_Week ending 23d December, 1899_
Everything was going from bad to worse, and though the tropical weather
was not conducive to heartiness of appetite the dishes on our tables
were distressing. To attempt to compute the countless creature comforts
missing at this stage of our sorrows would be ridiculous; nor do I
propose inflicting on the reader a reiteration of what remained to keep
body and soul together. Discussion on the Column and its catering
potentialities had come to be proscribed, and lamentations over the
sufferings of the inner man were as bitter as if all hope of alleviation
had vanished for ever and hunger was to be our portion for all time.
Indeed, when matters became worse a better spirit of resignation was
manifested. To the seasoned campaigner roughing it on the Karoo our
fare, plenty of it, might seem good, luxurious even; but to us, with
very little of it, surrounded by the civilising influences of knives and
forks, serviettes, plates, teapots, no end of pepper and _insufficient_
salt--it wore a different aspect and seemed anything but luxurious. Yet
that was our position day after day, Sunday after Sunday, and the irony
growing grimmer all along with unfailing regularity. At the camps the
_menu_ was practically the same, but the graces of civilisation were
happily less in evidence there. There were fortunate possessors of
aviaries, and people who owned hens that produced no protoplasmic
fruit, who could have a bird for dinner occasionally. A brisk business
in fowls was done in the streets. The birds fetched enormous prices.
Very young ones of sparrow proportions, not long out of the shell, were
slaughtered wholesale, to pander to the palate of--perchance a member of
the Society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. And here a tribute
is due to him or her who, rising above the selfishness--the siege
selfishness--of the majority, invited a friend now and then to share
their good fortune. There were such noble souls; their numbers were
few--not ten per cent, of those in a position to be hospitable--but all
the more precious for their rarity. It was a sight to fill one with envy
to see the cherished chickens being carried through the streets as
carefully as if they were worth their weight in gold--as indeed they
nearly were. Ever and anon the bearer of a bird would be saluted by a
passer-by who would desire to know its price. On hearing it he would
enjoy a good laugh, or relieve his feelings with a good oath in
deprecation of avarice so naked. Another would pause and say nothing,
but with a baleful gleam in his eye would set himself to measure the
proportions--not of the chicken, but of him who carried it, while he
mentally calculated his chances of success in a tussle, and shaped in
his mind a desperate resolve to enjoy one good meal and then die, or
perish, anyhow, in the attempt. All the provision shops were still open,
but there was nothing for sale in half them. Tinned meats had given out;
this was considered the last straw, even by the fastidiously clean, and
the toxicologist who liked his salmon fresh. Five, ten, twenty
shillings, any sum would be given for a tin of anything, and such bribes
(despite Martial Law) were frequently placed in the hollow of a
merchant's hand, the while he was beseeched in a whisper to slip a
friend a can of something carnal. But the grocer was adamant every time;
he could not do it; and a display of principle is easy when it springs
as much from necessity as from good emotions. The Military Authorities
had been commandeering goods of all sorts--"bully beef" among the
rest--and storing them away in the catacombs of Kimberley. Now, the
public were anxious to know the meaning of the corner in "bully beef";
but nobody could explain it. A vast quantity of cigarettes had been
commandeered, too; but nobody could explain that either. Most of the
"paper," it may be said, was not smoked; it was handed back to the
tobacconists when the siege was raised, and possibly some canned things
were surrendered as well. The hospital was certainly pretty full; care
was taken that the invalids were not neglected, and many things were
being preserved for their exclusive use. This was only as it should be.
But "bully beef" was not reckoned just the ideal food for invalids; and
wicked people accordingly found solace in suggesting that the military
looked suspiciously well-fed. It got abroad, too, that there were tons
of provisions (consigned to Mafeking) lying at the railway station, and
the populace wanted to know why _they_ were not commandeered, and sold
at a profit that would go far towards covering the _then_ estimated cost
of the war. The possibility of forwarding them to their destination was
out of the question; how were they to be sent out of Kimberley? Or how
_into_ Mafeking? The military had the power to let us eat these things,
but they would not exercise it. They preferred to allow the
butter--think of it!--to melt and ooze through the chinks of the boxes;
the cheese--great gorgonzola!--to wax almost too high; and the
potatoes--O Raleigh!--to rot ere they decided to annex them. When these
facts were made known the indignation aroused was very general. Our
prejudice against the khaki grew stronger than ever. Who was Gorle? The
Army Service Corps had come into prominence, and much of its bad
management was rightly or wrongly attributed to a Major Gorle. But the
Military did not put their feet in it firmly until they reduced the
cattle-looting wage from a pound to half a sovereign. The natives
engaged in this hazardous occupation had been hitherto in receipt of
twenty shillings for every animal captured; and they not unnaturally
resented the curtailment of their commission. They declined to
jeopardise their lives on half pay, and went out on strike. From that
day onward the cow-catching industry languished; and though some of us
held that the Colonel personally was in matters monetary above
suspicion, like Cæsar's wife, we did not forget that he was also an
Absolute Monarch, like Cæesar himself.
