A LITTLE ADVENTURE WITH THE BRITISH SOLDIER
The exquisite summer of 1901 was drawing to a close.
January and February had been months of unsurpassed splendour and
riotous luxury in fruit and flowers, each day being more gorgeous than
the last. The glorious sunsets, the mysterious and exquisitely
peaceful moonlight nights were a never-ending source of joy to our
young writer, thrilling her being with emotions not to be described.
Each morning at 5 o'clock, while the rest of the idiotic world lay
asleep within its cramped boundary of brick and stone, Hansie revelled
in the beauties of Nature, abandoning herself to at least one hour of
perfect bliss before the toil and trouble of another day could occupy
her mind.
The garden being so situated that its most secluded spots were far
removed from any sights and sounds which could remind one of the war,
Hansie had no difficulty in turning her thoughts into more uplifting
channels during the peaceful morning hour, spent, when the weather
permitted, in her favourite corner under the six gigantic willows
below the orange avenue.
And the weather in those days nearly always permitted!
Most of the entries in her diary she made in this fair spot, alone,
but for the sympathetic presence of her big black dog. The morning
solitude was amply atoned for by the dozens of young friends who
joined the "fruit parties" every afternoon, filling the air with their
gay voices and wholesome, happy laughter.
[Illustration: THE SIX WILLOWS, HARMONY.]
Four or five young men and a bevy of beautiful young girls were
amongst the most constant visitors at Harmony. The girls, often
referred to in Hansie's diary as the "Four Graces," were certainly the
most exquisite specimens of budding womanhood in Pretoria.
There was Consuélo, tall and slender, our languid "Spanish beauty,"
with her rich brown hair and slumbrous dark-brown eyes; there was our
little Marguerite, fresh and fair as the flower after which she was
named, an opening marguerite in the dewy daintiness of life's first
summer morning; there was Annie, spoilt and wilful but undoubtedly the
fairest of them all; and then there was her sister Sara, Hansie's
favourite, with a girlish charm impossible to describe. Her creamy
white complexion, her lovely soft brown eyes, her winning smile and
tender voice--what could be more delightful than to sit and watch her
as she moved and spoke with rare, unconscious grace, clad in a snowy
dress of fine white muslin!
One sweet summer morn, a Sabbath, if I remember correctly, when the
air was filled with the fragrance of innumerable buds and blossoms,
Hansie sat in the accustomed spot, with her diary on her lap. She was
not writing then, but, with a slip of paper in her hands and a gleam
of mischief in her eyes, she was repeating with evident enjoyment a
few catching lines.
"Oh, Carlo, this is lovely! I must learn these verses and recite them
to the girls when they come this afternoon! Listen, Carlo."
FROM KITCHENER TO SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR
_Sunday_
I am taking measures once for all to clear my reputation;
I swear to give de Wet a fall that means annihilation.
_Monday_
A brilliant action by Brabant, the enemy has fled,
Their loss was something dreadful; ours--one single Kaffir dead.
_Tuesday_
De Wet is short of food-stuffs, his ammunition's done,
His horses are all dying, and he's only got one gun.
_Wednesday_
The cordon draws in round de Wet; he now has little room,
He only can escape one way--by road to Potchefstroom.
_Thursday_
De Wet is now caged like a rat, he's fairly in a box,
Around him grouped are Clements, Cléry, Methuen, French, and Knox.
_Friday_
An unfortunate event occurred--I report it with regret,
A convoy with five hundred men was captured by de Wet.
_Saturday_
A Kaffir runner says he saw de Wet's men trekking west,
With ammunition for two years, and food supply the best.
_Saturday (later)_
A loyal farmer told our Scouts de Wet was riding east,
Each man, beside the horse he rode, was leading a spare beast.
Carlo wagged his tail sympathetically.
* * * * *
Overhead the sky was of the deepest, richest sapphire blue, paling
away to the horizon to the most delicate tints, against which the
distant hills showed up in bold relief.
