_Week ending 9th December, 1899_
For such comfort as preserved fruit could shed over the soul was still
ours. It was not classed as a "necessary," and the retailers being free
to charge freely for it could sell it at a price too "long" for the
purses of the many. Dry bread is an unpalatable thing, and the new
"Law's" loaf was superlative in that respect. The grocer was beginning
to discriminate, so far as he dared, between his friends (his customers)
and the casual purchaser, whose affected cordiality did not deceive the
shrewd old wretch. Butter had ceased to be practical politics; fruit and
vegetables were sorely missed. When existence is rendered trying by the
scorching rays of a Kimberley sun, fruit and vegetables are essential to
the preservation of health; but there was none preserved in the summer
of the siege. Grapes grew in corrugated green-houses outside the doors
of the houses, but there were no vineyards to speak of. The quality of
the fruit, too, was poor; and though it was yet far from being ripe, it
was guarded with a vigilance that made robbing a garden a suicidal
proceeding. The indefatigable coolies--our not too green
green-grocers--did contrive to get hold of a species of wild grape, no
bigger nor sweeter than haws, and to sell them for two shillings a
pound! Two _pence_ could in normal times procure the best product of the
vine; but these of course were siege grapes, and siege prices were
charged for them, as in the matter of siege eggs, siege drinks, siege
potatoes, siege everything--that the "Law" allowed. Morning lemons were
never so badly needed; oranges would hardly suit the purpose--but they,
too, were gone. Apples were out of the question; water-melon parties had
ceased to be. The absence of the "Java" (guava) broke the Bantu heart.
"'Ave a banana" was (happily) not yet composed, and gooseberries--Cape
gooseberries do not grow on bushes. Small green things which lured one
to colic were offered by the cool coolies for twopence each--a sum that
would have been exorbitant for a gross had they not borne the hall-mark
of siege peaches.
For vegetables, too, our livers waxed torpid, and our blood boiled in
vain. The potato was gone; the benefits conferred on posterity by Sir
Walter Raleigh were at length realised in a negative way. Miniature
"Murphies" fetched four pence halfpenny _each_, while an adult member of
the _genus_ at ninepence was worth two of the little ones. Mr. Rhodes
may have luxuriated on potatoes (_cum grano salis_!) but few others were
so very Irish. The De Beers Company owned a large garden, and that this
should have been given over to the hospital was a delicate consideration
of which even the dyspeptic could not complain. Cabbages were a dream.
Of cauliflowers a memory lingered. Soft words buttered no parsnips.
Onions were "off"--so we went on weeping. Everything in the garden but
some wizened carrots had withered away. Such carrots! small, cadaverous,
brick-coloured things, no bigger than a cork, as dry, as masticable,
and, still like a cork, with little save a _smell_ to commend their
indulgence. But like the donkeys that we were, we ate them every time!
Talking of corks reminds me of bottles, and the precious little that was
in _them_. We had no whiskey; think of that, ye Banks and Braes! There
were nice crystal brands in the hotel windows, but--I shall be dealing
later with _oils_. Sceptical tipplers, whose every feature spelled
whiskey, were reduced to the painful necessity of diluting their sodas
with lime juice; and so strongly did the "claret" taste of timber that
the beverage was adjudged a non-intoxicant with _extraordinary
unanimity_! Port and sherry, being beyond our reach, were despised, like
our neighbour's sour grapes. The publican, however, had good spirits
still; Cape brandy (or "Smoke," as it was called) found a market at
last, and swelled heads enormously. But if the signs and portents of a
drought in beer and stout were to be trusted, the unkindest cut of all
was yet to come. And it did come. In the thirsty clime of Kimberley the
consumption of the brewer's goods was large; and in the restaurants,
with bars attached, good meals were sold cheaply to facilitate the sale
of the beer which "washed" the food down. When the drought came the
proprietors of these delectable taverns promptly raised their charges by
fifty per cent., albeit the value and the variety of the victuals had
lessened. Men in receipt of good wages loved beer and indulged the
passion freely. The addition of the Imperial allowances to their incomes
had intensified their thirst. Then there were the unusual conditions
under which they lived, the paucity of provisions, the great heat--all
these things tended to damage temperance and to exalt the flowing bowl.