It was reported in the afternoon that news of Magersfontein had been
gleaned at last, but that owing to the presence of spies in our midst
efforts were being made to keep it secret. We gathered, however, that
the Highland Brigade had been sufferers in a sanguinary struggle. That
was all--except the usual accompaniment--the essential corollary to
every recorded battle--that the Boer losses had been numerically
frightful. Definite official reports were not forthcoming; nor
confirmation of rumour. But we were satisfied that Methuen had been
checked; we were constrained to confess, we consented to believe that he
had at least been checked.
Next day we were more fully convinced; the terrible truth was revealed
at last. All our sympathies went out to the brave men who had tried to
fell the barrier that blocked the way to Kimberley. Their failure was a
blow to our hopes; but personal considerations were for the moment
taboo. And, curiously enough, although the world was ringing with
criticism of Methuen we in Kimberley blamed nobody. Even the "Military
Critic" was dumb. Lord Methuen rose in our estimation to the level of a
hero, who had driven the enemy before him from Orange River, to fail
only in the last lap. Even now, perhaps, the people of Kimberley,
looking back at the events of the past, would be reluctant to join in
the criticism his name evokes. The facts, of course, speak for
themselves; and it did seem strange to see soldiers like Buller and
Warren being arraigned, and Gatacre getting recalled, while others
passed through the fire officially unscathed. Speaking of Gatacre,
we--having just been made acquainted with the Stormberg affair--were
saying nasty things of him. Monday was altogether a miserable day, with
the outlook far less bright than our fancy had painted it.
On Tuesday the muffled booming of the British guns at Modder River was
heard again. It was hard to credit the evidence of our senses, that
Methuen had retreated. Still, we were not to be entirely disheartened
while there remained the possibility of a drive to the sea for
Christmas. At a meeting of the Town Council a new Mayor (Mr. Oliver) was
chosen for the year 1900. General Clery, we were informed, was getting
towards Ladysmith; the news was vague, but we were glad to hear it. Any
news not bad was good. The old proverb is wrong; for who would dare
after all the suspense we had endured to put "no news" in the "good"
category.
The shopkeepers--wise men--had found comfort in hard work, and were
making elaborate preparations for Christmas. The jewellers cut a fair
show, and the drapers, too, But the grocer took, or rather would have
taken, the cake if the "Law" allowed it to be baked. His enterprise knew
no limits; his display of holly (and indeed of everything else) was
unprecedented. The collection of odds and ends exhibited was picturesque
to a degree (no more can be said for it). There were no jellies, no
tempting hams, no imported puddings nor nude poultry, none of the solid,
savoury things associated with the festive season. There were none of
these; but holly, mistletoe, and Chinese lanterns made a fine
phantasmagoria. There were neat and compact packets of starch,
interspersed with tins of mustard, to tickle the palate of the hungry
passer-by; while scented soaps, in lovely little wrappers, intermingled
in malodorous profusion. Bottles of sauces never heard of by the present
generation, and which yet bore traces of the solidified cobweb of half a
century, were much in evidence. So, too, was Berwick's baking powder, as
a sort of satire on the absence of such essential constituents as eggs,
milk, flour, whiskey, raisins, etc. (we had plenty of suet). Reckitt's
blue was there in abundance--a finger-post, as it were, to the shade of
the entire exposition. Condy's Fluid was not the least appetible thing
on show. Bottled parsley and kindred mummied souvenirs of pre-historic
horticulture, half buried in heaps of shrapnel bullets (ticketed sweet
peas!) and other ammunition of a like digestive kind, were also to the
fore to sustain the fame of Christmas. But starch was the all-pervading
feature of every shop-front. In one window a solid blank wall of starch
was erected, with a row of sweet-bottles on top. One would think that
our linen at least should have been irreproachable; but it was not;
because the Town Council happened to be experimenting on the
practicability of establishing Municipal Wash Houses, with a view to
economising water--_not_, as the actual results suggested, to the saving
of _starch_.
