JAN CELLIERS, POET AND PATRIOT
That there is more than one man of the name of Jan Celliers in South
Africa I know, but there is only one Jan Celliers who can be honoured
by the title "Poet and Patriot," and that is the remarkable
personality of our friend in Pretoria, J.F.E. Celliers.
I have chosen him as the subject of this chapter, not so much because
of the important, I may almost say revolutionary part he has played in
the building up of South African literature since the war, as on
account of the unique patriotism displayed by him throughout the war
under circumstances of the severest test and trial.
How he, after active service in the field since the beginning of the
war, came to be locked up in Pretoria as an unseen prisoner of war, an
unwilling captive between the green walls of his suburban garden, when
the British took possession of the capital on that stupefying June
5th, 1900, we shall briefly relate in this chapter.
Mr. Celliers' experience was that of many good and faithful burghers.
The news of heavy Boer losses, the desperately forced march of the
British troops from Bloemfontein to Pretoria, the crushing blows in
quick succession, the departure of the Boer Administration from the
seat of government, the demoralisation of the scattered forces, and
the painful uncertainty of what the next step was to be--these things,
combined with the fact, in Mr. Celliers' case, of having no
riding-horse or bicycle on which to escape from the town, caused him
to be surprised by the wholly unexpected entry of the British forces
into the capital. Just a brief period of dazed inaction, a few hours
of stupefied uncertainty, and he found himself hopelessly cut off from
every chance of escape.
He planned escape from the beginning, for conscientious scruples
forbade his taking the oath of neutrality. Of the oath of allegiance
there was no question whatever.
There was nothing for it but to keep himself hidden until an
opportunity for escaping to his fellow-countrymen in the field
presented itself.
The first three weeks were spent in the garden, but it soon became
evident that listening ears and prying eyes were being paid to
discover his whereabouts, and closer confinement was found necessary.
Thereafter he sat between four walls, reading and writing during the
greater part of the day, keeping a watchful eye on the little front
gate through a narrow opening in the window-blind and disappearing,
through a trap-door, under the floor as soon as a soldier or official
entered the gate.
When darkness fell he left his cramped hiding-place, and gliding
unseen through the house and yard, this weary prisoner occupied
himself with exercises for the preservation of his health, running,
jumping, standing on his head, and plying the skipping-rope
vigorously, under the protecting shadows of the dark cypress trees.
The weeks went by, broken once by the intense excitement of a visit of
one of the burghers from the field.
Mrs. Celliers' brother, M. Dürr, had crept into town at dead of night
between the British sentinels on a dangerous mission for the Boers. A
short week he spent with his brother-in-law, sharing his confinement
and making plans for his escape. Then he was gone, and the old deadly
monotony settled over the house once more.
July went by, and August was nearly spent when at last an opportunity
presented itself, and Mr. Celliers, in woman's garb, bade wife and
children a passionate farewell, not to see them again for nearly two
years.
With a cloak over his shoulders and a high collar concealing his
closely cropped hair, his wife's skirt on, and a heavy veil covering a
straw hat, he stepped boldly into a small vehicle standing waiting
before his gate and drove through the streets of Pretoria. For the
time at least he too belonged to the "Petticoat Commando." Mrs. Malan
was in the cart, and had been sent by Mrs. Joubert to escort him
through the town.
The disguise was taken before a thought could be given to the possible
consequences of such a step. Spurred by the heroic attitude and fine
courage displayed by his wife, Mr. Celliers lost not a moment in
availing himself of the long-looked-for opportunity.
The thrilling adventures and hairbreadth escapes he went through in
that memorable flight for duty and freedom will no doubt be found
accurately recorded in his book on the war, which I know to be "in the
making" at the present moment. Suffice it to say that he reached the
farm of a friend near Silkatsnek in safety, where, he had been
informed, he would find Boer commandos in the neighbourhood.
Disappointment awaited him, however. The commando had withdrawn to the
north, followed closely by thousands of British troops whose proximity
to the farm made it dangerous, not only for him, but for the people
who harboured him, to remain there longer than one night. A farm-hand,
a trusted native servant, was asked to undertake the task of escorting
Mr. Celliers to the Boer lines. After some hesitation he consented.
