SYSTEM EMPLOYED BY THE SECRET COMMITTEE
Mr. Willem Bosch, a cripple, unable to take active work upon himself,
acted as Secretary to the Committee, Mr. Els was old and infirm, and
Mr. Botha, as we have heard, had been struck by lightning and was
frequently prostrate with headaches of an intensely severe nature.
But for these infirmities these men would have been on commando with
their brother burghers.
The wider circle of conspirators consisted of ten or twelve men and
women, who carried out the instructions of the Committee, but in no
case attended their meetings or conferred with them in the presence of
the spies from the field.
Their work chiefly consisted in finding out men anxious to escape from
town and ignorant of the way to go about it--an exceedingly difficult
and dangerous task, with so many National Scouts and other traitors in
their midst.
In order to protect themselves from the danger of being led into a
trap, the following precautions were taken by the Committee and
strictly carried out by their fellow-workers:
When a man was found anxious to join the Boers, he was instructed,
under the most binding injunctions to secrecy, to keep himself in
readiness to depart at a given moment, on the shortest possible
notice. The arrival of an escort from commando was then awaited.
They did not have long to wait, as two or three times a week, without
fail, a small escort of armed men was to be found at a certain spot in
the vicinity of the capital, while one of their number was sent into
town to inform the Committee of the fact.
The fugitive was then instructed to walk slowly in a certain street,
from one point to another at a given hour. Here he was met by a man
unknown to him, usually one of the four, who signed to him to follow
him.
He was not allowed to speak to or follow his leader too closely. It
was not known to him beforehand whether his destination lay north,
south, east, or west. He had but to follow and to find himself, as
darkness fell, in the hands of the armed burghers.
The men in town were unarmed. It was one of the first rules of the
Committee that no spy entering the town should carry arms of any
description, this rule having been made to safeguard them from death
in the event of their being taken by the enemy.
Too often was this precaution disregarded by young and hot-headed
spies, who took the risk upon themselves, preferring death to falling
into the hands of the English.
Captain Naudé's case was recognised by the Committee as an exception
when once it became known to them that a heavy price had been set on
his head.
Incidentally I may remark here that this sum was known, during the
early part of the war, to be £500 and that it was gradually increased
to £1,500, as the Captain became more notorious for the daring nature
of his enterprises. He was told by an English officer; after the war,
that the British had spent over £9,000 in the vain attempt to capture
him. This statement may, or may not, have been correct, but certain it
is that nothing was left undone to put an end to his activities,
numbers of men and women being employed, under liberal payment, to
trap him when he visited Pretoria.
In the field, too, his life was known to be even more precarious than
in town, for many were the hirelings surrounding him, watching their
chances to capture him and hand him, dead or living, into the power of
his foes.
It was therefore an understood thing that Captain Naudé should at all
times be armed, heavily armed, in the field and when he came to town.
Not so the Secret Committee. What might be his only safeguard would,
in the event of their arrest, prove to be their undoing, and this they
fully realised as they remonstrated, not once, but many times, with
the young spies who worked for them.
The violation of this rule, which they wished to see enforced so
rigorously, was sometimes followed by most terrible consequences.
That this brave band of earnest men should have continued their work
so long, beset, as they were, with a thousand dangers and
difficulties, is a marvel indeed. With so much treachery in the air,
it is a wonder to us still that they were able to carry out their
daring enterprise with so much success and to escape detection for so
long.
But they were prudent and cautious, they knew and trusted one another,
and they observed, with conscientious thoroughness, the unwritten
motto of the Committee:
"Think quickly, act firmly, calmly, prudently, without fear. Speak as
little as possible."
Terrible were the experiences of some of the men on their secret
visits to the town.
Captain Naudé, arriving one night at the house of his friend Mr.
Hattingh (the spies naturally did not take shelter in their own
homes), was informed that his mother lay dangerously ill in her house
close by. It was feared that she would not recover. In the shadows
which enveloped her she seemed to have forgotten all about the war,
and her only cry was for him, her son.
What was he to do? His mother was surrounded by nurses, and the house
was filled with relatives and friends.
As Captain of the Secret Service, his name was too well known. He
could not show himself at such a time, when he had every reason to
believe that the enemy was watching him with extra vigilance.
The next news, while he was still in hopeless deliberation, was that
his mother had passed away.
It needs a strong man's most powerful self-control to "act firmly,
calmly, prudently," at such a time, and yet even then he restrained
the impulse to go to her.
Of what avail to kiss that icy brow?
Next day, from his hiding-place behind the window curtain, he watched
his mother's funeral procession, passing by.
His comrade, Johannes Coetzee, nicknamed Baden-Powell, the man who had
left the town with him on his second expedition, once had a miraculous
escape from death.
He was leaving for commando with a bag containing clothes, a number of
Mauser cartridges which the Committee in town had collected by
degrees, when he was taken prisoner by the enemy just as he was
nearing the wire enclosure.
He was immediately taken to the Commandant, who examined the bundle
containing the contraband articles, and ordered him to be escorted to
another Department. Of his guilt, proof positive had been found, but
this fact was not conveyed to the armed soldier who was about to
escort him to his doom.
On their way, he knew not where, Coetzee pleaded with the guard to
release him.
"I have been taken under false pretences," he said. "I am innocent, an
employee at the Lunatic Asylum. If you will escort me over the railway
line, I will pay you."
