PEACE, PEACE--AND THERE IS NO PEACE!
If I may dare to hope that there are, among my readers who have
followed me with so much patience through this book, some sufficiently
interested in the heroine to desire information on what befell her in
her future lot, I should wish to give to them just a glimpse or two
into scenes as totally different from the events recorded in this
volume as night is from day. And to do this freely, unreservedly, I
must endeavour to forget my close connection with the heroine, a
connection the thought of which has hampered and restricted me, from
first to last, in choosing and rewriting the material from her diary.
Her diary, as I have said before, had ended soon after her last
adventure with the spies, never to be resumed again.
I do not, however, write from memory in this brief chapter on her
subsequent experiences, for I have before me for reference a pile of
letters from her to her mother.
Almost her last word when she left her native land was an injunction
to her mother to preserve her letters for the future,--"for when I am
married, mother dear, _you_ will be my diary."
Hansie's health gave way.
Not in a week or a month, not in any way perceptible to those around
her, but stealthily, treacherously, and relentlessly the fine
constitution was undermined, the highly strung nervous system was
shattered. This had taken place chiefly during the desolate and dark
hours of the night, when, helpless in the grip of the fiend Insomnia,
the wretched girl abandoned herself to hopelessness and despair.
And the time was soon to come when she feared those dreadful waking
hours even less than the brief moments of fitful slumber which
overcame her worn-out, shattered frame, for no sooner did she lose her
consciousness in sleep than she was overpowered by some hideous
nightmare, and found herself, shrieking, drowning in the black waters
of some raging torrent, or pursued by some infuriated lunatic or
murderer, or enveloped in the deadly coils of some hideous reptile.
Shuddering from head to foot after each of these most awful realities
of the night, she was soothed and comforted by the tender hands of her
distressed and anxious mother.
Something had to be done, of that there was no doubt. Not even the
strongest mind could have endured such a strain for any length of
time, and that Hansie's reason was preserved at all I put down to the
fact that she had never once throughout the war entertained the idea,
the possibility, of the loss of her country's independence.
The blow, when it came, found her so far from the scenes of her recent
sufferings, as we shall see presently, that she was able to endure it,
as one, far removed from the death-bed of her best beloved, is spared
the crushing details, the cruel realities of that last parting scene.
The thought of the strong heart across the seas, waiting to receive
her, would have been of more support to her in those days had she
known by experience what it _could_ mean to a woman, tried as she had
been, to place herself and all her grief in the protecting,
understanding love of a good and noble man.
But even this comfort was denied to her; in fact, the thought of her
uncertain future, and her fear that the step she was about to take
might prove to be a great mistake in her abnormal condition, were an
added burden to our sorely tried and now completely broken-down
patriot.
Plans were made to send her out of the country.
Her sister, Mrs. Cloete, who had for some months been trying to
procure a permit to visit the Transvaal, was, after great trouble and
inconvenience, successful in her endeavours and arrived at Harmony on
Saturday, March 29th, 1902.
What words from my poor pen can describe the emotions of _that_
meeting?
Even Hansie's diary has nothing to say except "let us draw the veil,"
but memory is strong and the bands of love and kinship are
unbreakable, even under the adversities of long and bitter years--nay,
rather are they strengthened by the threads of common woe, woven into
their very fibre at such a time of bitter trial.
The mother spent hours with her elder daughter, happy beyond power to
express, relating her experiences and adventures, comparing notes and
making plans for their future.
All that month of April was filled with rumours of an early peace, and
hopes were buoyed up with the certainty that "peace with honour" would
and could be the only termination to the peace conferences. Incredible
as it may seem to some of my readers, the Boer opinion was that
England was about to end hostilities and that, under certain terms,
the independence of the two Republics would be assured.
No reliable information reached our friends at Harmony, for the
activities of the Secret Service had ceased entirely--at least, as far
as the town was concerned.
Uncertainty, excitement, expectation filled the air, reaching their
height on April 12th, when the news of the Boer leaders' arrival at
the capital spread like wild-fire through the town.
Steyn, Botha, de Wet, de la Rey, Reitz, and a host of others were
amongst "their own" again, under circumstances of unique importance.
They were not allowed to mix freely with the crowd, but kept in a
state of highly honoured captivity in the beautiful double-storied
house known as "Parkzicht," opposite Burghers Park, well guarded night
and day by armed patrols, who kept the crowd at bay with a friendly
"Move on, please," when they touched the limit of their beat.
Mrs. van Warmelo and her two daughters, like so many other
citizenesses, lost no opportunity of walking in the neighbourhood of
"Parkzicht," and they were fortunate beyond their wildest hopes in
being greeted by the Generals on more than one occasion.
One day as they were passing they observed the familiar figure of
General Botha on the balcony.
They waved their handkerchiefs and there was no doubt about his
recognition, for he took off his hat and waved it, kissing both his
hands to them.
(General Botha it was who, after the war, said to Mrs. van Warmelo,
clasping her hand and looking earnestly into her eyes:
"You have done and risked what even I would not have dared.")
After six or seven days in Pretoria the Boer leaders left for their
commandos, to deliberate, with what result Hansie did not know until
nearly two months later in mid-ocean, where at a distant isle the news
of the declaration of peace was made known to her.
The three women at Harmony now turned their thoughts into another
channel.
The mother being far from well herself, arrangements had to be made to
leave her in the companionship of some suitable and congenial woman,
until her "boys" came home--one from the front, if he were still
alive, the other from captivity. A girl friend offered to take
Hansie's place at Harmony and promised not to leave Mrs. van Warmelo
until the country was in a settled state again.
This was Hansie's only crumb of consolation during those last days at
home.
