CHAPTER I

LONDON TO LADYSMITH VIA PRETORIA

BY

WINSTON SPENCER CHURCHILL

AUTHOR OF

'THE STORY OF THE MALAKAND FIELD FORCE, 1897',

'THE RIVER WAR: AN HISTORICAL ACCOUNT OF THE

RECONQUEST OF THE SOUDAN',

'SAVROLA: A ROMANCE'

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON

NEW YORK AND BOMBAY

1900

DEDICATION

THIS COLLECTION OF LETTERS IS INSCRIBED TO

THE STAFF OF THE

NATAL GOVERNMENT RAILWAY

WHOSE CAREFUL AND COURAGEOUS DISCHARGE OF THEIR

EVERY-DAY DUTIES

AMID THE PERILS OF WAR

HAS MADE THEM HONOURABLY CONSPICUOUS

EVEN AMONG THEIR FELLOW COLONISTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

This small book is mainly a personal record of my adventures and

impressions during the first five months of the African War. It may also

be found to give a tolerably coherent account of the operations

conducted by Sir Redvers Buller for the Relief of Ladysmith. The

correspondence of which it is mainly composed appeared in the columns of

the _Morning Post_ newspaper, and I propose, if I am not interrupted by

the accidents of war, to continue the series of letters. The stir and

tumult of a camp do not favour calm or sustained thought, and whatever

is written herein must be regarded simply as the immediate effect

produced by men powerfully moved, and scenes swiftly changing upon what

I hope is a truth-seeking mind.

The fact that a man's life depends upon my discretion compels me to omit

an essential part of the story of my escape from the Boers; but if the

book and its author survive the war, and when the British flag is firmly

planted at Bloemfontein and Pretoria, I shall hasten to fill the gap in

the narrative.

WINSTON S. CHURCHILL.

_March 10, 1900_.

CONTENTS

I. STEAMING SOUTH

R.M.S. 'Dunottar Castle,' October 26 and October 29, 1899

II. THE STATE OF THE GAME

Capetown; November 1, 1899

III. ALONG THE SOUTHERN FRONTIER

East London: November 5, 1899

IV. IN NATAL

Estcourt: November 6, 1899

V. A CRUISE IN THE ARMOURED TRAIN

Estcourt: November 9, 1899

VI. DISTANT GUNS

Estcourt: November 10, 1899

VII. THE FATE OF THE ARMOURED TRAIN

Pretoria: November 20, 1899

VIII. PRISONERS OF WAR

Pretoria: November 24, 1899

IX. THROUGH THE DUTCH CAMPS

Pretoria: November 30, 1899

X. IN AFRIKANDER BONDS

Pretoria: December 3, 1899

XI. I ESCAPE FROM THE BOERS

Lourenço Marques: December 22, 1899

XII. BACK TO THE BRITISH LINES

Frere: December 24, 1899

XIII. CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR

Frere: January 4, 1900

XIV. A MILITARY DEMONSTRATION AND SOME GOOD NEWS

Chieveley: January 8, 1900

XV. THE DASH FOR POTGIETER'S FERRY

Spearman's Hill: January 13, 1900

XVI. TRICHARDT'S DRIFT AND THE AFFAIR OF ACTON HOMES

Venter's Spruit: January 22, 1900

XVII. THE BATTLE OF SPION KOP

Venter's Spruit: January 25, 1900

XVIII. THROUGH THE FIVE DAYS' ACTION

Venter's Spruit: January 25, 1900

XIX. A FRESH-EFFORT AND AN ARMY CHAPLAIN

Spearman's Hill: February 4, 1900

XX. THE COMBAT OF VAAL KRANTZ

General Buller's Headquarters: February 9, 1900

XXI. HUSSAR HILL

General Buller's Headquarters: February 15, 1900

XXII. THE ENGAGEMENT OF MONTE CRISTO

Cingolo Neck: February 19, 1900

XXIII. THE PASSAGE OF THE TUGELA

Hospital-ship 'Maine': March 4, 1900

XXIV. THE BATTLE OF PIETERS: THE THIRD DAY

Hospital-ship 'Maine': March 5, 1900

XXV. UPON MAJUBA DAY

Commandant's Office, Durban: March 6, 1900

XXVI. THE RELIEF OF LADYSMITH

Commandant's Office, Durban: March 9, 1900

XXVII. AFTER THE SIEGE

Durban: March 10, 1900

CHAPTER I

STEAMING SOUTH

R.M.S. 'Dunottar Castle,' at sea: October 26, 1899.

