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[Illustration: The Colonel at Work.]
THE SIEGE OF MAFEKING
BY
J. ANGUS HAMILTON
WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO PLANS
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
1900
PREFATORY NOTE
I have to acknowledge gratefully permission to publish in this book
certain articles contributed before and during the siege of Mafeking
to _The Times_ and _Black and White_. To the editor of the latter
paper I am indebted also for leave to reproduce photographs taken by
myself and published, from time to time, in that journal.
I would acknowledge, too, in anticipation, any kindly toleration my
readers may extend to me for the many shortcomings, of which I am
dismally conscious, arising from the hasty preparation of this volume.
When I explain that between the date of my return to England and this
date--when I start for China--barely a fortnight has elapsed, I shall
make good, perhaps, some small claim upon the indulgence of the
critics and the public.
J. A. H.
_July 21, 1900_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER Page
I. AT SEA 1
II. A GLANCE AHEAD 11
III. ON THE ORANGE FREE STATE BORDER 22
IV. BRICKS OF STRAW 34
V. DIAMONDS AND WHITE FEATHERS 41
VI. TWO DAYS BEFORE WAR 49
VII. THE SKIRMISH AT FIVE MILE BANK 57
VIII. THE FIRST DAY OF BOMBARDMENT 67
IX. THE ADVENT OF "BIG BEN" 78
X. A MIDNIGHT SORTIE 88
XI. CANNON KOPJE 97
XII. A RECONNAISSANCE 108
XIII. THE TOWN GUARD 120
XIV. WASTED ENERGIES 130
XV. SHELLS AND SLAUGHTER 140
XVI. A SOFT-WATER BATH 147
XVII. THE ECONOMY OF THE SITUATION 152
XVIII. A VISIT TO THE HOSPITAL 158
XIX. A LITTLE GUN PRACTICE 165
XX. THE ATTACK UPON GAME TREE 175
XXI. THE ADVENT OF THE NEW YEAR 188
XXII. NATIVE LIFE 196
XXIII. BOMBAST AND BOMB-PROOFS 202
XXIV. SOME SNIPING AND AN EXECUTION 212
XXV. LIFE IN THE BRICKFIELDS 220
XXVI. FROM BAD TO WORSE 225
XXVII. THE FIRST ATTACK UPON THE BRICKFIELDS 232
XXVIII. THE SECOND ATTACK UPON THE BRICKFIELDS 240
XXIX. THE NATIVE QUESTION 247
XXX. POLITICAL ECONOMY 253
XXXI. "A HISTORY OF THE BARALONGS" 261
XXXII. 'TIS WEARY WAITING 271
XXXIII. TWO HUNDRED DAYS OF SIEGE 278
XXXIV. THE EPICUREAN'S DELIGHT 283
XXXV. THE LAST FIGHT 290
XXXVI. RELIEVED AT LAST 311
XXXVII. THE END 319
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS AND PLANS
Page
THE COLONEL AT WORK. _Frontispiece_
MAJOR LORD EDWARD CECIL, C.S.O. 45
OUTPOSTS AND ENTRENCHMENTS, SOUTHERN FRONT. 55
HEADQUARTERS 68
CANNON KOPJE 98
MAJOR GODLEY ON THE LOOK-OUT 112
EFFECTS OF SHELL FIRE. I. BEFORE 144
EFFECTS OF SHELL FIRE. II. AFTER 146
BOERS INSPECTING BRITISH KILLED 184
THE COLONEL ON THE LOOK-OUT 192
WAR CORRESPONDENTS AND THEIR BOMB-PROOF SHELTERS 212
PLAN OF THE BRICKFIELDS 222
CAPE BOYS HURLING STONES AT THE BOERS 224
KILLING HORSES FOR THE GARRISON 292
THE BRITISH SOUTH AFRICAN POLICE FORT 298
"MAFEKING," THE AUTHOR'S DOG 324
PLAN OF MAFEKING 338
CHAPTER I
AT SEA
R.M.S. _DUNVEGAN CASTLE_,
_September 16th, 1899_.