A multitude suffered when beer and stout gave out. The tipplers grew
pale and visibly thinner; nature made her exactions with unwonted
abruptness. A certain degree of sympathy was felt for the Bacchanals, by
none more sincerely than by the druggist--artful old quack! It was to
him the sufferers had to turn, to such straits were they reduced. Drugs
were booming, and the druggist, not satisfied with the normal hugeness
of his profits, slipped into the fashion and fleeced all round with
unprecedented flagrancy. A purgative proclamation--classing pills as
"necessaries"--was called for, but it never came. Obese folk, fearful
that their flesh was falling off in lumps, drank freely of cod liver
oil. On the other hand, fragile creatures of delicate mould thought
black tea not only cheaper but ever so much nicer. Of course, the poor
chemist was not responsible for tastes. He had much to answer for; but
he was really sorry for the nerves and the penury of the poor.
With Monday came three despatch-riders who reported that heavy fighting
had taken place--somewhere; the authorities declined to tell us where.
The Boers remained docile all day; the heat was oppressive, but their
silence was more generally attributed to a tardy realisation of their
position. The military were unusually alert and watchful. The public
graciously approved of this watchfulness, but pooh-poohed the danger of
invasion. We were tired hearing day after day that an attack on the town
was to be made "to-night"; it was to be "taken" six nights out of every
seven, the last being, if I mistake not, the one on which General
French was feted at the Kimberley Club.
Elaborate arrangements were made on Tuesday for the better protection of
our cattle. The quadrupeds, Dutch and English, were on the best of
terms--a happy augury, surely, for the amity which would unite the
bipeds of the land when the war was done. We had a batch of natives
employed digging trenches for the cattle-guards. A patrol was at hand to
nip in the bud any interference with the work which might be
contemplated. If the Boers did interfere, so much the better;
interference would involve a fight, and from a friendly tussle in the
sun the patrol was not averse. On the south and west sides the enemy
still laboured at their fortifications. We knew not what to make of
this; it nonplussed us. We had ceased ascribing it to want of knowledge:
for we had, reluctantly, let it down on us that the Boers knew as much
of the Column's movements as we did ourselves. But of course we also
knew that the Boer was a child in such matters as generalship and
tactics.
Every afternoon, at this period, the "child" delighted in trying to hit
the head-gear of the Premier Mine. Whether it was the red flag that
floated at the top or the thing itself he sought to tatter is uncertain.
At any rate, it was no easy matter to hit the head-gear, as the gunner
had long since discovered, nor, could he hit it, to smash it. Hundreds
of shells were thrown at it, but it was never struck, and to damage it
materially it would be necessary to strike it more than once. Its
substance was tough--what Bismarck would have called iron painted to
look like wood. Another object of Boer wrath was the searchlight. Night
attacks were supposed to be the enemy's _forte_, and it was only the
difficulty of extinguishing the candle that delayed _our_ extinction.
And so perhaps it was; we never knew for certain, for the difficulty of
applying the snuffers remained insuperable to the end. Numberless
missiles were shot at the searchlight, but its radiance was never dimmed
for a moment.
The most important of the thousand and one rumours circulated on Tuesday
was that a place called Jacobsdal had been taken by Methuen. We were not
pleased to hear it. Being anxious to give Kimberley away to his lordship
for nothing, we were at a loss to know why he should go out of his way
to lay hold of a town when a city offered. There were, however,
extenuating circumstances, in that a vast quantity of provisions had
been seized at Jacobsdal. Provisions were now in our eyes of greater
value than diamonds even! On Wednesday the _Advertiser_ corroborated the
rumour (_re_ Jacobsdal); it gave details of the whole brilliant
achievement, and sundry absorbing items anent the digestiveness of the
confiscated supplies. All this was highly interesting; but unfortunately
it was all untrue; it was discovered to be fiction. It was not the first
lie (not quite), but none other had been so quickly, so frankly exposed.
Our newspaper had been misinformed, and candidly told us so.
The De Beers directors, looking a little emaciated from anxiety rather
than want of nourishment, assembled in Stockdale Street to hold their
adjourned meeting. But the Column had not yet come in, the Chairman
announced. The public, who were growing sarcastic, opined that the
Kafirs imprisoned in the compounds knew it! Mr. Rhodes suitably
explained how sorry he was to disappoint again; the fault was not his;
he was not (he confided) in the confidence of Lord Methuen. A further
postponement was unavoidable, and the meeting dispersed for a week. The
period was significantly long.
