THE FATE OF THE ARMOURED TRAIN
Pretoria: November 20, 1899.
Now I perceive that I was foolish to choose in advance a definite title
for these letters and to think that it could continue to be appropriate
for any length of time. In the strong stream of war the swimmer is
swirled helplessly about hither and thither by the waves, and he can by
no means tell where he will come to land, or, indeed, that he may not be
overwhelmed in the flood. A week ago I described to you a reconnoitring
expedition in the Estcourt armoured train, and I pointed out the many
defects in the construction and the great dangers in the employment of
that forlorn military machine. So patent were these to all who concerned
themselves in the matter that the train was nicknamed in the camp
'Wilson's death trap.'
On Tuesday, the 14th, the mounted infantry patrols reported that the
Boers in small parties were approaching Estcourt from the directions of
Weenen and Colenso, and Colonel Long made a reconnaissance in force to
ascertain what strength lay behind the advanced scouts. The
reconnaissance, which was marked only by an exchange of shots between
the patrols, revealed little, but it was generally believed that a
considerable portion of the army investing Ladysmith was moving, or was
about to move, southwards to attack Estcourt, and endeavour to strike
Pietermaritzburg. The movement that we had awaited for ten days
impended. Accordingly certain military preparations, which I need not
now specify, were made to guard against all contingencies, and at
daylight on Wednesday morning another spray of patrols was flung out
towards the north and north-west, and the Estcourt armoured train was
ordered to reconnoitre towards Chieveley. The train was composed as
follows: an ordinary truck, in which was a 7-pounder muzzle-loading gun,
served by four sailors from the 'Tartar;' an armoured car fitted with
loopholes and held by three sections of a company of the Dublin
Fusiliers; the engine and tender, two more armoured cars containing the
fourth section of the Fusilier company, one company of the Durban Light
Infantry (volunteers), and a small civilian breakdown gang; lastly,
another ordinary truck with the tools and materials for repairing the
road; in all five wagons, the locomotive, one small gun, and 120 men.
Captain Haldane, D.S.O., whom I had formerly known on Sir William
Lockhart's staff in the Tirah Expedition, and who was lately recovered
from his wound at Elandslaagte, commanded.
We started at half-past five and, observing all the usual precautions,
reached Frere Station in about an hour. Here a small patrol of the Natal
police reported that there were no enemy within the next few miles, and
that all seemed quiet in the neighbourhood. It was the silence before
the storm. Captain Haldane decided to push on cautiously as far as
Chieveley, near which place an extensive view of the country could be
obtained. Not a sign of the Boers could be seen. The rolling grassy
country looked as peaceful and deserted as on former occasions, and we
little thought that behind the green undulations scarcely three miles
away the leading commandos of a powerful force were riding swiftly
forward on their invading path.
All was clear as far as Chieveley, but as the train reached the station
I saw about a hundred Boer horsemen cantering southwards about a mile
from the railway. Beyond Chieveley a long hill was lined with a row of
black spots, showing that our further advance would be disputed. The
telegraphist who accompanied the train wired back to Estcourt reporting
our safe arrival, and that parties of Boers were to be seen at no great
distance, and Colonel Long replied by ordering the train to return to
Frere and remain there in observation during the day, watching its safe
retreat at nightfall. We proceeded to obey, and were about a mile and
three-quarters from Frere when on rounding a corner we saw that a hill
which commanded the line at a distance of 600 yards was occupied by the
enemy. So after all there would be a fight, for we could not pass this
point without coming under fire. The four sailors loaded their gun--an
antiquated toy--the soldiers charged their magazines, and the train,
which was now in the reverse of the order in which it had started moved,
slowly towards the hill.
The moment approached: but no one was much concerned, for the cars were
proof against rifle fire, and this ridge could at the worst be occupied
only by some daring patrol of perhaps a score of men. 'Besides,' we said
to ourselves, 'they little think we have a gun on board. That will be a
nice surprise.'
The Boers held their fire until the train reached that part of the track
nearest to their position. Standing on a box in the rear armoured truck
I had an excellent view-through my glasses. The long brown rattling
serpent with the rifles bristling from its spotted sides crawled closer
to the rocky hillock on which the scattered black figures of the enemy
showed clearly. Suddenly three wheeled things appeared on the crest, and
within a second a bright flash of light--like a heliograph, but much
yellower--opened and shut ten or twelve times. Then two much larger
flashes; no smoke nor yet any sound, and a bustle and stir among the
little figures. So much for the hill. Immediately over the rear truck of
the train a huge white ball of smoke sprang into being and tore out into
a cone like a comet. Then came, the explosions of the near guns and the
nearer shell. The iron sides of the truck tanged with a patter of
bullets. There was a crash from the front of the train and half a dozen
sharp reports. The Boers had opened fire on us at 600 yards with two
large field guns, a Maxim firing small shells in a stream, and from
riflemen lying on the ridge. I got down from my box into the cover of
the armoured sides of the car without forming any clear thought. Equally
involuntarily, it seems that the driver put on full steam, as the enemy
had intended. The train leapt forward, ran the gauntlet of the guns,
which now filled the air with explosions, swung round the curve of the
hill, ran down a steep gradient, and dashed into a huge stone which
awaited it on the line at a convenient spot.