A breeze was freshening, tufting the heaving billows with white crests
and driving showers of spray and clots of foam upon the decks of the
_Dunvegan_. Passengers stood in strained attitudes about the ship,
fidgeting with the desire to be ill and the wish to appear
comfortable--even dignified. In the end, however, circumstances were
too strong for the passengers, transforming them, from a state of calm
despair, into a condition of sickness and temporary dejection. Every
one was perturbed, and those delicate attentions which the sea-sick
demand were being offered by a much-worried deck steward. Here and
there groups of more hardy voyagers were spending their feeble wit in
unseasonable jokes; here and there bedraggled people, wet with spray
and racked by the anguish of an aching void, were clutching at the
possibility of gaining the privacy of their cabins before their
feelings quite overpowered them. In this mad rush, not unlike the
scramble of a shuttlecock to escape the buffetings of the battledore,
I also joined, fetching my berth with much unfortunate sensation.
Alas! I am a wretched sailor, and travelling far and near these many
years, crossing strange seas to distant lands at oft-recurring
periods, has not even tutored me to stand the stress of the ocean
wave. I cannot endure the sea.
The _Dunvegan Castle_ was steaming to the Cape, carrying the mails,
together with a number of tedious and most tiresome people, whose
hours aboard were passed in periods of distracting energy--in deck
quoits, in impossible cricket matches, in angry squabbles upon the
value of the monies which, day by day, were collected by the crafty
from the foolish and pooled in prizes upon the daily run of the
steamer. It was said that these were pleasant gambles, but the
Gentiles paid and the Hebrews, returning to their diamonds, their
stocks and shares, scooped the stakes. It is a way that the people of
Israel and Threadneedle Street have made peculiarly their own; and,
indeed, the multitude and variety of Jews upon this evil-smelling
steamer suggested that she might have held within her walls the
nucleus of an over-sea Israelitish colony, such another as the
Rothschilds founded.
Time was idle, dreary, and so empty! There was nothing to do, since
nothing could be done. The monotony was appalling, and if this were
the condition in the saloon, how distressful must have been the lot of
the third class, who constituted in themselves, as good a class of
people as that contained in the saloon. Surely in these days of
systematic philanthropy something more might be done to brighten the
lot and welfare of third-class passengers. Is it, for example, quite
impossible to supply them with that not uninteresting development of
the musical-box--the megaphone? Of course it should be quite
possible; but antiquated, even antediluvian, in its arrangements, the
Castle Company cannot initiate anything which has not yet been adopted
by the other lines of ocean shipping. And yet I have been told by
numerous merchant captains that it is the steerage which provides the
profits, making lucrative the business of carrying cargoes of goods
and human freight from our shores to more distant lands. But that also
is the way of the world; yet when a rude prosperity enables the
emigrant Jew and Gentile to throng the saloons, making them altogether
impossible for the gentler classes, we shall find the economy of the
third class appealing to an ever-increasing and ever-superior body of
people until these "superior" people will not endure the dirt,
unwholesome surroundings, and fetid atmosphere of the steerage
accommodation of ocean-going steamers, but will cry to Heaven upon the
niggard's policy which controls the vessels.
As the days wore away, and Madeira came and went, even the flying
fishes ceased to attract, and the noises of the ship grew more
distant, the people less obtrusive. Moreover, I became at rest within
myself, and the gaping, aching void which has filled my vitals these
many days, became assuaged. It was then we began to inspect the
passengers; to consider almost kindly the African Jew millionaire who
ate peas with his fingers and mixed honey with his salad, thought not
disdainfully of the poor lady his wife, who, suffering the tortures of
the damned when at sea, shone at each meal valiantly and heroically
until the menu was pierced by her in its entirety, and she made still
further happy by the administration of an original preventative
against _mal de mer_ of sweet wine biscuits bathed in plentiful and
sticky treacle. It was her way of pouring oil on troubled waters. Oh,
those were dreadful people, never ill, always eating, ever complaining
of a curious dizziness which, nevertheless, occasioned them no loss of
appetite. Surely they, of all others, were indeed of the specially
select! Then there was Mr. Clarke, a friend of the two Presidents,
who, undaunted by the most violent motions of the steamer, kept to the
deck in a constant promenade, discoursing amicably the while, and
punctuating his utterances, of a somewhat patriarchal order, with
brief pauses, in which he stroked, with much dignity, a long white
beard. He was a dear old man, and, unlike other Boers, he did not
quote from the Scriptures, a concession which, to be properly
appreciated, demands the lassitude and extreme prostration of violent
nausea. There is something inordinately irritating about the man who
proposes to soothe the irruptions attendant upon sea voyages by the
assurance that such discomfiture is to be endured, since in Chapter
i., verse 1, of a pious writer, the Lord hath there written that the
ungodly shall be everlastingly punished. Personally I objected only to
the form of punishment.