The last cry of 'Any more for the shore?' had sounded, the last good-bye

had been said, the latest pressman or photographer had scrambled ashore,

and all Southampton was cheering wildly along a mile of pier and

promontory when at 6 P.M., on October 14, the Royal Mail steamer

'Dunottar Castle' left her moorings and sailed with Sir Redvers Buller

for the Cape. For a space the decks remained crowded with the passengers

who, while the sound of many voices echoed in their ears, looked back

towards the shores swiftly fading in the distance and the twilight, and

wondered whether, and if so when, they would come safe home again; then

everyone hurried to his cabin, arranged his luggage, and resigned

himself to the voyage.

What an odious affair is a modern sea journey! In ancient times there

were greater discomforts and perils; but they were recognised. A man

took ship prepared for the worst. Nowadays he expects the best as a

matter of course, and is, therefore, disappointed. Besides, how slowly

we travel! In the sixteenth century nobody minded taking five months to

get anywhere. But a fortnight is a large slice out of the nineteenth

century; and the child of civilisation, long petted by Science,

impatiently complains to his indulgent guardian of all delay in travel,

and petulantly calls on her to complete her task and finally eliminate

the factor of distance from human calculations. A fortnight is a long

time in modern life. It is also a long time in modern war--especially at

the beginning. To be without news for a fortnight at any time is

annoying. To be without news for a fortnight now is a torture. And this

voyage lasts more than a fortnight! At the very outset of our

enterprise we are compelled to practise Mr. Morley's policy of patience.

We left London amid rumours of all kinds. The Metropolis was shrouded in

a fog of credulous uncertainty, broken only by the sinister gleam of the

placarded lie or the croak of the newsman. Terrible disasters

had occurred and had been contradicted; great battles were

raging--unconfirmed; and beneath all this froth the tide of war was

really flowing, and no man could shut his eyes to grave possibilities.

Then the ship sailed, and all was silence--a heaving silence. But

Madeira was scarcely four days' journey. There we should find the

answers to many questions. At Madeira, however, we learned nothing, but

nothing, though satisfactory, is very hard to understand. Why did they

declare war if they had nothing up their sleeves? Why are they wasting

time now? Such were the questions. Then we sailed again, and again

silence shut down, this time, however, on a more even keel.

Speculation arises out of ignorance. Many and various are the

predictions as to what will be the state of the game when we shall have

come to anchor in Table Bay. Forecasts range from the capture of

Pretoria by Sir George White and the confinement of President Kruger in

the deepest level beneath the Johannesburg Exchange, on the one hand, to

the surrender of Cape Town to the Boers, the proclamation of Mr.

Schreiner as King of South Africa, and a fall of two points in Rand

Mines on the other. Between these wild extremes all shades of opinion

are represented. Only one possibility is unanimously excluded--an

inconclusive peace. There are on board officers who travelled this road

eighteen years ago with Lord Roberts, and reached Cape Town only to

return by the next boat. But no one anticipates such a result this time.

Monotony is the characteristic of a modern voyage, and who shall

describe it? The lover of realism might suggest that writing the same

paragraph over and over again would enable the reader to experience its

weariness, if he were truly desirous of so doing. But I hesitate to

take such a course, and trust that some of these lines even once

repeated may convey some inkling of the dulness of the days. Monotony of

view--for we live at the centre of a complete circle of sea and sky;

monotony of food--for all things taste the same on board ship; monotony

of existence--for each day is but a barren repetition of the last; all

fall to the lot of the passenger on great waters. It were malevolent to

try to bring the realisation home to others. Yet all earthly evils have

their compensations, and even monotony is not without its secret joy.