To those who were in the rear truck there was only a tremendous shock, a
tremendous crash, and a sudden full stop. What happened to the trucks in
front of the engine is more interesting. The first, which contained the
materials and tools of the breakdown gang and the guard who was watching
the line, was flung into the air and fell bottom upwards on the
embankment. (I do not know what befell the guard, but it seems probable
that he was killed.) The next, an armoured car crowded with the Durban
Light Infantry, was carried on twenty yards and thrown over on its side,
scattering its occupants in a shower on the ground. The third wedged
itself across the track, half on and half off the rails. The rest of the
train kept to the metals.
We were not long left in the comparative peace and safety of a railway
accident. The Boer guns, swiftly changing their position, re-opened
from a distance of 1,300 yards before anyone had got out of the stage of
exclamations. The tapping rifle fire spread along the hillside, until it
encircled the wreckage on three sides, and a third field gun came into
action from some high ground on the opposite side of the line.
To all of this our own poor little gun endeavoured to reply, and the
sailors, though exposed in an open truck, succeeded in letting off three
rounds before the barrel was struck by a shell, and the trunnions, being
smashed, fell altogether out of the carriage.
The armoured truck gave some protection from the bullets, but since any
direct shell must pierce it like paper and kill everyone, it seemed
almost safer outside, and, wishing to see the extent and nature of the
damage, I clambered over the iron shield, and, dropping to the ground,
ran along the line to the front of the train. As I passed the engine
another shrapnel shell burst immediately, as it seemed, overhead,
hurling its contents with a rasping rush through the air. The driver at
once sprang out of the cab and ran to the shelter of the overturned
trucks. His face was cut open by a splinter, and he complained in bitter
futile indignation. He was a civilian. What did they think he was paid
for? To be killed by bombshells? Not he. He would not stay another
minute. It looked as if his excitement and misery--he was dazed by the
blow on his head--would prevent him from working the engine further, and
as only he understood the machinery all chances of escape seemed to be
cut off. Yet when I told this man that if he continued to stay at his
post he would be mentioned for distinguished gallantry in action, he
pulled himself together, wiped the blood off his face, climbed back into
the cab of his engine, and thereafter during the one-sided combat did
his duty bravely and faithfully--so strong is the desire for honour and
repute in the human breast.
I reached the overturned portion of the train uninjured. The volunteers
who, though severely shaken, were mostly unhurt, were lying down under
such cover as the damaged cars and the gutters of the railway line
afforded. It was a very grievous sight to see these citizen soldiers,
most of whom were the fathers of families, in such a perilous position.
They bore themselves well, though greatly troubled, and their major,
whose name I have not learned, directed their fire on the enemy; but
since these, lying behind the crests of the surrounding hills, were
almost invisible I did not expect that it would be very effective.
Having seen this much, I ran along the train to the rear armoured truck
and told Captain Haldane that in my opinion the line might be cleared.
We then agreed that he with musketry should keep the enemy's artillery
from destroying us, and that I should try to throw the wreckage off the
line, so that the engine and the two cars which still remained on the
rails might escape.
I am convinced that this arrangement gave us the best possible chance of
safety, though at the time it was made the position appeared quite
hopeless.
Accordingly Haldane and his Fusiliers began to fire through their
loopholes at the Boer artillery, and, as the enemy afterwards admitted,
actually disturbed their aim considerably. During the time that these
men were firing from the truck four shells passed through the armour,
but luckily not one exploded until it had passed out on the further
side. Many shells also struck and burst on the outside of their shields,
and these knocked all the soldiers on their backs with the concussion.
Nevertheless a well-directed fire was maintained without cessation.
The task of clearing the line would not, perhaps, in ordinary
circumstances have been a very difficult one. But the breakdown gang and
their tools were scattered to the winds, and several had fled along the
track or across the fields. Moreover, the enemy's artillery fire was
pitiless, continuous, and distracting. The affair had, however, to be
carried through.