"How much money have you?" the man asked.
Coetzee took some silver from his pocket, counted it and said:
"I have only thirteen shillings."
"That will do," his guard replied, and conducted him in safety to the
asylum, in the vicinity of which he found his tethered horse, still
waiting for his return, the soldier himself holding his horse and
assisting him to mount with the bag containing the ammunition.
Disregard for wise counsel from older men, head-strong self-will, and
a sheer indifference to death and danger were the causes of much
disaster in those days.
On the other hand, recklessness and the very disregard for death
mentioned above brought more than one man safely through the fierce
fires of adversity, as we shall see in the tragic and stirring events
to be recorded in this and the next chapter.
One there was amongst the spies, noted for his extraordinary bravery,
a hero of the rarest type, of whom we can only speak with bated breath
and thrilling hearts. In the brief record of his heroic life--and
still more heroic death--we have a rich inheritance.
Adolph Krause was his name, a man still young, a married man. He was a
German by birth, but a full burgher of the State for which he
sacrificed his noble life.
The first time Krause had left the capital he had been escorted out,
with eight other Germans, by Mr. Willem Botha, while Captain Naudé
conducted seven or eight young Boers to the freedom of the veld.
There had been no adventures then.
Subsequently, in and out he came and went, with the greatest
regularity, and as often as twice a week he would leave the town with
large numbers of Boers and Germans, eager to join the burgher forces
in the field. His services became more and more valuable.
One evening when, after two days' rest in town, he was again preparing
to depart for the commandos, his friend Willem Botha called to escort
him through the town, as had been previously arranged.
Mr. Botha's house was in Proes Street between van der Walt and Market
Streets, while not far away his trusted friend and confederate Mr.
Hocke lived, a man who rendered such innumerable services to the
Boers that his name must not be forgotten here.
These two men met at Mr. Krause's house and found him ready to depart.
Although a man of slender build, he had now attained to such gigantic
proportions that his friends could scarce believe their eyes, and,
incredible as it may seem, the following is a full and accurate
description of what he had about his person that memorable night:
Two pairs of trousers; two shirts; two full Mauser bandoliers over his
shoulders and crossed over his breast; a woollen jersey; a thick coat;
a long Mauser gun thrust into one trouser-leg; a German revolver
belonging to Mr. Hocke; his own revolver, and a bag of about two feet
in length, containing Mauser ammunition, which had been buried by Mrs.
Botha and was now going "to the front"; boots, soap, washing soda,
cotton, and a number of other small articles, which had been ordered
by the women on commando--that unknown band of heroic women, fleeing
north, south, east, and west with their men, for whom they cooked and
sewed and prayed throughout the long years of the war.
Krause had been "shopping" in town for these brave sisters in the
field, and I am sure his thoughts that night were not of fear for the
perils he was about to face, but of satisfaction and pleasurable
anticipation of the joy his arrival at commando would occasion the
women at the front.
Would that one of their undaunted band could be induced to give the
world a record of their unique and altogether wonderful experiences of
the war!
Mr. Krause's slight form was now twice, perhaps nearly thrice its
usual size, and his friends, when they looked at him, laughed in
incredulous amazement.
"Oh, man, what would I not give to possess a photo of you as you are
dressed to-night!" Mr. Botha exclaimed between his fits of laughter.
It was now 7 o'clock and nearly dark.
The two guards, walking up and down the street on their accustomed
beat, had just withdrawn; 7 o'clock was their dinner hour, this the
plotters knew.
In a moment, Krause, with the bag over his shoulder and one leg of
necessity held very straight, limped out into the open street, "Oom
Willie" (Botha) following and crossing to the other side.
Close to a street lamp, at the corner of Market Street, Krause
suddenly saw a soldier walking on ahead, upon which he immediately
turned down into Market Street, with the evident intention of pursuing
his way along Vermeulen Street. This his friend quite understood as,
ever on the opposite side of the street, he watched and followed
Krause in his course.
Again a soldier appears on the scene, this time walking _towards_ them
in Vermeulen Street. No time to turn back now; forward, boldly
forward--the fugitive has been observed.
Under one of the lamps the watcher on the other side sees to his
horror that one of the bandoliers has pushed its way up to the neck
and is showing plainly above the collar of the coat.
The British guard observes this too, for he turns under the lamp and
watches the retreating form intently. Just a moment, and he raises his
whistle to his lips, giving forth the shrill alarm.
The game is up. Mr. Botha, unarmed, can be of no assistance to his
friend, who now must fight his way alone from death and danger. The
Mauser gun, which has been impeding his every movement, is whipped out
of the trouser-leg as he flies, weapon conspicuously in hand, through
the well-lit streets of Pretoria, until, making a sudden dive, he
disappears between the wires of a fence, into the seclusion of a
peaceful private garden. There is no time to think. He rushes through
the garden from one side to another, out into the next street, and so
on; block after block he takes, until he finds himself alone in a
quiet street, far from the scene of danger, and while his enemies are
surrounding and searching the block into which he first had
disappeared, he is many miles away, plodding weary and heavy-laden to
friends and liberty.
Only half satisfied as to his comrade's escape, Mr. Botha returned
home in sore distress that night to watch and await developments, and
it was not until Krause surprised him later with another and wholly
unexpected visit that he learnt the sequel and happy ending of that
memorable flight.