For a time we drop out of the larger world, with its interests and its

obligations, and become the independent citizens of a tiny State:--a

Utopian State where few toil and none go hungry--bounded on all sides by

the sea and vassal only to the winds and waves. Here during a period

which is too long while it lasts, too short when it is over, we may

placidly reflect on the busy world that lies behind and the tumult that

is before us. The journalists read books about South Africa; the

politician--were the affair still in the domain of words--might examine

the justice of the quarrel. The Headquarter Staff pore over maps or

calculate the sizes of camps and entrenchments; and in the meantime the

great ship lurches steadily forward on her course, carrying to the south

at seventeen miles an hour schemes and intentions of war.

But let me record the incidents rather than their absence. One day the

first shoal of flying fish is seen--a flight of glittering birds that,

flushed by the sudden approach of the vessel, skim away over the waters

and turn in the cover of a white-topped wave. On another we crossed the

Equator. Neptune and his consort boarded us near the forecastle and

paraded round the ship in state. Never have I seen such a draggle-tailed

divinity. An important feature in the ritual which he prescribes is the

shaving and ducking of all who have not passed the line before. But our

attitude was strictly Erastian, and the demigod retired discomfited to

the second class, where from the sounds which arose he seemed to find

more punctilious votaries. On the 23rd we sighted a sail--or rather the

smoke of another steamer. As the comparatively speedy 'Dunottar Castle'

overtook the stranger everybody's interest was aroused. Under the

scrutiny of many brand-new telescopes and field glasses--for all want to

see as much of a war as possible--she developed into the 'Nineveh,'

hired transport carrying the Australian Lancers to the Cape. Signals

were exchanged. The vessels drew together, and after an hour's steaming

we passed her almost within speaking distance. The General went up to

the bridge. The Lancers crowded the bulwarks and rigging of the

'Nineveh' and one of them waggled a flag violently. An officer on our

ship replied with a pocket-handkerchief. The Australians asked

questions: 'Is Sir Redvers Buller on board?' The answer 'Yes' was

signalled back, and immediately the Lancers gave three tremendous

cheers, waving their broad-brimmed hats and gesticulating with energy

while the steam siren emitted a frantic whoop of salutation. Then the

speed of the larger vessel told, and we drew ahead of the transport

until her continued cheers died away. She signalled again: 'What won the

Cesarewitch?' But the distance was now too great for us to learn whether

the answer gave satisfaction or not.

We have a party of cinematographers on board, and when they found that

we were going to speak the 'Nineveh' they bustled about preparing their

apparatus. But the cumbrous appliances took too long to set up, and, to

the bitter disappointment of the artists, the chance of making a moving

picture was lost for ever; and indeed it was a great pity, because the

long green transport, pitching in the sea, now burying her bows in foam,

now showing the red paint of her bottom, her decks crowded with the

active brown figures of the soldiers, her halyards bright with signal

flags, was a scene well worth recording even if it had not been the

greeting given in mid-ocean to the commander of the army by the warlike

contingent which the need or convenience of the Empire had drawn from

the Antipodes.

South of the line the weather cools rapidly, and various theories are

advanced to explain the swift change. According to some, it is due to

the masses of ice at the Antarctic Pole; others contend that it is

because we are further from the land. But whatever the cause may be, the

fall in temperature produces a rise in spirits, and under greyer skies

everyone develops activity. The consequence of this is the organisation

of athletic sports. A committee is appointed. Sir Redvers Buller becomes

President. A two days' meeting is arranged, and on successive afternoons

the more energetic passengers race violently to and fro on the decks,

belabour each other with bolsters, or tumble into unforeseen troughs of

water to their huge contentment and the diversion of the rest.

Occasionally there are light gusts of controversy. It is Sunday. The

parson proposes to read the service. The captain objects. He insists on

the maintenance of naval supremacy. On board ship, 'or at any rate on

board this ship,' no one but the captain reads the service. The

minister, a worthy Irishman, abandons the dispute--not without regret.

'Any other clergyman of the Church of England,' he observes with warmth,

'would have told the captain to go to Hell.'

Then there is to be a fancy dress ball. Opinions are divided. On the one

part it is urged that fancy dress balls are healthy and amusing. On the

other, that they are exceedingly tiresome. The discussion is prolonged.

In the end the objectors are overruled--still objecting. Such are the

politics of the State.

