_Week ending 27th January, 1900_
The whirligig of the enemy (time, not the Boer, not the "Law") had again
carried us to the beginning of another week. The Sundays were now
exceedingly dull, and on the particular Sabbath with which I am dealing
little worthy of record came within the sphere of my observations. I
shall therefore--in the absence of matter of graver import--take
advantage of its Sunday silence to say a word or two about the _Diamond
Fields' Advertiser_. The views of the besieged in regard to their local
print had undergone a change. They had at one time been proud of their
paper. It had formerly been conducted on well-defined principles; and it
was its departure from these principles to the _status_ of an "Organ"
that preached, but which at the frown of a Draconic Colonel practised
not its articles--it was this that brought down upon its head the wrath
of the local democracy. The authorities had for a while permitted the
paper to publish war-scraps; but whether it was due to a tendency on the
Editor's part to expand these allowances, the privilege was withdrawn
and scraps were proscribed. Even the fiction in the columns of our
journal was subjected to a rigid censorship; and when the Public had
expected it to be voicing their protests against the Russian government
of the day, the paper was virtually in Slavonic hands and controlled by
the _Czar_ himself. Its eight large pages had been reduced to four
small ones, which became better known as the "Official Gazette" of the
district. But though we read in it garrison orders from time to time,
the three-penny novelette of the town would have been a more fitting
designation. It had once quoted from a London contemporary a statement
to the effect that hundreds of lives had been thrown away at
Magersfontein in an attempt to rescue Cecil Rhodes! Our "Organ" was then
independent enough to retort that there was, besides Mr. Rhodes, the
fate of thousands of British subjects to be considered. But now it was
far otherwise; the independence of tone had vanished. Instead of
dignified sarcasm, we were apologetically regaled with parallels of all
the sieges in the world's history--Troy, Plevna, Sebastopol, Paris,
etc.--and calmly assured that our tribulations weighed lightly in the
balance with what was suffered in the brave days of--"wooden"
horseflesh!
Still the journal, though it evoked the displeasure of its quondam
admirers, doubtless acted for the best in a difficult situation; and
there were many who might have overlooked the "parallels" were it not
for the advertisements. For through the advertising columns we were
perpetually being pressed by the merchants of the city to come in and
buy everything that makes life worth living! All the dainties an
aspirant to gout could wish for were, according to our "Official
Gazette," to be had for the asking. At the hotels, "Highland Cream
Whiskey" was for ever arriving; and "O.K." (another thistle!) kept
"licking 'em all" with monotonous invincibility. Iced beer was on tap;
the champagne was sparkling; the wine needed no bush. The cheese was
still alive (on paper). Cakes, hams, jams, biscuits, potted fish, flesh,
and good red herring were, so to speak, all over the shops. This was the
sort of pabulum our morning sheet supplied by way of breakfast for
inward digestion, and there was an irony in the meal which its
uniqueness did not help to make palatable. Absent-minded people still
went shopping for luxuries gone but not forgotten; to provoke a
premature "April fool" from the startled grocer, who was powerless to
make real the chimeras that haunted the jungles of the shoppers'
imaginations. Even practical (new) women would sometimes think of
Bovril, and rush off to buy it all up, only to find that it had been
bought up long ago, and that not for nothing had so much money been
expended in the booming of that bullock in a bottle! Our boarding-house
tariffs were ridiculously low (the paper said) at seven or eight pounds
per month; while the allurements of the boating and the creature
comforts of Modder River, and the balminess of its breezes, were dangled
before our eyes with aggressive cynicism. The shipping agents were most
attentive to detail in regard to the departure of vessels from Cape
ports--just as if the availability of aerial tugs, to convey us to the
coast, went without saying. Such were the irritating features of our
morning paper. Their humour was utterly lost on us; they only served to
sharpen the unhappy appetites of all whose fatal misfortune was ability
to read.
Nasty stories had been told with reference to the reign of terror to be
inaugurated on Monday. But they did not materialise; the rule of Martial
Law--bad to beat--remained unbeatable. The _expected_ rarely happened,
and peace was oftener than not the characteristic of the prophets'
red-letter-day. Such occasions gave us scope and opportunity to discuss
the _Kabal_ that ran her Majesty's writ, and to wonder whether it (the
writ) should ever again be pacemaker to the people's will. The spectacle
of a number of Union Jacks floating on the breeze was the most startling
incident of the day. What did the transformation mean? A wild conjecture
seized us; it was a moment of unalloyed joy when the fond thought of
Kimberley's relief having been accomplished during the night flashed
across our minds. But our jubilation was short-lived, for the Boers
presently fired a salute with intent clearly to tatter rather than
honour the Flag--in defence of which Long Cecil, tattered itself, was
unable to play a part.