The happiest section of the community was the composite collection of
human units that constituted the Town Guard, and lived in the camps.
There were to be found representatives of all nationalities--English,
Dutch, Irish, Scotch, German, Norwegian, French, etc. With the local
(Kimberley) variety there intermingled all sorts and conditions of
refugees. Men of wealth, of high social standing and education were
there, sleeping in the same "bed," playing cards and competing in
"anecdotage" with the sons of toil. From the very beginning of the siege
the Town Guard had had to "rough it" in rations. It was black tea or
blacker coffee for breakfast; sorry soup and meat (the osseous joints
that made the soup) for dinner; the breakfast again for tea--that made
up from day to day the dreary _menu_. The Mayor, indeed, had for a
little while managed to administer currant buns (it was not easy always
to find the currant) for supper; but even prior to the official
proclamation of their indigestibility they had gone the way of all
luxuries. The generosity of the public, however--the female portion of
it especially--must not be forgotten. Substantial presents, which were
always acknowledged through the columns of the Press, came frequently to
the camps. The cynics detected astuteness in this rush into print; but
while they mourned the frailty of human nature, as instanced by the
vanity competitions in the papers, they humbled themselves to the Greeks
so far as to partake of such gifts as were offered. Tobacco, cigarettes,
and other dainties were received, and consumed with rude rapidity. Every
man was supposed to be responsible for the safety of a tin pannikin, out
of which to scald himself drinking hot tea (for it had the merit of
being hot--if a black draught has any). But there were soldiers who
denied having been supplied with "cups"; whose appeals for pannikins
were persistently flouted by the military utensil-keeper-in-chief. The
"tape" of the Service could not tie up mendacity! The lives of honest
martyrs were thus spent in an eternal borrowing quest, and the petty
larceny of pannikins was a common and popular crime. Many a heated, yet
amusing, quarrel, many a storm in a porringer relieved the monotony of
camp life.
Concerts did it, too, at frequent intervals; and fine concerts they
were. At the Reservoir camp they were particularly excellent, not the
least interesting "turns" being the sanguinary "sword speeches" of the
Officer Commanding. Comic and melodious songs were rendered with equal
gusto; the Royal Artillery rivalled the D.F. Artillery, and Tommy
Atkins, the merchants, shopboys, clerks, and "civies" generally. The
services of an Irishman--_born_ great, by virtue of the brogue with
which he kicked Off to Philadelphia--were in great demand at all the
halls. One night the Chair was occupied by the Senior Officer,
surrounded by his staff, in a halo of cigarette smoke. He (the Chairman)
had a box in front of him, doing duty as a table; a rough programme lay
before him, and two candles, with long beer bottles serving as
_candelabra_, threw sufficient light on the "table," and lit the
cigarettes. The president had bottles in front of him, containing
something still more illuminating than tallow (judging by the hue of the
faces privileged to sample it), from which the ring round the "table"
from time to time regaled itself. Many an envious glance was shot at the
ring; and by-the-by it was wonderful the celerity with which the
diffidence so marked at the outset disappeared when it was observed that
vocal contributors (soloists) were by courtesy entitled to a "pull" from
the bottles. Everybody wanted to sing, and dismal howlers who,
ordinarily, would die first, were driven, tempted, lured, impelled to
howl for drink. The liquor, _generously_ diluted with minerals, was
served out in pannikins; and when the concert ended the National Anthem
was taken by storm, as also were the empty bottles to squeeze, lick, and
drain to the dregs.
The Boer guns continued to sing inexplicably dumb; Wednesday was dull.
The ladies, who had been pretty free in their criticisms of the Boers,
were saying hard things of people nearer home. They had a grievance
against the butcher and his manipulation of the meat. The clamour at the
shambles of the butcher despot was growing in volume. Hungry masses
crowded the shops, and that some should emerge meatless from the melee
was inevitable. Nepotism was reputed to be much in vogue. The Colonel
had curbed the meat vendors in the matter of price; a strictly limited
number of oxen were slaughtered daily, but the number was sufficient to
provide everyone with his or her half-pound of flesh. This arrangement,
however, was to some extent rendered nugatory by cute people who had
what was pithily termed "a leg" of the butcher. Thus a "friend," or a
monied acquaintance, could get as much meat as he could eat (a good
deal!)--which amounted to the legitimate share of perhaps half a dozen
starving creatures who had cash in the bank! In practice the system of
distribution did not work well; the State interference was no doubt a
blessing; but it was a mixed blessing.