"Gentleman Jim," one of the native servants, was evidently enjoying
his Sunday too, for he loitered in the garden, plucking up a weed here
and there and watching the bees at work, the busy bees who know of no
day of rest.
"Bring me some grapes, please, Jim," Hansie called out to him.
"Yes, little missie," with alacrity. "What you like? Them black ones
or them white ones?"
"Some of both."
He walked briskly to the house to fetch a basket and disappeared into
the vineyard, returning shortly with a plentiful supply of luscious
grapes.
"Thank you, Jim. Enough for a week!" Hansie laughed, and he looked
pleased as he went off in the direction of the river.
A few moments later, half concealed by the shrubs and rank grass with
which the lower part of Harmony was overrun, Hansie noticed two
stooping figures in khaki, moving forward cautiously and then making
sudden dashes at some object, invisible to the girl. She watched them
intently, wondering who the intruders were and what their game could
be, until they came so near that she was able to distinguish what it
was they nourished in their hands. Butterfly nets!
A pair of harmless Tommies, spending their Sunday morning in catching
butterflies and the other insects of which there abounded so large a
variety at that time of the year.
They did not catch sight of the girl until Carlo sprang up barking
furiously, and then they started back in consternation and surprise.
"Lie down, Carlo," Hansie commanded sharply. "Good morning," to the
men.
"Good morning, miss," respectfully; "I hope we are not intrudin'."
"Certainly not. Are you catching butterflies? Show me what you have
got."
The men produced their spoil with pride.
"Will you have some grapes?" Hansie asked, handing the basket to one
of them, who helped himself gratefully and then passed it on to his
comrade. The latter, evidently not of a very sociable disposition,
took a bunch and walked off in pursuit of more butterflies.
The first soldier, however, squatted down on the ground at some little
distance from the girl and began to talk, as he ate the grapes with
great relish. At this point Carlo raised himself with the utmost
deliberation, yawned, stretched himself, and sauntering (I cannot call
it anything except _sauntering_) slowly towards his mistress, laid his
full length on the ground between her and the Tommy. Then he went
sound asleep to all appearances, but his mistress observed that when
the soldier made the slightest movement, the dog's ears twitched or an
eyelid quivered.
Slowly eating his grapes, the man glanced curiously at the book on
Hansie's lap.
"Are you sketchin', miss?" he asked.
"No; writing."
"Poetry?"
There was no answer.
"I am one of Lord Kitchener's body-guard," he went on presently. "We
are encamped near Berea Park on the other side of your fence. We were
in Middelburg last week and I saw one of the Boer Generals, General
Botha."
Hansie's heart bounded. She looked at the man incredulously.
"Indeed! How was that possible?"
"Quite simple, miss. Lord Kitchener invited the General into town to
have an interview with him. His brother--I think his name is
Christian--came with him. I acted as their orderly."
"Tell me more, tell me everything," the girl's voice shook with
ill-controlled emotion.
"There were five or six other men with them. They arrived at about
nine in the morning and stayed until half-past four that afternoon.
They had lunch with Lord Kitchener. A fine man the General is, well
set up, big and broad-shouldered."
"Yes, I know." Hansie _could not_ withhold those words.
"You know!" he exclaimed in great surprise. "Do _you_ know General
Botha?"
"Yes, indeed. And what is more, he is _my_ General."
The soldier looked at her in ludicrous amazement.
"Are you a Boer? You don't look like one, and I never heard any one
speak better English."
"I don't know whether what you are saying is meant as a compliment to
me, but I don't like being told that I don't look like a Boer, and I
certainly would not be pleased if you took me for an Englishwoman."
The poor Tommy looked troubled and muttered something about "no
offence meant, I am sure."
"Now please go on and tell me more about the General. Did you hear
anything of what he said to Lord Kitchener?"
"Nothing, miss, except when he went away. They shook hands very
hearty-like and the General said, 'Good-bye; I hope you will have good
luck.' That was all."
"Good luck! What do you think he could have meant?"
"We don't know, miss, but we think he meant good luck in Natal, for
Lord Kitchener went yesterday and I hear there is some talk of peace."