The first thing to be done was to detach the truck half off the rails
from the one completely so. To do this the engine had to be moved to
slacken the strain on the twisted couplings. When these had been
released, the next step was to drag the partly derailed truck backwards
along the line until it was clear of the other wreckage, and then to
throw it bodily off the rails. This may seem very simple, but the dead
weight of the iron truck half on the sleepers was enormous, and the
engine wheels skidded vainly several times before any hauling power was
obtained. At last the truck was drawn sufficiently far back, and I
called for volunteers to overturn it from the side while the engine
pushed it from the end. It was very evident that these men would be
exposed to considerable danger. Twenty were called for, and there was an
immediate response. But only nine, including the major of volunteers and
four or five of the Dublin Fusiliers, actually stepped out into the
open. The attempt was nevertheless successful. The truck heeled further
over under their pushing, and, the engine giving a shove at the right
moment, it fell off the line and the track was clear. Safety and success
appeared in sight together, but disappointment overtook them.
The engine was about six inches wider than the tender, and the corner of
its footplate would not pass the corner of the newly overturned truck.
It did not seem safe to push very hard, lest the engine should itself be
derailed. So time after time the engine moved back a yard or two and
shoved forward at the obstruction, and each time moved it a little. But
soon it was evident that complications had set in. The newly derailed
truck became jammed with that originally off the line, and the more the
engine pushed the greater became the block. Volunteers were again called
on to assist, but though seven men, two of whom, I think, were wounded,
did their best, the attempt was a failure.
Perseverance, however, is a virtue. If the trucks only jammed the
tighter for the forward pushing they might be loosened by pulling
backwards. Now, however, a new difficulty arose. The coupling chains of
the engine would not reach by five or six inches those of the overturned
truck. Search was made for a spare link. By a solitary gleam of good
luck one was found. The engine hauled at the wreckage, and before the
chains parted pulled it about a yard backwards. Now, certainly, the line
was clear at last. But again the corner of the footplate jammed with the
corner of the truck, and again we came to a jarring halt.
I have had, in the last four years, the advantage, if it be an
advantage, of many strange and varied experiences, from which the
student of realities might draw profit and instruction. But nothing was
so thrilling as this: to wait and struggle among these clanging, rending
iron boxes, with the repeated explosions of the shells and the
artillery, the noise of the projectiles striking the cars, the hiss as
they passed in the air, the grunting and puffing of the engine--poor,
tortured thing, hammered by at least a dozen shells, any one of which,
by penetrating the boiler, might have made an end of all--the
expectation of destruction as a matter of course, the realization of
powerlessness, and the alternations of hope and despair--all this for
seventy minutes by the clock with only four inches of twisted iron work
to make the difference between danger, captivity, and shame on the one
hand--safety, freedom, and triumph on the other.
Nothing remained but to continue pounding at the obstructing corner in
the hopes that the iron work would gradually be twisted and torn, and
thus give free passage. As we pounded so did the enemy. I adjured the
driver to be patient and to push gently, for it did not seem right to
imperil the slender chance of escape by running the risk of throwing the
engine off the line. But after a dozen pushes had been given with
apparently little result a shell struck the front of the engine, setting
fire to the woodwork, and he thereupon turned on more steam, and with
considerable momentum we struck the obstacle once more. There was a
grinding crash; the engine staggered, checked, shore forward again,
until with a clanging, tearing sound it broke past the point of
interception, and nothing but the smooth line lay between us and home.
Brilliant success now seemed won, for I thought that the rear and gun
trucks were following the locomotive, and that all might squeeze into
them, and so make an honourable escape. But the longed-for cup was
dashed aside. Looking backward, I saw that the couplings had parted or
had been severed by a shell, and that the trucks still lay on the wrong
side of the obstruction, separated by it from the engine. No one dared
to risk imprisoning the engine again by making it go back for the
trucks, so an attempt was made to drag the trucks up to the engine.
Owing chiefly to the fire of the enemy this failed completely, and
Captain Haldane determined to be content with saving the locomotive. He
accordingly permitted the driver to retire along the line slowly, so
that the infantry might get as much shelter from the ironwork of the
engine as possible, and the further idea was to get into some houses
near the station, about 800 yards away, and there hold out while the
engine went for assistance.