The echoes of a heavy cannonade were the feature of Tuesday. This led us
to infer that the much-vaunted "siege train" (which was the talk of the
city) had begun its work of devastation. The inspiration of itself would
not have been the harbinger of consolation--we were long listening to
sound and fury, meaning nothing--but we were quick to associate it with
the unfurling of the Flag, to put the two "straws" together--and sigh!
"The Column," our Gazette asserted, "had made a most successful
_reconnaissance_." But experience had taught us how to estimate a bald,
non-committal statement of that kind. Our faith in the Column had been
shaken; so much so that cynics hummed, with impunity, that the "little
British army goes a long, long way." We dared to doubt the bellipotence
of the Column. The wisdom of self-help was brought home to us at last.
We were fast learning to put not our trust in Columns, and to ponder the
possibility, handicapped though we were, of hewing from within a way to
freedom.
Meanwhile Long Cecil, successfully treated, was again in the arena. A
few "compliments" were jerked at the Kamfers Dam Laager; the Boers were
made to feel that they had a foeman to deal with worthy of their lead.
The success of the gun and the skill of him who made it were on every
lip. The theme occasioned as much enthusiasm as could be expected from
hearts saddened by disconsolation. And the man in the moon, too far
distant to betray the grimness of his smile, looked silently on.
Favourable accounts of the progress of events in Natal conduced to the
serenity of the evening. The night was so still and grand that it seemed
almost a pity to seek refuge in repose; and when ultimately we did
persuade ourselves to retire it was to dream of Long Cecil and his
potentialities--a sanguine dream of self-reliance and ability to burst
our bonds.
But, oh! what a change came over its spirit in the middle of the night;
when startled from our slumbers by the hissing of shells in the streets
we awoke to a sense of what was real. In the blackness of the early
morning it was hard to connect the booming of cannon with reality. The
shells were falling and bursting in rapid succession. It was the
inauguration of a nerve-ordeal; the prelude to a terrible day; the
beginning of a bombardment long-sustained and fierce.
Not for long did the guns blaze in vain. A young girl lay dead, struck
down in the privacy of her bedroom. Shell after shell came whistling
through the air, jeopardising the reason of scared women, in terror for
the safety of their children. Men rushed about everywhere seeking
shelter for their families. A gentleman walking in the Dutoitspan Road
had his hat unroofed, and a young lad was prematurely put out at elbow
by a piece of shell which passed through the sleeve of his coat. Half a
score of guns poured forth a heavy fusillade until eight o'clock, when a
short interval for breakfast was conceded.
Fast and furious fell the instruments of destruction into every street
and alley that throbbed with human life--smashing tables and delfware,
ripping up floors, and spreading alarm abroad in the land. The Public
Library was the recipient of a missile that played havoc with a hoary
tome. Public buildings and churches were peppered indiscriminately.
Saint Cyprian's--ventilated before in the same accidental fashion--was
holed again. All Saints' fared little better. The Catholic Cathedral was
slightly damaged. Saint Augustine's was hit; and, judging by its
battered walls, the Dutch Reformed Church went nearer to demolition than
any other. No structure with any pretensions to size escaped. The Town
Hall was subjected to a fierce assault; for into the Market Square, to
the right and left of the hall, in front and in rear, the shells fell in
abundance. But the solid walls of the building were not tested, which
was strange in view of its exposed position and the large area it
covered. Inside, the busy officials were hard at work, pandering to the
needs of the hungry throng who sought dispensations from starvation,
and who dared not venture out again lest they should die hungry withal.
The Town Hall towered impregnable--impervious to the myriad
battering-rams that yearned to lay it low. As if it had occurred to them
that the chances rather favoured finding the Mayor at home, the Boer
gunners subsequently launched through the roof of his store in Jones'
Street a shower of shrapnel which riddled the occupants of a compartment
in the upper storey. The Mayor, fortunately, was not one of these; when
the smoke cleared away it was found that the injured consisted of some
handsome wax figures. At Beaconsfield a youth was struck, and another
projectile went so near to putting a poor old woman, who lay upon a sick
bed, beyond the borders of eternity that her feeble limbs were deprived
of the couch's solace. An Indian subject of the Queen had his bungalow
shattered. Not even the hallowed sanctuary of the "Law's" guardians was
held sacred, for a missile telescoped a policeman's helmet--which,
happily, was off its head at the moment.
