_Week ending 16th December, 1899_
The pleasures of Sunday were on the wane. The outbreak of war had
detracted little from its peace; but its dinners were--oh, so different!
Sunday had formerly been in the main an occasion of abandonment to the
joy of eating. The propriety of such a custom may be open to question;
but we had turned over a new leaf--until the perusal of the old one
would be feasible again. Our bad habits were compulsorily in abeyance:
the "good tables" were gone. The Simple Life is a splendid thing, but
unless _voluntarily_ adopted it sheds all its splendour. Delicacies had
long been falling victims to galloping consumption, and at this date had
totally succumbed to the disease. Worse still, the "necessaries" were
more or less infected, and disposed to go the way of the dainties. Meat
troubles maddened everybody. The beef was _all_ neck. Everybody said so.
Not one in ten, it seems, ever managed to secure a more tender morsel
from the flesh of these remarkable bovine _phenomena_ (for they _were_
oxen, not giraffes!) The meat was indiscriminately chopped up in the
shambles, and the odd one (in ten) who had not his legal complement of
"neck" alloted him was just as likely to be given for his share--to take
or leave--a nose, his due weight of tail, a teat or two, or a slab of
suet, as any more esteemed ration from the rib. It was laid down that
favouritism had no place in Martial Law; but we were not _all_ Medes and
Persians in Kimberley. The rush for meat between six and eight o'clock
in the morning was one of the sights of the siege: It sometimes happened
that people, after a long wait, would throw up the sponge in despair and
go home meatless; the odds were that they had not missed much, but their
grievance was not the less real, nor their "language" the more correct,
on that account. There were persons who never _tried_ to get meat; and
they were probably the wisest--'the world knows nothing of its greatest
men.' In the scramble for precedence a fight occasionally ensued. The
special constable did his best to keep order; but he had only a
truncheon; he had no other weapon, not even a helmet--that awe-inspiring
utensil!--to cow the multitude. Numbers of people deliberately
transgressed the "Law" by turning out at _five_ in the morning to make
sure of their meat; and the Summary Court was kept busy fining these
miscreants ten shillings each, with the usual "oakum" alternative. One
lady (in a letter to the Editor) drew a vivid picture of the rush for
meat. She had travelled a good deal, she told us, and had "roughed it"
on Boxing nights; she had been (unaffectionately) squeezed to
suffocation in London. But nowhere outside the Diamond Fields had she
encountered the rudeness that springs from ten thousand empty stomachs!
Who now shall say that hunger is good sauce?
There were, besides meat troubles, minor grievances increasing every
day. A plate of porridge was a thing of the past; and milk of course was
an _antediluvian_ quantity! All the tinned milk had been commandeered
for the hospital. Nobody objected to the priority of that institution's
claims; but it was complained that the quantity commandeered was
excessive, unnecessarily large. Eggs were one and a penny _each_ (each
egg!), which sum few could afford to pay, and a number, whose economic
souls revolted at it, declined to pay, through sheer respect for
proportion. There was nothing to fall back on but "mealie-pap," an
imitation porridge, made of fine white mealie meal; the very colour of
if tired one; white stirabout, connoisseurs opined, was not a natural
thing. There were scores who would not touch "mealie-pap" with a
forty-foot spoon. But they changed in time; "I am an acquired taste,"
cries Katisha; so is "mealie-pap." We acquired the taste for it, just as
people do for tomatoes (where were they!) or a glass of vinegar and
water. This hew porridge was not new to the natives; they dissipated on
it three times a day, and were satisfied so long as they had sugar to
make it doubly fattening. It was all so unlike the piping times of
peace! Sunday was now a bore, productive chiefly of _ennui_. On Monday
one could at least scour the town in search of something to eat; and
many a coolie shop was invaded by bluffers, dressed in the "little brief
authority" of a Town Guard's hat, who endeavoured to bully the coolie
into unearthing hidden stores. But to no avail; the coolie was not to be
frightened, nor even excited, by hat or pugaree. His stock of good
things had indeed been reduced to lozenges, sugar-sticks, and other
dental troubles.