As many wounded as possible were piled on to the engine, standing in
the cab, lying on the tender, or clinging to the cowcatcher. And all
this time the shells fell into the wet earth throwing up white clouds,
burst with terrifying detonations overhead, or actually struck the
engine and the iron wreckage. Besides the three field-guns, which proved
to be 15-pounders, the shell-firing Maxim continued its work, and its
little shells, discharged with an ugly thud, thud, thud, exploded with
startling bangs on all sides. One I remember struck the footplate of the
engine scarcely a yard from my face, lit up into a bright yellow flash,
and left me wondering why I was still alive. Another hit the coals in
the tender, hurling a black shower into the air. A third--this also I
saw--struck the arm of a private in the Dublin Fusiliers. The whole arm
was smashed to a horrid pulp--bones, muscle, blood, and uniform all
mixed together. At the bottom hung the hand, unhurt, but swelled
instantly to three times its ordinary size. The engine was soon crowded
and began to steam homewards--a mournful, sorely battered
locomotive--with the woodwork of the firebox in flames and the water
spouting from its pierced tanks. The infantrymen straggled along beside
it at the double.
Seeing the engine escaping the Boers increased their fire, and the
troops, hitherto somewhat protected by the iron trucks, began to suffer.
The major of volunteers fell, shot through the thigh. Here and there men
dropped on the ground, several screamed--this is very rare in war--and
cried for help. About a quarter of the force was very soon killed or
wounded. The shells which pursued the retreating soldiers scattered them
all along the track. Order and control vanished. The engine, increasing
its pace, drew out from the thin crowd of fugitives and was soon in
safety. The infantry continued to run down the line in the direction of
the houses, and, in spite of their disorder, I honestly consider that
they were capable of making a further resistance when some shelter
should be reached. But at this moment one of those miserable
incidents--much too frequent in this war--occurred.
A private soldier who was wounded, in direct disobedience of the
positive orders that no surrender was to be made, took it on himself to
wave a pocket-handkerchief. The Boers immediately ceased firing, and
with equal daring and humanity a dozen horsemen galloped from the hills
into the scattered fugitives, scarcely any of whom had seen the white
flag, and several of whom were still firing, and called loudly on them
to surrender. Most of the soldiers, uncertain what to do, then halted,
gave up their arms, and became prisoners of war. Those further away from
the horsemen continued to run and were shot or hunted down in twos and
threes, and some made good their escape.
For my part I found myself on the engine when the obstruction was at
last passed and remained there jammed in the cab next to the man with
the shattered arm. In this way I travelled some 500 yards, and passed
through the fugitives, noticing particularly a young officer, Lieutenant
Frankland, who with a happy, confident smile on his face was
endeavouring to rally his men. When I approached the houses where we had
resolved to make a stand, I jumped on to the line, in order to collect
the men as they arrived, and hence the address from which this letter is
written, for scarcely had the locomotive left me than I found myself
alone in a shallow cutting and none of our soldiers, who had all
surrendered on the way, to be seen. Then suddenly there appeared on the
line at the end of the cutting two men not in uniform. 'Platelayers,' I
said to myself, and then, with a surge of realisation, 'Boers.' My mind
retains a momentary impression of these tall figures, full of animated
movement, clad in dark flapping clothes, with slouch, storm-driven hats
poising on their rifles hardly a hundred yards away. I turned and ran
between the rails of the track, and the only thought I achieved was
this, 'Boer marksmanship.' Two bullets passed, both within a foot, one
on either side. I flung myself against the banks of the cutting. But
they gave no cover. Another glance at the figures; one was now kneeling
to aim. Again I darted forward. Movement seemed the only chance. Again
two soft kisses sucked in the air, but nothing struck me. This could not
endure. I must get out of the cutting--that damnable corridor. I
scrambled up the bank. The earth sprang up beside me, and something
touched my hand, but outside the cutting was a tiny depression. I
crouched in this, struggling to get my wind. On the other side of the
railway a horseman galloped up, shouting to me and waving his hand. He
was scarcely forty yards off. With a rifle I could have killed him
easily. I knew nothing of white flags, and the bullets had made me
savage. I reached down for my Mauser pistol. 'This one at least,' I
said, and indeed it was a certainty; but alas! I had left the weapon in
the cab of the engine in order to be free to work at the wreckage. What
then? There was a wire fence between me and the horseman. Should I
continue to fly? The idea of another shot at such a short range decided
me. Death stood before me, grim sullen Death without his light-hearted
companion, Chance. So I held up my hand, and like Mr. Jorrocks's foxes,
cried 'Capivy.' Then I was herded with the other prisoners in a
miserable group, and about the same time I noticed that my hand was
bleeding, and it began to pour with rain.
Two days before I had written to an officer in high command at home,
whose friendship I have the honour to enjoy: 'There has been a great
deal too much surrendering in this war, and I hope people who do so will
not be encouraged.' Fate had intervened, yet though her tone was full of
irony she seemed to say, as I think Ruskin once said, 'It matters very
little whether your judgments of people are true or untrue, and very
much whether they are kind or unkind,' and repeating that I will make an
end.