The friend of the President, a fine specimen of sturdy masculinity,
touching eighty-two years of age, was quite the most impressive figure
aboard this particular Castle packet. He had been a sojourner in the
Orange Free State for forty years, coming to it from Australia shortly
after the riots at Ballarat goldfields. The old fellow had fought
against the Boers, championed their arms against the Basutos, raided
the blacks in Queensland, and tumbled through a variety of enterprises
ranging from mining in Australia to successful sheep farming near the
Fickersburg. I liked him, taking an intense anxiety in his future
movements, and wondering whether this fine old specimen of life would
also become our enemy. Who could tell! So much depended upon the
situation, so much upon the action of the President and the will of
Providence. He stood, as he himself was apt to remark, upon the border
of the next world--looking back upon a span of four score years,
possessing a knowledge of the affairs of these African Republics which
had obtained for him the friendship of President Steyn and President
Kruger; indeed, they had been comrades-in-arms, Oom Paul and himself,
while he had seen Steyn spring into manhood from a stripling, and when
his thoughts dwelt upon those days the voice of the old man became
flooded with emotion. These tears of memory were a sidelight to his
real character, and I was convinced that if he shouldered arms at all
these earlier friendships were held by such ties as were too sacred to
be violated. In his heart he hated fighting, yearning merely for the
attentions of his children, the cool delights of his mountain home. In
his domestic environment he was a happy man, since prosperity had
brought him certain cares of office, much as the dignity of his age
had brought him the respect of his fellow-burghers. And yet he figured
as an illustration of countless hundreds, each one of whom was in
close relationship with the crisis in the politics of the country.
Morning, noon and night he strolled, the one figure of interest in
the ill-assorted company of passengers which the good ship--to my
nostrils an evil-smelling tub--was carrying to the Cape. There were
few others of importance upon this journey. There was a colonel of
the Royal Engineers, who had a snug billet in the War Office, and
who was leaving Pall Mall to inspect the barracks at Cape Town, St.
Helena, Ascension, and all those other places to which certain
preposterous War Office officials devoted that attention which
should so much more properly have been paid to the defenceless
condition of the frontiers in South Africa. But then, after all,
what is the destiny of the War Office unless to meddle and make
muddle? If Colonel Watson might be said to have represented the
Imperial Government among the passengers, Mynheer Van der Merure,
Commissioner of Mines in Johannesburg, might be considered as
representing the Pretorian Government. It seemed to me that these
two worthies were quite harmless, representing, each in his own way,
the acme of good nature, the gallant--all colonels imagine that they
be gallant--colonel by reason of his advanced age; the worthy--all
commissioners imagine that they be worthy--commissioner because he
lived off the spoil of the mines. But even the spectacle of these
three--the grand old man, the War Office _attache_, the wealthy
Randsman--did not suffice to break the hideous monotony of a most
depressing voyage.
With the peace of nature enveloping us in a feeling of security, it
was difficult to realise that each day we drew a little nearer to a
possible seat of war. There was much rumour aboard; the stewards
hinted that the hold was filled with a cargo of munitions of war. The
captain flatly denied it, even the War Office pensioner thought it
improbable. "You must understand, sir," said he one morning, across the
breakfast table, "that it is contrary to the custom of her Majesty's
Government, and, if I may say so, sir, especially contrary to the
custom of her Majesty's War Office, to squander the finances of our
great Empire upon unnecessary munitions of war because the _Times_ and
other papers choose to send half a dozen irresponsible individuals to
South Africa. Now, sir--pooh!" When Colonel Watson broke out like this
the friend of the President would intervene, suggesting in his kindly,
paternal fashion that "the War Office--given half a dozen colonels,
gallant or otherwise--might well afford to follow the lead of the
_Times_ newspaper." "It has been my experience," the Colonel
retaliated on one occasion, "that when people begin to interfere they
cease to understand." It was always quite delightful to watch these
two cross swords; the elder invariably took refuge in his age when the
sallies of the War Office could not be directly countered.