Nothing startling was expected on Monday; but we were disappointed. The
noise sounded like the roar of thunder; we had heard similar sounds
emanate from Modder River; but these were undoubtedly louder and nearer.
It soon became evident that they could not be thunder-claps; they were
too continuous and unceasing. We listened for six hours to the incessant
booming of British artillery--the finest in the world! What else could
it be! Would there be a Boer left, we asked ourselves, would one survive
to depict the carnage around him. The guns in action must have numbered
forty or fifty. Soon a great rush was made for the debris heaps on the
Reservoir side--whence, through a glass, the shells could be seen
bursting in rapid succession at Spytfontein. Strong though the position
admittedly was, its defenders could never resist a cannonade so awful.
It was the famous, disastrous battle of Magersfontein that was in
progress. But of that we then knew nothing. We knew not that hundreds of
the Highland Brigade lay dead, nor that while Kimberley was brimming
over with enthusiasm at the prospect of immediate freedom, dismay was
rampant everywhere else. There we were, twenty miles from the scene of
slaughter, looking on, not only ignorant of the truth, but entirely
mistaken in our assumption that it was what we wished it to be.
The sight of what appeared to be a balloon (and we soon discovered that
it was nothing else) excited tremendous interest. It ascended and
descended repeatedly during the battle, apparently for the purpose of
locating the enemy and directing the fire of Methuen's guns. We had been
inundated with narratives of the extraordinary strength of the positions
into which Boer ingenuity had converted the kopjes of Magersfontein. No
further attention was paid to these tales, for lyddite was a terrible
thing--that could move kopjes. It was but a matter of hours until the
Column would be with us, unless, indeed, it paused for rest. The next
day, we felt, would end the Siege of Kimberley, and bring again into
vogue good dinners, buttered bread, and--something to drink.
When firing ceased at length, the Beaconsfield Town Guard determined to
make a noise on their own account. The easiest way to do it was to sound
the alarm; and they did sound it, with right good will. They had
observed a large party of the enemy clearing out of Alexandersfontein,
and were possessed of an hallucination that it portended an attack on
Beaconsfield. These wolf-cries, however, were venial faults; they
denoted watchfulness; we were not disposed to take umbrage at small
things; it was a day of victory. No suspicion of the truth flashed
through our minds to upset our comfortable conclusions. Our ignorance
was bliss; the folly of wisdom was to manifest itself all too soon.
The _Advertiser_ had news at last--authentic news and fresh; and forth
from Stockdale Street was launched a three-penny "Special," to tell of
the balloon "we" had seen and of the cannon "we" had heard. That was
all. We put down our tickeys without a murmur. In the fulness of our
hearts we said the paper had to live. The revenue from its advertising
columns was a cypher, since there was so little to advertise about, and
so little need to advertise anything that _was_ about. The "ads." had
fallen off only in the sense that they were no longer paid for. They
were still printed (to fill up space); and very annoying reading they
made. Before, there was _some_ truth in them; now, there was none. How
we sighed for the times of extreme individualism.
In the afternoon a football match was played. The gate-money was handed
over to the Widows' and Orphans' Fund. Our happy speculations on what
happened at Magersfontein served a good purpose here in stimulating the
generosity of the spectators. A team of our visitors (the Lancashire
Regiment) lined up against the pick of the Citizen Soldiers. The game
was well contested, but the superior discipline of the Colonel's lot
told, and they won.
At break of day on Tuesday the Column's guns were at it again. This was
disappointing, inasmuch as it led us to infer that some Boers were yet
alive at Magersfontein. And our ardour was further damped by the De
Beers directors who instead of formally dispersing until the next day,
once more adjourned their meeting--_sine die_. What did it mean? A
Special was shortly forthcoming and was bought up eagerly, while many
eyes were being strained to catch a glimpse of Lord Methuen's legions in
the distance. The Special gave us news of a fight, indeed; but not of
_the_ fight; it was Modder River over again. In fine, we were sold
again, for the Modder River fight was--if not quite ancient history--as
remote from our thoughts as the "famous victory" at Blenheim in ages
past. Despatch riders had been coming and going, we knew all about the
River battle, and after an interval of fifteen days an ambiguous "slip"
was slipped upon a too confiding _clientele_! It was sharp practice; and
its employment at a moment when suspense had thrown us off our guard
was superb. We bristled with indignation, but the _coup_ (as such) was
splendid. We, the victims, were not entirely blameless; we had had ample
experience of the risk attached to speculation in Specials. It was ever
thus. An ancient number of the _Cape Times_ would drop from the clouds,
and for weeks the news it contained would be administered in homeopathic
doses to the public at three pence per dose. It was good business.
