from anywhere for a long while;
despatch riders, we conjectured, must have fallen at or into the hands
of the enemy. No matter; the British Army, colloquially speaking, knew
its way about. Thus when the shades of night were falling, the general
disposition was one of willingness to wait. The food, to be sure,
lacked something of its wonted excellence; but it served (in the
summer), and we did not grumble. The shelling, too, had fallen somewhat
flat. Mafeking was more out of the way and in a worse plight than
Kimberley. Reflections of this kind begot condescension and a noble
willingness to wait.