All day long existence was made well-nigh unendurable. None knew the
moment when an account of one's individual stewardship might be
demanded. It is in trials of this kind that mankind is most vividly
impressed with the reality of being in life and death simultaneously.
That these trials surpassed any that had hitherto ruffled the noiseless
tenor of our way was a truism. But coming at a moment when our nerves
were sufficiently unstrung by the dearth of tonics, they were doubly
enervating. Stomachal grievances were forgotten, and few ventured to
desert the imaginary security of their homes to face the risks the
redress of grievances would entail. Thus did the hours creep on until
darkness with its interregnum of peace had fallen on the city.
But the interregnum was of brief duration, for, to our unspeakable
horror, the bombardment was resumed at nine o'clock. If in the clear
light of day the shells were trying, what were they in the night! A
ghost story well told in the daytime perturbs a superstitious mind; but
to feel queer at its recital in the night one need not necessarily be
superstitious at all. This new departure intensified the strain and went
far to make faint many a heart that had until then remained stout. The
guns were fired with longer intervals between the shots; the shells did
not follow on the top of one another as in the day; but one nocturnal
projectile excited as much terror as did ten when the sun was shining.
Far into the night--for hours after midnight--the war was waged, and
sleep denied the pleasure of steeping our "senses in forgetfulness." To
sleep was nearly impossible, and at the first peep of dawn to recline on
a bed at all was not easy, so fierce and sudden was the energy with
which a dozen guns commenced to bark in chorus.
And with sad results. The men in the redoubts enjoyed comparative
immunity from the dangers of the bombardment; it was mainly the women
and children in the houses who had to bear the brunt of the assaults. A
lamentable instance of the pity of it was only too soon forthcoming. In
the house of a Mr. Webster (who was in camp with his regiment, the
Volunteers) his wife and children were at breakfast, when crash! through
the roof came a shell on top of the tea-pot. The mother sustained
fearful injuries, to which she subsequently succumbed. Her six-year-old
child was also killed; her second son had his leg and arm broken; while
her youngest child--a little girl--was badly bruised. The stricken
family were removed to hospital amid a shower of shells, which continued
with unabashed fury to seek whom they slaughter. Nearly all our public
buildings were hit, and the places of worship were again a mark for the
vandal. Houses everywhere were damaged, and extraordinary indeed were
the escapes of their distracted occupiers. No less gracious was the
kindly fortune that shielded those whom duty, caprice, or foolhardiness
brought into the streets. One family stuffed away in the ostensible
security of a coal-hole vegetated there all day. They were grateful for
their modern ark, but outraged nature disapproved and caused a shell to
pierce it. Nobody was hurt, remarkable to relate, and the frightened
household ascended with alacrity to take their chances in a purer
atmosphere. In every part of the town the shells kept falling.
Beaconsfield appeared to be the most favoured hunting ground, for its
_Sanatorium_ was not only a colossal structure but the home of the
Colossus himself. Hundreds of shells dropped in its vicinity, while the
millionaire went round the city in a cart, to all outward seeming as
little concerned as the most penurious of men. Some weeks before a
grazier who had fallen into the hands of the Boers had been assured that
it was Rhodes they wanted--not Kimberley. Such a revelation in the case
of a personality less notable or less esteemed might have made things
awkward for him.
Forty-five minutes were allowed for lunch--an interval which the Boers
considered long enough for them--and no doubt for us, too, since they
might fairly assume that we did not get much to eat. But on our side
there was the trouble and delay involved in the getting of it. To jostle
about in a crowd for an indefinite period of time for sake of a scrap of
flesh meat--and such meat! such flesh!--required rare ravenousness of
appetite; and the bursting of a shell in the midst of a surging mass of
humanity was so certain to be attended by fatal results that it was only
the very healthy who bothered battling for so little.
The forty-five minutes were of brief duration, and the assault was
promptly renewed when the clock struck two. First came the boom; then
the warning whistle; next the boom of a second gun almost before the
bursting crash of the first shell had proclaimed its contact with _terra
firma_. It was not the numbers of the killed (because they were
marvellously few) that awed the people so much as the possibilities of
the situation. The guns were fired at long range, and ten or fifteen
seconds had to elapse ere anybody could be sure that his turn had not
come. Had a closer range been feasible the bombardment might have been
more destructive, but the suspense would have been less trying. The
shells fell thickly the whole afternoon. Never, hardly ever, was there a
lull as the iron roofs of the houses continued to be fitted for service
as rough observatories which enabled us to see balloons indeed. Several
mourners attending a funeral on its way to the cemetery narrowly escaped
dismemberment, by a missile which dropped behind the hearse. The Fire
Brigade were alert and ready for contingencies; the brigade station at
the Municipal compound was singled out for attack; and it looked as if
the skill of the Boers in picking out and disabling the _Officers_ in
the field extended to the town, for the Chief of the firemen was struck
while standing on his own doorstep. He received a few ugly cuts, as also
did two of his children.