The risk was great, but the promise of £20 reward when the war was
over acted like a charm, and the two set forth before break of day on
their perilous adventure.
Here and there the tiny light of an outpost on the open field warned
them to make a wide _détour_. The crackling of the short burnt
stubbles of grass under their feet caused them to hold their breath
and listen with loudly beating hearts for the dreaded "Halt! Who goes
there?"
When the light of day began to break over earth and sky, the Kaffir,
in evident anxiety, warned the _Baas_ to hide in a large dense tree
while he, the Kaffir, went on ahead to reconnoitre. He departed--not
to return again, base coward that he was, and the unfortunate man in
the tree waited for hours until it dawned on him that he had been
deserted at the most critical moment. He stepped from his
hiding-place, quickly deciding to walk nonchalantly forward, the open
veld leaving no possible means of pursuing his way under cover.
He passes many isolated homesteads, some ruined and deserted, others
inhabited by aged people, delicate women, and little children only.
One and all they shrink from him when he relates his story. They do
not trust him--he may be in the employment of the British, a trap set
for the unwary; their homes are closed to him. He pursues his way
wearily. What is that approaching him in the distance? With straining
eyes he is able to distinguish a group of horsemen coming towards him,
and with lightning-like rapidity he turns from his course and jumps
into the washed-out bed of a small rivulet flowing by. A group of
startled Kaffir children gaze at him in astonishment. The riders come
in clear view--not horsemen, but a number of Kaffir women with
earthenware pots on their heads. These they fill with water, and
mounting their horses depart the way they came.
With renewed hope and thankfulness at his heart our traveller resumes
his course in the lengthening shadows of the short winter afternoon.
At last he reaches a German mission station.
No refuge for him here! For the inhabitants are "neutral," but he is
informed that a few days before 20,000 British troops had passed that
way in a northward direction, in hot pursuit of the Boer commandos
fleeing to the Waterberg district. The benevolent old missionary
directs him to a small farm in the neighbourhood where a Boer woman
lives alone with her little children. Perhaps she can give him some
idea of the safest route for him to take. But no, the woman turns from
him in extreme agitation, refuses to answer his questions, and is so
evidently distressed at his appearance that he turns away and
withdraws to the veld to think. What now? What now?
He is sitting on the outskirts of the great bush-veld, that endless
stretch of forest-growth, dense and dark as far as the eye can reach.
Shall he enter that, unarmed, without provisions or water and totally
ignorant of the direction to take? He shudders. The blackness of the
night is creeping over the scene, and over his soul desolation and
despair.
"I must return to the mission station," he decides at last. "Surely
they will give me refuge for the night!"
Slowly he drags his weary limbs across the veld, hesitatingly he
presents himself, falteringly he proffers his request. A moment's
hesitation and the family circle opens to receive him, its members
crowd round him with words of comfort and small deeds of love. They
are not doing _right_, but they will do _well_. Nothing is left undone
to restore and refresh the exhausted fugitive, who soon finds himself
in a perfect haven of domestic happiness and luxury.
As the evening wears on, the small harmonium is opened, and while the
younger members of the family are singing sweet part-songs together,
our hero turns over the leaves of a small book he has found lying on
the table, a book of German quotations. His eyes are attracted by the
following lines by Dessler:
Lenkst du durch Wusten meine Reise,
Ich folg, und lehne mich auf Dich
Du gibst mir aus der Wolken Speise
Und Tränkest aus dem Felsen mich,
Ich traue Deinen Wunderwegen,
Sie enden sich in Lieb und Segen,
Genug, wenn ich Dich bei mir hab.
They are like balm to his troubled soul, and he commits them to memory
for future use. God knows the future looks desperate enough to him,
for he feels that he cannot remain in this haven of rest.
Consideration for the safety of his kind friends forbids this. He soon
departs, having heard that, for the present at least, the western
direction is open to him, and, in taking this, his tribulations begin
afresh.