"Slip" was the appropriate appellation bestowed upon the Special.
Sometimes two or three "Slips" would be issued on the same day. One
would come out early, after which a huge blackboard, intimating in
chalked capitals that "important news" was to appear in a later edition,
would be carried round the town by two black boys. And though the news
was never important, the enterprise was a success. To the smart sets the
limited reading matter the "half sheet of notepaper" contained was a
positive recommendation; and at afternoon (Natal) teas there was many a
"Slip" between the cup and the lip.
Time passed; and still the Column came not. We felt disgusted rather
than distressed; we were yet confident of the Column's invincibility.
Various tit-bits of secondary interest were served out to humour us, and
a startling rumour was put in circulation--a rumour round which clung no
element of justification to soften the wrath it aroused.
A meeting composed of the Military authorities and a few leading
civilians had been held some days before, and the subject of its
deliberations had at length come to light. It was proposed and debated
at this meeting that--when railway communication had been restored--all
women, children, and non-combatants should be sent away to the coast!
This would mean some twenty-seven thousand whites, together with
natives, coolies, etc.--about forty thousand people. The idea behind all
this was to make Kimberley a garrison town, to stock it well with
provisions, and afterwards to allow the Boers--if they were so
disposed--to re-mutilate the line to their hearts' content. The
"Military Situation" would not admit of the employment of a host of men
to guard it.
The scheme was immediately howled down. The ladies, it need hardly be
said, were well in the van of opposition. They foregathered in the
streets, and with arms fixed resolutely akimbo denounced the
contemplated outrage as a monstrous tyranny--enough to make them "turn
Boer," indeed, as one lady luridly put it. Whither would they go? Would
the "Military Situation" answer whither? There were women of mature
years who, given a choice between hanging and a whirl day and night
through the Karoo, would almost favour the suspension of the
constitution! But apart from physical inconvenience, the idea of
forsaking their homes and husbands was too ridiculous. The notion of
living in tents on potted beef and adamantine biscuits was shuddered at.
The whole project was voted a wild-cat scheme (and Mr. Rhodes agreed).
After the spartan bravery they had displayed for two months, the ladies
regarded this new and wanton strain on their loyalty as inhuman. Their
protest was loud and dignified; and when the women are concerned in a
public protest the men are--oh, so mere! And the men in khaki were no
exception to the rule; they were cowed, with all their munitions of
war. They had decided on no definite course of action; or said they had
not--to save their face. Their plans were essentially tentative; and,
besides, the railway train--an important factor--was not just yet able
to carry far a scheme of compulsory migration.
Thursday came; but not so Methuen. It was allowed that the Noble Lord
could hardly be expected to gauge accurately the violence of our hurry;
nor to conceive, however noble his imagination, that our hens laid eggs
at eighteen pence apiece. We got another glimpse of the balloon to cheer
us, and were also edified in the course of the day with news of the
_Belmont_ battle. The Belmont battle was a stale story when the Modder
River fight was fresh, and the latter was now in all conscience stale
enough. Of Magersfontein, not a word. This reticence in regard to
Magersfontein intensified our curiosity; it was the parent of a
pessimism that was to thrive. Common sense and the dictates of reason
_would_ clamour for recognition. Between the struggle at Modder River
and the publication of its result there had been no interval to speak
of. The fight of Belmont had occasioned no departure from the exercise
of the "new diplomacy." We had heard of the collision and of the victory
at Graspan almost simultaneously. But we were not yet acquainted with
the sequel to the clash at Magersfontein; it was a solemn secret. There
was news that Cronje had decamped from Mafeking and was at Modder River
with an augmented force; but this did not for the moment interest us. In
his (Cronje's) alleged quarrels with the Free Staters we had no
immediate concern. What they told us of his inglorious retreat from the
north was not to the point; it was enough that he had been wafted south
by an ill wind that might blow us no good luck. All these tit-bits made
news in the abstract, but were foreign to the mystery surrounding what
happened at Magersfontein. Something was wrong; but the policy of
prolonging the suspense was not right. Every nook and cranny in the
hospital were being held in readiness for the sick and wounded
(presumably accompanying the Column), and a vague fear was entertained
that all the nooks and crannies might be needed. Who could tell?