And where all this time, it may be asked, where was Long Cecil? Long
Cecil had been doing its best, but with the odds so long as ten to one
against, its best was a negligible quantity. It sent shell after shell
in one direction, then in another, but the enemy heeded it not at all;
and though it may have irritated the Boer a little and done all that one
gun of its calibre could do, it did not mitigate the perils of the
populace. That it had done its best was undeniable, but it sank in the
public esteem for other reasons. It was reputed to have killed two women
in the Boer camp with its "compliments." I cannot vouch for the truth of
the story, but it was seized upon to intensify the growing aversion to
the whilom bepraised product of Colonial enterprise. The report
converted hostile head-shakes into voluble "I told you so's," and
swelled the feeble chorus that had prophesied ill of Long Cecil from the
beginning.
Why did the Military insist on aggravating the enemy? This was our new
shibboleth. We had, practically speaking, been left unmolested until
Long Cecil sounded its timbrel. Hence the bloody sequel! Now, all this
would have been in better taste had not those of us loudest in the gun's
condemnation been equally boastful anent the fear it was to put into the
hearts of the Boers. They were to be taught that Long Cecil was a thing
to conjure with. In fact, Long Cecil had accentuated what is known in
vulgar parlance as the Jingo spirit. But it had failed to come up to
expectations, and all that was left--the dregs of our chivalry--was
gone; and perhaps the highest form of chivalry extant now-a-days is
consistency. The forty-eight hours' bombardment had been threatened long
ere Long Cecil emerged from the workshop in the panoply war. But it was
enough for the nonce to have even an inanimate scape-goat with which to
relieve our grief--in the absence of something mellow to _drown_ it in.
Firing ceased at six o'clock, and many families, waiving the discomforts
of the trek, had already betaken themselves to the redoubts, away from
the centre of assault. They remained there all night, needlessly, as it
happened. Friday was not looked to with any particular pleasure; but
apart from some deliberate attempts to snap-shot the _Sanatorium_ we had
little to disturb us. The device of fixing the lens on the local library
was next resorted to; a shell dropped on its doorstep, and Beaconsfield
church had a like experience. One or two guns kept firing irregularly
all day. A shell entered a kitchen and made a complete wreckage of its
culinary appliances. Long Cecil, at this stage, made some excellent
practice, upsetting presumably the kitchen at Kamfers Dam, as several
women were among those who fluttered hither and thither for shelter.
Long Cecil was a surprise to the Boers; they had heard of the gun, and
inclined to regard its existence as a myth. They had laughed at the
visionary who had tried to piece it together; and there were not a few
among ourselves who had shared their incredulity.
The proceedings of the previous two days had banished any timidity that
had existed hitherto in the ranks of the town's defenders. They were
eager for a fight. The sweetness of revenge was appreciated in some
measure, and those who might in other circumstances have shirked
personal danger, or collapsed in its presence, had their nerves steeled
for a fair and square encounter. Our defences were never tested; we were
beginning to wish they were. A determined and persevering effort on the
Boers' part might have made them masters of Kimberley. The victory,
however, would have been of the _Phyrric_ order.
Saturday came. The common trials of the great bombardment had lulled the
food warfare, and the thoughts of all were directed to the provision of
adequate protection for life and limb. The erection of forts and
shelters was going on everywhere. The work had been inaugurated when the
bombardment was at its height, and the muscular energy it brought into
play was magnificent. The "boys" (natives) were kept at it like
_Trojans_, under the personal supervision of their respective white
chiefs; and the chiefs themselves, unaccustomed though they were to an
implement less mighty than the pen, perspired beadily and willingly with
the pick and shovel. Even the ladies, regardless of blisters and the
snowy whiteness of their hands, revelled in the role of navvy. Hallowed
little garden patches were ruthlessly excavated; converted into
"dug-outs"--disagreeably suggestive of the grave--and these were covered
over and hedged in with sacks of earth. The apartments thus improvised
were excellent in their way, but somewhat damp and dismal. They were not
strictly well ventilated, but the atmosphere without was so redolent of
smoke and powder that sanitation had lost in importance. Moreover, one
could always stick one's head out of the burrow to inhale the outer air
if it were considered fresher than what saluted the nostrils within. Of
course these shelters did not offer so much security from danger as
their occupiers fancied (I have already instanced how the recesses of a
coal-hole had not been proof against invasion); but they were splinter
proof. If husbands and fathers _did_ magnify the protection they
afforded, their motives were kind.