Hansie sat silent for a long time, turning these things over in her
mind.
"But what is all this accursed war about, miss? We soldiers know
nothing except that we have to fight when we are ordered to do so."
"Of course you know nothing. An English soldier is nothing but a
fighting machine, not allowed to think or act for himself. Discipline
is a grand thing, but Heaven protect a man from the discipline of the
British army. The war? I will tell you if you want to know. The war is
a cruel and unjust attempt to rob us of our rich and independent land,
and England is the tool in base and unscrupulous hands. You suffer
too, I know, and all my heart goes out in sympathy to the bereaved and
broken-hearted Englishwomen across the seas. Their only comfort is
their firm belief that their heroes died a noble death for freedom and
justice. Did they but know the truth! They died to satisfy the lust
for gain and greed of gold of mining magnates on the Rand."
"Suffer, miss! As long as I live I will not forget that march from the
colony, through Bloemfontein to Pretoria. Fighting nearly every day
and marching at least thirty miles a day, on _one biscuit_. There was
no water to be had! Will you believe that for three days not a drop of
water passed my lips? And I heard the other fellows say, not once, but
a thousand times, 'Would to God that a bullet find me before night!'
Our tongues were hanging from our mouths and our lips were
cracked----"
"Stop!" Hansie cried, putting her hands to her ears. "I do not want to
hear another word. These things cannot be helped, and your officers
suffered too!"
"The officers! When at last the water-carts came, we had to stand
aside and watch while bucketsful were being carried into the tents for
their _baths_!"
There was silence again.
"If I were an English soldier, I would run away," Hansie said.
"I've had enough, God knows, and when I get home I mean to leave the
Army and take up my old work--carpentering. The war can't last very
long. England is mighty--but I wish the bloomin' capitalists would
come and do the fighting, if they want this country and its
gold-mines."
"There are only a 'few marauding bands' left, so the English say,"
Hansie answered bitterly. "But remember what I tell you now. South
Africa will be soaked in blood and tears, and a hundred thousand
hearts will be broken here and in your country, before the mighty
British Army has subdued those 'few marauding bands.'"
The soldier's face grew troubled once again.
It was a good, strong face--a patient face--and it bore the marks of
much suffering, endured in silence and alone.
He rose and took off his cap.
"You've been very good to me, miss. I wish I could be of some use to
you."
"Run away from Lord Kitchener!" she said, laughing. "I would be very
sorry indeed if you fell by the hand of one of my brothers."
He looked at her sympathetically.
"How many brothers have you in the field?"
"God only knows," she answered sadly. "There were two left when last
we heard of them. The third has been made a prisoner."
The soldier took his leave and Hansie lost herself in reverie.
And when at last she roused herself, she wrote with rapid pen:
"Two Tommies have been in our garden, catching butterflies----" We
know the rest.
* * * * *
That afternoon about ten or twelve young people assembled in the
garden and were later joined by several members of the Diplomatic
Corps--Consul Cinatti, Consul Aubert, and Consul Nieuwenhuis, the most
frequent visitors at Harmony.
_The_ topic of conversation was connected with General Botha's visit
to Lord Kitchener in Middelburg, and when Hansie told her friends what
she had heard from the soldier that morning, they expressed their
conviction that every word he said must have been true.
And the latest _official_ war news, in rhyme, the dispatch from
Kitchener to the Secretary of State for War, came in for its share of
attention, occasioning no small amount of merriment.
Oh, happy afternoon! Oh, memories sweet! Oh, long departed days of
good fellowship and mutual understanding! Bright spots of gold and
crimson in our sky of lead!
* * * * *
Mrs. van Warmelo never at any time encouraged evening visitors. They
were all early risers at Harmony and their life could not be adapted
to the artificial, the unnatural strain of modern civilisation.
So the quiet evenings were spent by the mother in reading and writing,
while the daughter gave herself up to the indulgence of her one great
passion, music. Scales and exercises, Schubert and Chopin, and
invariably at the end--before retiring for the night--Beethoven, the
Master, the King of Music.