More news in the afternoon--the wrong sort again. A faded (pink) copy of
the _Cape Argus_ was mysteriously smuggled through. Not a line of it
alluded to Magersfontein. A screw was loose somewhere; our distrust of
the Military increased. Could it be, was it conceivable that Methuen had
been worsted at Magersfontein? That indeed was a reasonable conclusion
to draw from the reticence of our Rulers. But it was not _strictly_
logical, and besides--we liked it not. We preferred to attribute the
silence to a way they have in the army; to the Colonel, who did not take
tea with our Editor (it was said)--for Special reasons. We sympathised
with the boycott; but the conduct of the "sojers" tended to cause a
reaction in the Editor's favour. Our paper would tell the truth and
shame the devil if the Censor, who was also a "sojer," did not
unblushingly forbid it. We were oddly ingenious at times when the
monotony clamoured for variation.
But to return to the _Argus_. It was affecting in its puffery of the
beefsteak pudding that ninepence purchased in Cape Town; and poignantly
prolix in its conception of how Horatius held the bridge of Modder River
some five-and-twenty years ago (_sic_). The Boers, we gathered, had been
knocked about at Ladysmith, and Mr. Morley had sympathised with them in
London. All this would have been entertaining, even exciting, _before_
Magersfontein; but after? it annoyed us.
On Saturday a sort of "boiling oil" turn was given by the rumour-monger.
We heard wild stories concerning the annihilation of the British army.
The air was red with blood. No importance was attached to these ghastly
theories--they were nothing more--but their effects were depressing;
they threw an atmosphere of gloom over the city, which was reflected in
a thousand faces. What was once a "frigid falsehood" had been modified
to mean a "gross exaggeration." This connoted a slight departure from
sentiment, a tendency to reason, to think more dispassionately. Anxious
as we were to get again in touch with the world and what it could offer
to eat, we could no longer evade the sorrowful conclusion that siege
figures, like every other, make four of two and two.
In the distance the cannon kept booming intermittently; nothing but
boom. Our besiegers' guns were being used to check the advance of
Methuen. There remained only one piece of ordnance, nicknamed "Old
Susannah," to keep Kimberley in order. The Premier Mine was the
recipient of some lumps of love from this amorous gipsy; but nobody was
smitten by her charms.
The death of the Mayor of Beaconsfield was announced in the afternoon.
In him the Town Guard lost a capable captain, and Kimberley a worthy
citizen. Saturday was Dingaan's day--a sad reminder of the rejoicings
associated with the anniversary, and which had to be skipped for once.
Despite the prevailing glumness, however, the populace turned out to
patronise a gymkhana entertainment at the Light Horse camp. The bands of
the two regiments contributed musical selections; admission was free
(which accounted for a packed "house"); but when the hat was artfully
passed round for our charity we winced, and were only partially
satisfied that it was at our discretion surreptitiously to put in it
what we would from a button to a shilling.
Amid such _gala_ surroundings the week ended. We were still in the dark,
the doings of the Column were yet enveloped in mystery. The thunder of
its artillery had lost its charm, and indeed a great deal of its noise.
Dame Rumour, the lying jade, was saying nasty things, but
downhearted--what! not much! The last flash on Saturday night was from a
_manufactured_ gem. The Boer Army was in Cape Town, if you please!--with
their guns on Table Mountain--and all the Britons in the sea--swimming
home to dear old England! Well, no matter; Kimberley would fight on,
constitute a "new Capital," perhaps, or fall, if fate ordained it, with
its face to the foe.