Inoculation against enteric fever proceeds daily. The doctors lecture in

the saloon. One injection of serum protects; a second secures the

subject against attacks. Wonderful statistics are quoted in support of

the experiment. Nearly everyone is convinced. The operations take place

forthwith, and the next day sees haggard forms crawling about the deck

in extreme discomfort and high fever. The day after, however, all have

recovered and rise gloriously immune. Others, like myself, remembering

that we still stand only on the threshold of pathology, remain

unconvinced, resolved to trust to 'health and the laws of health.' But

if they will, invent a system of inoculation against bullet wounds I

will hasten to submit myself.

Yesterday we passed a homeward-bound liner, who made great efforts to

signal to us, but as she was a Union boat the captain refused to go near

enough to read the flags, and we still remain ignorant of the state of

the war. If the great lines of steamships to the Cape were to compete

against each other, as do those of the Atlantic, by increasing their

speeds, by lowering their rates, by improving the food and

accommodation, no one would complain, but it is difficult to see how the

public can be the gainers by the silly antagonism I have described.

However, the end is drawing very near, and since we have had a safe and

prosperous journey criticism may well waive the opportunity. Yet there

are few among the travellers who will not experience a keen feeling of

relief in exchanging the pettiness, the monotony, and the isolation of

the voyage for the activity of great enterprise and the interest of real

affairs: a relief which may, perhaps, be shared by the reader of these

letters. Yet if he has found the account of a dull voyage dull, he

should not complain; for is not that successful realism?

October 29.

News at last! This morning we sighted a sail--a large homeward-bound

steamer, spreading her canvas to catch the trades, and with who should

say what tidings on board. We crowded the decks, and from every point of

view telescopes, field glasses, and cameras were directed towards the

stranger. She passed us at scarcely two hundred yards, and as she did so

her crew and company, giving three hearty cheers, displayed a long black

board, on which was written in white paint: 'Boers defeated; three

battles; Penn Symons killed.' There was a little gasp of excitement.

Everyone stepped back from the bulwarks. Those who had not seen ran

eagerly up to ask what had happened. A dozen groups were formed, a hum

of conversation arose, and meanwhile the vessels separated--for the pace

of each was swift--and in a few moments the homeward bound lay far in

our wake.

What does it mean--this scrap of intelligence which tells so much and

leaves so much untold? To-morrow night we shall know all. This at least

is certain: there has been fierce fighting in Natal, and, under Heaven,

we have held our own: perhaps more. 'Boers defeated.' Let us thank God

for that. The brave garrisons have repelled the invaders. The luck has

turned at last. The crisis is over, and the army now on the seas may

move with measured strides to effect a final settlement that is both

wise and just. In that short message eighteen years of heartburnings are

healed. The abandoned colonist, the shamed soldier, the 'cowardly

Englishman,' the white flag, the 'How about Majuba?'--all gone for ever.

At last--'the Boers defeated.' Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

So Sir Penn Symons is killed! Well, no one would have laid down his life

more gladly in such a cause. Twenty years ago the merest chance saved

him from the massacre at Isandhlwana, and Death promoted him in an

afternoon from subaltern to senior captain. Thenceforward his rise was

rapid. He commanded the First Division of the Tirah Expeditionary Force

among the mountains with prudent skill. His brigades had no misfortunes:

his rearguards came safely into camp. In the spring of 1898, when the

army lay around Fort Jumrood, looking forward to a fresh campaign, I

used often to meet him. Everyone talked of Symons, of his energy, of his

jokes, of his enthusiasm. It was Symons who had built a racecourse on

the stony plain; who had organised the Jumrood Spring Meeting; who won

the principal event himself, to the delight of the private soldiers,

with whom he was intensely popular; who, moreover, was to be first and

foremost if the war with the tribes broke out again; and who was

entrusted with much of the negotiations with their _jirgas_. Dinner with

Symons in the mud tower of Jumrood Fort was an experience. The memory

of many tales of sport and war remains. At the end the General would

drink the old Peninsular toasts: 'Our Men,' 'Our Women,' 'Our Religion,'

'Our Swords,' 'Ourselves,' 'Sweethearts and Wives,' and 'Absent

Friends'--one for every night in the week. The night when I dined the

toast was 'Our Men.' May the State in her necessities find others like

him!