Lieutenant-Colonel Peakman had succeeded the lamented Scott-Turner, and
on Wednesday long before daybreak he led a picked force towards
Webster's Farm, to steal a march on the napping enemy. The napping
enemy, however, was alive to the propriety of utilising but one eye in
the lap of "Nature's soft nurse." He could not see much with the open
optic, but he could hear with the one ear he had taken the precaution of
keeping open also. Of the good sense of this precaution Mr. Peakman was
somewhat abruptly apprised by the crack and blaze of a hundred Mausers.
Nothing daunted he returned the salute right gallantly, and with a
doggedness that obliged the Boers to retreat, firing as they went. The
enemy's gun at Oliphantsfontein soon chimed in with some well-directed
shells, one of which failed to burst and was secured intact as a
valuable trophy. Nobody was hurt, and the force got back to town without
further molestation.
A concert was given in the evening at the Reservoir camp, the takings
(£20) going to the Widows' and Orphans' Committee. There was no lack of
entertainment at all the camps, although the men did not feel so
cheerful as their comic singing was intended to denote. Numerous
presents continued to find their way to the redoubts. Cigars and
tobacco, fruits from the De Beers horticultural department, and an odd
pint of wine from the casks of the Colussus were periodically received
to brighten the lives of the citizen soldiers. An odd bottle, or rather
an odd dozen, of "Cape Smoke" found entry at times. Impure though the
commodity was--there is no smoke without fire--a little of it on a raw
morning was not amiss. Some erred, unfortunately, in not confining
themselves to a _little_ of the lava. Eruptions often ensued. One
gentleman, on a certain occasion, was so inflamed with martial ardour
after a too copious indulgence in the "brandy" that it resulted in his
discharge from the Town Guard--for over-doing his duty. He was one night
on sentry duty and challenged an officer, one officer, whom he failed to
identify, or compute--"in the dark," as he explained. Having courteously
yelled out to the intruder to halt, and on being quietly assured that "a
friend" went there, the alert sentry presented arms and called in
solemn, stentorian accents upon his friend to "advance within six inches
of the muzzle of this rifle and give the countersign!" It was due to a
lucky accident that the officer knew the countersign, and was not
buried next day. Another genial tippler disported himself during
business hours in less serious fashion. He was not so fastidiously exact
about killing his man by inches. On the contrary, when his "friend" had
proclaimed himself a friend indeed, he was superciliously informed: "You
have got to say 'Tiger' before you come in here!" "Tiger" was the
countersign; and it was only the humour of the incident that enabled the
worthy sentry to keep the Marshal's baton in his knapsack.
Under the direction of Major Gorle, the Army Service Corps was extremely
energetic in the general regulation of foodstuffs. Colonel Kekewich
seemed bent on starving us. Now, if there remained no less drastic
alternative to surrender he could have starved us by consent. To the
_principle_ of the ordinance there was no open opposition. But it was
ridiculous to start starving us so soon, and we were far from imagining
that it should ever be necessary to start at all. The _Commissariat_ was
being largely extended, and the Colonel had drafted another
proclamation. He had already taken care that the flour should be made to
stretch for years--the colour of the bread never permitted us to forget
that--and he now commanded that all the tea and coffee in town must be
submitted for analysis. Every ounce of chicory in the city, he
proclaimed, must be handed over to the _Commissariat_ within twenty-four
hours; or, by Jingo!--Martial Law! The ladies clung to their caddies and
protested; but in vain. The gallant Colonel insisted--reluctantly; he
had a heart; but he had also, so to say, a partner (Mr. Gorle)--as
inexorable as the "Mr. Jorkins" whom Dickens has immortalised. This
arbitrary conduct on the part of Kekewich and Gorle did not stop at tea
and coffee; it was only a beginning, a preliminary step in the military
dispensation. How far the transactions of the firm would extend we were
not yet to know; but the details of the massacre at Magersfontein, which
kept pouring in, indirectly suggested that the business might extend
very far indeed. The losses sustained at Magersfontein were more
appalling than we were at first led to believe. They were a bitter
sequel to the memorable cannonade of ten days before. How inappropriate
had been our jubilation! The citizens forgot their personal woes in
sorrow for the brave men who after a series of brilliant successes had
perished in the final effort. Magersfontein hit us hard, though we knew
nothing of the "blazing indiscretions" connected with that fatal assault
on positions of peculiar strength and impregnability. Its consequences
meant another delay, perhaps a long one. Meanwhile our resolution grew
stronger to hold Kimberley though the heavens should fall. Eating, after
all, was a habit--a bad habit with some of us--which we could not give
up in a day. But the story of Magersfontein diverted our thoughts from
provisions. Let the Boers but come within range of our rifles, and then,
ah, then there would be squalls! But would they do so; would they screw
their courage to the sticking point? It was feared not, more
particularly in view of the supposed existence of dynamite mines around
Kimberley. The train was laid; the fuse was there to ignite the powder
that would blow up a hostile army. The mere suggestion of such a
_contretemps_ was enough to make the Boers think twice before drawing
near enough to be shot at. Belief in the existence of these mines was
widespread. How far it was warranted, it is hard to say. The enemy had
heard something of them, and burning though was his desire to blow up
the diamonds he did not quite court a flight towards heaven in their
company. He had seen what dynamite applied to culverts and bridges could
do, and doubtless fully measured the indignity of so disentegrating, not
to say violent, a manner of quitting this world for a good one.