On Thursday a mounted force re-visited Carter's Farm to entice the Boers
into battle. In pursuance of this purpose some shells were expended; but
the Boers disregarded the challenge. The rumour-monger, who had an
explanation for everything, interpreted their silence to mean that the
guns had been requisitioned to oppose the advance of Methuen, who did
not seem to be making great headway. One of the sights of Thursday was a
_khaki_ horse! We were in this connection accustomed to such diversity
of shades as black, grey, white, and brown; but a painted quadruped had
never before been seen in Kimberley. The authorities were responsible
for the painter's assault on the lily. It would appear that a high
percentage of white and grey horses had been shot in the several
sorties; hence the necessity of varnishing the survivors. The white
animals were more discernible to the eye behind a Mauser. Condy's Fluid
was the "varnish" utilised; and curious to relate, one noble steed was,
not khaki, but _green_ after treatment. Perhaps he wanted to be shot.
A fund for the benefit of the families whose bread-winners had fallen in
the defence of Kimberley was opened on Friday. The right man put the
collection in motion; Mr. Rhodes, on behalf of De Beers, headed the list
of subscriptions with ten thousand pounds. The Diamond Syndicate
followed with two thousand. The Mayor, with the sanction of the Town
Council, gave two hundred; and the citizens' "mites" were very decent
indeed. It was also decided to erect a memorial in honour of the dead;
for this object seven hundred pounds was subscribed. The Refugee
Committee continued to perform their duties with unabated energy. It was
creditable to all concerned that nothing was left undone to lighten the
burden of the poor; and the deftness--not to speak of the charity--of
the ladies in the scooping out of meal and sugar was admirable.
Saturday was heralded in by the music of the Column's cannon, which
verily had charms to soothe our savage breasts. It was lyddite melody;
the lyddite shells were singing. It was a siege article of faith, a
siege truism, that the Boers could not long stand up to a British
bombardment; and it was an accepted dogma that lyddite was the article
utilised to knock them down. We had read and heard (and magnified) much
of what lyddite could do; our ideas of its decimating powers were
elephantine--and _white_ at that. Sometimes we pitied the Boers; but
were not cognisant, of course, in such weak moments, of the disinfecting
qualities of bottled vinegar; we did not then know that a portable cruet
formed part and parcel of each burgher's kit. It did not need a protest
from General Joubert against the use of lyddite to confirm our
impressions of what it could do. The local Press was alarmingly eloquent
on lyddite; we read not only of what it _could_ do, but consistent
accounts of what it had actually _done_. At a certain battle, for
example, a lyddite shell fell among seventy Boers; and when the smoke
cleared away only eight remained alive, seven of whom were asphyxiated
by the fumes! We were glad that one escaped. Many similar tales were
printed for our delectation, and our credulity--being of the siege
order--was pathetically fine.
In the afternoon we opened fire with our big gun. The Boers retaliated
with unusual fury, and, I am sorry to add, with unusual effect, for in
the duet, which lasted several hours, a missile killed Sergeant-Major
Moss and wounded six men. The death of Mr. Moss caused very general
regret; like many who had gone before him, he was a well-known townsman;
like others, too, he left a wife to mourn him. The body of a white lad
who had disappeared some weeks before was discovered on Saturday; and
these two additions brought up our total of deaths to forty-four. It may
be well to explain that the list included three or four natives. The
natives are human beings; but some people cannot see it.
So closed the fifty-sixth day of the siege. Two months had rolled by, at
traction engine speed. Some impatience manifested itself; the food was
all wrong. But we looked forward, and were sustained by the ultra-jolly
Christmas that would be ours. The few who had promised themselves an
Antipodean Yuletide in the frost--or slush--of merry England could not
keep their words. The most would have to be made of the coast towns.
What an exodus it would be! To sniff the salt air; to fight our battles
over again; to fondle the missing (gastric) links that would litter the
Christmas table! The "greater number" could not of course go far from
the Diamond City. But Modder River was near. There were the
time-honoured annual excursions to that modest watering-place and now
famous battlefield to excite the imagination, where "shells" could be
gathered of more historic value than the "common" ones by the sea.