Unused to exercise as he has been during the long months of his
confinement, this traveller, in pursuing his course with so much
patience and steadfast determination, now finds himself hardly able to
walk. The tender feet are swollen and bleeding to such an extent that
he finds it impossible to remove his heavy boots. Halting, stumbling,
he continues on his way.
By good fortune he meets with another Kaffir guide, who leads him to a
small Kaffir hut and revives him with a draught of Kaffir beer. A few
moments' rest, and they are on the way again.
The day was far spent when they reached a Kaffir kraal, and here Mr.
Celliers sank down in agony of mind and body, too great for words.
More Kaffir beer was respectfully tendered to him and he drank it
gratefully, meanwhile watching with dull interest the Kaffir babies,
jet black and stark naked, except for a small fringe of blue beads
about the loins, as they crept around him, like so many playful
kittens.
He was not long allowed to rest, the good guide urging him to make a
final effort, and encouraging him with the assurance that he would
find a farm not far distant, the home of Mr. Piet Roos, of Krokodil
Poort.
This goal was reached that night, and a cordial welcome given to the
poor exhausted traveller, although he was warned that he could by no
means consider himself safe on the farm, as the British passed it
nearly every day. Nigh three weeks he spent there, taking refuge under
the trees of an adjacent hill by day and sleeping under the hospitable
roof by night. As time went on and the visits of the Khakis became
rarer, he became more at ease, and often worked with the farmer and
the women in the fields, helping them to dig sweet-potatoes, and
assisting his host in the work of sorting, drying, and rolling up the
leaves of the tobacco-plant. He also became an expert in the art of
making candles, and took active part in the other small industries
carried on in that frugal and industrious household, and the evenings
were spent in poring over maps, geographical and astronomical, which
his host happened to possess. Many were the questions put to him, and
long the discussions about worlds and suns and planets, while the busy
fingers plied and rolled tobacco leaves, but these discussions
generally ended in a sigh, a shake of the head, and an unbelieving,
"there _must_ be something solid _under_ this earth," from the
sceptical host.
The time was now approaching for the fulfilment of his heart's
ambition, but there is still one small incident to relate before we
leave our hero. One day, while he was still on the farm, he was passed
by a Kaffir, whom he questioned as to his destination. The native
replied that he was on his way to Pretoria, and the happy thought
occurred to Mr. Celliers to ask this native to let his wife know that
her husband was in perfect safety.
Now the remarkable part of this incident was, that that unknown native
took the trouble to deliver his message faithfully and conscientiously,
and it was only after the war that Mr. Celliers heard from his wife
that she had received news of his successful escape from a strange
Kaffir, who said he had been sent by her husband. This is a striking
instance, well worth recording here, of the sagacity and fidelity of
some members of the heathen tribes.
It was on September 13th that unexpected deliverance came in the shape
of a Boer waggon in search of green forage for the horses on commando.
Mr. Celliers instantly decided to accompany the waggon back to the
lager, and prepared himself for departure that very day. Tender,
grateful leave was taken of the good friends who had harboured him so
long, and he drove away, seated, with his few worldly possessions
beside him, on the top of a load of green forage.
The next day he arrived at the lager of Commandant Badenhorst's
commando on the farm Waterval near the "Sein koppies," and now we
close the chapter with the following words, which I have translated
from his diary:
"The crown has been set on my undertaking. God be thanked, I find
myself again amongst free men, with weapon in hand. For the first time
in the past four months I feel myself secure. There is no one, on my
arrival, who gives one sign of interest or appreciation; one burgher
even asks me why I had not rather remained in Pretoria.
"This stolid and philosophic view of life is characteristic of the
Boer and certainly does not discourage me.
"Excitement and enthusiasm do not appear to be the children of the
great solitudes, the slumbering sunlit vastnesses; nay, rather do they
spring from the unbroken friction of many spirits, sparks bursting
from the anvil of the great, restlessly driven activity of the world."
* * * * *
Mr. Celliers remained in the field until the war was over.