On Friday a party of the Lancashire Regiment went out to cut off a Boer
water supply at Curtis Farm. A body of the Light Horse with guns
accompanied them--as a hint to the enemy that intervention would be
resented. The Boer ignored the hint and lost no time in lodging his
protest against our infringement of "the game's" rules. The "Lanks.,"
however, were not to be deterred; they stuck stoically to their work
until their object was accomplished. Our guns had meanwhile kept hurling
defiance at the enemy; but there were no casualties on either side.
These aquatic operations seriously inconvenienced the Boers; they
compelled them to make wide _detours_, to travel a long distance for
water around the great ring which encircled Kimberley; the short cuts
were dangerous. A sad thing happened when night came. A corporal in
charge of a piquet went out to inspect his men. Unfortunately the sentry
on duty was unaware of the fact, and on the corporal's return he was
mistaken in the darkness for a marauding Boer--with the pitiable result
that the sentry shot him dead.
In the morning we had news again. It was simply the _truth_ concerning
Colenso; fiction could not improve a deal on the loss of ten or twelve
British guns. We were unaccustomed to so much candour in the matter of
reverses, and this brutal revelation of the truth overwhelmed and
astonished us--though we could scarcely pretend that we had not _asked_
for it. A "Slip" unfolded the tale in all its naked veracity. It was
_news_, fair and square value for the "thruppence," as siege value goes;
but we were in no mood to appreciate the novelty of that; the
circumstances were too distressing. Buller was roundly abused, and his
staff also were included in a comprehensive denunciation; so that
whoever was at fault in the Colenso collapse did not escape the wrath of
Kimberley. As one of the Pitts (was it one of the Pitts?) has aptly
said: "there are none of us infallible, not even the youngest of us."
Not even Lord Methuen, as we had sadly discovered. The brightness of our
Christmas prospects was beginning to fade.
It faded a great deal when typhoid fever broke out in the Light Horse
camp. The outbreak was attributed to the uncertain water we had to use,
since the purer supply had been cut off. The new water was none too
good. We had been repeatedly warned to boil it before drinking it, and
were now adjured to do so. A large number heeded the warning, but the
perverse majority heeded it not; they did not find it convenient to
spare fuel to boil what was not essential to the creation of the "cup
that cheers" when there is milk in it. Scurvy was playing havoc with the
native population. These trials and tribulations did not enhance our
festive dispositions on the eve of Christmas. A programme of sports
attracted all the Tapleys; but there was little until evening, when the
scramble for the good cheer that was _not_ in the shops had begun, to
enable one to remember that Yule was nigh.
The scene was one that will be long remembered in the Diamond City. It
was only the very large stores that had anything to sell. Before the war
broke out Abrahams and Co. had purchased an immense stock of foodstuffs;
but a great hole had been made in it, and it was to be much greater
_after_ Christmas. It was at Abrahams', therefore, that the multitude
swarmed. The traffic in sweet peas, jams, and raisins was heavy. Boer
meal with imported raisins in it was the richest possible pudding! The
sale of sweets was unprecedented--so unprecedented that toothache was an
epidemic until French relieved it. How the shop assistant clung to his
reason is a mystery which has yet to be solved. Behind the counter he
was hampered by the local _elite_: Judges, Doctors, Directors, etc., who
would never say die (from hunger) while they lived. Outside the counter
the madding throng felt likewise. But the great ones were able to help
themselves; they inspected the shelves, perused the labels of every
antiquated sauce and pickle bottle in stock since the "early days," and
placed the best of these relics of a pre-consolidated era in heaps aside
for Monday's dinner. There were special constables on duty within and
without the store, which was as full as an egg; and when after a while
it was apparent that this congestion retarded business, the hundred
Christians nearest the door were hustled into the street with all the
"good will" in the world. But the relief came too late; the clock
struck nine ere half the multitude were served--or even formally
satisfied that blood is not in turnips. Of the merry season we were wont
to enjoy, the busy throng was the sole reminiscence. Its good things
were absent. But that bitter truth did not make less keen our hunt the
slipper pursuit of Christmas fare.