In the meantime we were not left entirely unmolested. The Beaconsfield
_Sanatorium_ continued to be the chief object of Boer solicitude.
Smokeless powder was being employed, and the boom of the particular guns
in action was not audible, or, if audible, so faintly as to be mistaken
for the Column's artillery. We had a man placed on the Conning Tower
whose duty it was to blow a warning whistle at sight of the flame of the
enemy's fuse. But the whistle--not always heard--was only too apt to be
connected with a policeman in distress.
The forty-eight hours' ordeal was not repeated, and interest in eating
matters was soon revived. The comparative calm of Saturday incited us to
have recourse to all sorts of tricks to unearth what was eatable. The
Soup Kitchen was a huge success, and had they not been already well
endowed with this world's goods the distinguished waiters in charge of
the department might have waxed rich. Thousands of pints were served
out daily; indeed there was never a supply sufficient to feed the
multitudes that swarmed round the cauldrons containing this delicious
_elixir_ of life. One of the most remarkable sights of the Siege was,
not the gravity of doctors, lawyers, directors, etc., presenting tickets
for soup--_that_ was piquant enough--but the number of young ladies,
votaries of fashion, who emerged from the _melee_ bedraggled and flushed
with their pails of _nectar_, to all appearances not only forgetful of
the _convenances_, but beaming with smiles of triumph. It may have been
because their charms were enhanced, artful wenches! Enhanced, in any
case, their charms were.
The Kitchen was booming, but the generality of people had in their
enthusiasm so far failed to observe that the quality of the soup had
sadly deteriorated. It had been degenerating day by day. Condiments were
no longer available; mealie meal was withheld, and the soup had thus
become thinner and less seasoned. But the trade had been established,
and business continued brisk. There was no competition (unfortunately),
and our newspaper kept assuring us with unnecessary gush that horseflesh
was excluded from the Kitchen, and that accidents were impossible. The
meat used was strictly orthodox. The Press dilated speciously on the
economy practised under the system and on its general advantageousness.
Universal confidence was reposed in the Soup Directorate.
But, alas and alack! one fatal day an evil-minded fellow got a lump of
something solid in his jug, and instead of holding his peace he held a
_post-mortem_ examination and essayed to prove by some Darwinian process
of reasoning that the opaque thing was more apish than orthodox! Prior
to the date of this inquest, however, people had grown so habituated to
the soup that they could not give it up if they would. They went on
dutifully consuming it--just as everybody still does his beer, the
recent poisoning revelations notwithstanding. They ate all they could
get of it; it was in truth an indispensable necessity. The Kitchen was a
blessing--in disguise, the wits said--and the most aesthetic, though not
without misgivings, in the end gave the broth the benefit of the doubt.
Only a small band of martyrs elected to bleed at the shrine of
principle; they declined to stultify their stomachs with "horse soup."
This was a reckless assumption, indicative of a shocking disbelief in
human nature; an inexpedient conclusion. They were all honourable men on
the Kitchen Committee. What! all? the reader may exclaim. Well, all but
one, perhaps--who told an interviewer in London that "horseflesh made
excellent soup!" But that was long afterwards; and, moreover, proved
nothing. The gentleman in question no doubt acted discreetly, before
unbosoming himself, in placing six thousand miles of sea between him and
the Kitchen. For that matter greater iniquities than his have been
condoned to give prejudice a fall.
The Italian and American Consuls had protested on behalf of their
respective governments against the recent indiscriminate assault upon
non-combatants. We were pleased to hope that the protests were not
unavailing. They were in conformity with the spirit, if not with the
letter, of International Law; and it was stated that the Boers desired
to stand well with any and every nation that might possibly make real
their Utopian dream of European intervention. Of course, they were
doing well alone; it is conceivable that they now felt less the need of
extraneous assistance. Their energy and enterprise betokened
self-reliance; the will with which they used their picks and shovels was
enigmatical to the British mind. They seemed metaphorically to defy all
Europe and America. And the reply received by the Consuls was quite in
accord with a consciousness on the Boer side of "splendid isolation." It
suggested that they (the Boers) would esteem it a privilege to provide
the protesters with an escort to convey them to a place of safety, if
that would satisfy. It did _not_ satisfy, and there the correspondence
ceased.
It was thus the week ended--the enemy active, vigorous, supercilious;
while we in Kimberley felt fretful, hungry, and sick at heart; but too
thoroughly inured to hardship to shrink from or even to question the
duty of fighting the battle to the bitter end.