"Experience! You are only old enough to be my son." The Colonel
spluttered--colonels do. By these means the elder man usually carried
off the honours, replying, as it were, by a flank movement to the
frontal attack of his superior adversary.
The farmer from the Orange Free State talked much to me, giving me,
towards the end of the voyage, an invitation to his home. It was a
visit in which I should have found much pleasure, since the splendour
of his years, his gentleness and nobility of character were
attractive. It seemed to me that among all sorts and conditions of men
this one was indeed, a man, and I do most sincerely hope that the end
of the war may find him still living and enjoying his farm in his
usual prosperity. He was so set against the war, and dreaded the
consequences of hostile invasion into the Orange Free State, insomuch
that he realised, if some immunity were not guaranteed, the ruin and
desolation which would spread over the land. In August as we left
England there was nothing known about the future action of the Orange
Free State. The question was one of debate, altogether confused,
almost intangible, and this man, knowing Steyn as he knew Kruger, was
convinced that the Orange Free State would alienate itself from the
Transvaal difficulty. But who can tell? We look to the sea for our
answer, and it throws back to us only the echoes of the sighing waves,
the pulsing throbs of the screws pounding the green masses of water in
an effort to reach the Cape. Nevertheless, I am inclined to believe
that there will be war. I hope that there may be, since it is to be my
field of labour.
The journey nears its end, and the weather breaks, for a few hours
into grey cold; while the sea, where it laps the bay at Cape Town,
darkening into thin ridges of foam, tumbling and tossing amid the
eddies of the bleak water, looks menacing. A fog lies off the land,
dense and weighty, impeding the navigation and impressing no little
conception of the perils of the deep upon the minds of timorous
passengers, and folding the surface of the ocean in its expanse. The
weather threatens to be wild. All day the sea fog broke and mingled,
merging, as the day wore on, into one conglomerate mass of cloud,
impenetrable to the mariner and screening the signs of the sea from
those who were upon land. Here and there, low down upon the horizon,
the storm fiend from the shore had broken into the garland of mist
which hung so drearily upon sea as upon moor, detaching parcels of
cloud from the main and toying with them with the coy and heartless
grace of Zephyr! But as yet the wind only came in minor lapses, and
was followed by intervals in which there was no movement in the fog.
From the waste of sea came a ceaseless, muffled roar which seemed
loudest and most full of mystery when carried upon the wings of the
wind. Then these echoes of mighty waters, tumbling upon the rocks off
the land, seemed ominous and charged with deadly peril, and, as the
fog belts lifted or dispersed before the gusts of the wind, the sea
would look as though swept with growing anger, heaving in tremulous
passion, until the great reach of quivering waves was flecked with
white. Closer and closer lapped the tiny waves, until, under the
pressure of the freshening wind they mingled their crests, rising and
falling in foam-capped billows of growing volume and increasing
majesty. Thus developed the storm; the wind beating on the face of the
waters and breaking against the clouds until rain fell, in the end
assuaging, by its raging downpour, the tempest of the ocean. Down came
the storm in one panting burst of tempestuous deluge. The heaving
waves threw sheets of foam from their rain-pierced summits, and the
wind whistled and screamed as it swept through the rigging. Flashes of
lightning and thunder claps parried one another in quick succession.
The rain fell in torrents, the decks, shining in the lightning
flashes, roared with rushing water. So that night we rode at anchor,
rocking idly at our cables within the shadow of the mountain, and upon
the morrow, beneath the light of coming dawn, we drew nearer through
the cool greyness of the bounding ocean. At first the figures, the
walls of the fort, the cranes, the shipping, and the scarred and
crinkled facing of the mountain were silhouetted in black against the
grey of early morning, but as the day broke more firmly across its
slopes, the finer and more subtle light gave to everything its actual
proportion. All kept growing clearer and yet clearer, and more and
more thoroughly outlined, until the sun, shooting over the horizon,
bestowed upon the coming day its first wink of glory.
And so we landed, passing from a sluggish state of peace into a world
where everything was lighted with martial glamour.