Many difficulties were made about her permits when she applied for
leave to go to Holland, and many were the questions asked, her
interview with General Maxwell being the least unsatisfactory when she
told him of her approaching marriage.
"You may go with pleasure," he had said; but a few days afterwards
Hansie received a letter from the Provost-Marshal, saying that "the
present regulations do not allow burghers or their families to leave
South Africa."
Hansie wrote to Lord Kitchener, but received no reply, and it was
nearly the middle of May, after some weeks of uncertainty, harder far
to bear than trouble of a more decided character, when she and Mrs.
Cloete left the capital for Cape Colony.
Hansie's last words in her diary are:
"There is quite a history connected with the procuring of my permits,
which I shall relate another time. _I am too tired now._"
Words significant of what the girl had endured in parting from her
mother and leaving her beloved country at a time so critical!
* * * * *
On an ocean-steamer she found herself at last--alone, for in that
crowd there was no face familiar to her to be seen.
She mixed freely with the crowd; she sought, in the games with which
these voyages usually are passed, to forget--to forget; but the nights
of sleeplessness remained--her waking terror, with which she was
consumed.
Two men there were who proved sympathetic, one a Scotchman, the other
an Englishman--both anti-Boer and sadly misinformed when first she met
them, both "converts" by the time they reached their native shores.
Sitting at table she listened intently to the conversations on the
war--the war, the never-ending war. On no occasion did she breathe a
word of what _she_ knew, of what _she_ felt, until one day at dinner
a young English lieutenant, "covered with glory" and returning home a
hero of the war, enlarged on the services rendered by one brave
officer, well known by name to Hansie.
"It is not only what he achieved with so much success in the field,"
he continued. "I am thinking now of those two years he spent in the
Pretoria Forts _before_ the war, as a common labourer, doing menial
work with other men, and secretly making plans and drawing charts of
the Pretoria fortifications. Every detail was made known to our
military before we went to war."
Exclamations of surprise, a murmur of admiration, ran along the table.
Hansie waited until there was a lull, and then she asked:
"The work carried out by him, was it done under oath of allegiance to
the Transvaal Government?"
There was one moment's painful silence before the young lieutenant
answered, with a laugh:
"Of course; it could not possibly have been done otherwise--but all is
fair in love and war."
"War?" Hansie exclaimed--"I thought you said that this was done some
years _before_ the war."
"Yes, but we all knew what things were leading to!"
This incident was the first hint among the passengers that she was not
one of them.
At first they looked at her askance, but as the days went on and the
girl steadfastly avoided every allusion to the war, refusing to
express her opinions to any one, except the two men mentioned above,
the feeling of discomfort passed, and she was once again included in
the pastimes of the ship's company.
As they were nearing Teneriffe the longing for news, for the latest
cables from England and South Africa, possessed every soul on
board--and now I find that, search as I will, within the recesses of
my mind, for words with which to describe adequately such scenes,
brain and hand are powerless.
* * * * *
There was peace in South Africa--peace "with honour" for England,
peace _and defeat_ for the Boers!
* * * * *
In a moment the ship's crew went mad, as the wild cheering rolled over
the waves.
Hansie stood stupefied until (and strange it is that at a time like
this an insignificant detail should stand out in sharp relief against
the background of her dulled sensibilities) an hysterical woman ran up
to her with outstretched hands, crying:
"Oh, my dear, my dear, let me congratulate you! Let us shake hands!"
The girl, thus taken by surprise in all that crowd, recoiled in
shuddering distress, while, with hands clasped convulsively behind,
she murmured:
"Oh, I _could not_--I _could not_!"
A wave of deep resentment passed over the ship's passengers, and
hostile eyes looked on her frowningly.
* * * * *
That night, as the good ship was ploughing the waters on her way once
more, a solitary figure stood on the deserted decks.
In the saloons great bumpers of champagne were passing round, while
the strains of "God save the King" and "Rule Britannia" floated over
the ocean waves.
A man in search of her, fearing perhaps, I know not what, approached
the drooping figure of the girl, and pressed her hand in silent
sympathy.
"There is no peace!" she said. "Do you think I believe these lying
cables? The Boers will _never_ yield. If you knew what I know, you
would take these reports for what they are worth. I have been trying
to think what it all can mean, and this is the conclusion I have come
to. If it be true that peace has been proclaimed, then the Boers have
preserved their independence, and this last fact has been excluded
from the cables in view of the approaching Coronation. But my own
conviction is that there is no peace at all, but that these cables
have been sent to reassure the English public, and to make it possible
to celebrate the crowning of the King in a splendour unclouded by the
horrors of the South African war. Believe me, when the Coronation is
over you will hear of a mysterious renewal of hostilities."
The man was silent, troubled. He had not the heart to argue with the
girl, perhaps he thought, and rightly thought, that this strange
illusion of the brain, this confident belief in her own convictions,
would help to tide her over the first days to follow.
"I cannot understand," he said, "how Mrs. ---- could have asked you to
shake hands with her."
"Oh, I was wrong," Hansie said. "She meant it kindly. How could _she_
understand? I will apologise--to-morrow."
* * * * *
It had been arranged that Hansie should spend a few days in London to
see some friends before proceeding to Holland.
She found the mighty metropolis in the throes of preparation for an
event of unparalleled magnificence.
Every sign of splendour and rejoicing was a fresh sword through the
heart of our sorely tried young patriot.
The people with whom she stayed, old Pretoria friends, had not an
inkling of what was passing in her mind.
Their warm and loving greetings, their loud expressions of delight
that the war had come to an end at last, were so many pangs added to
her grief.
"You will come with us to the Coronation?" her hostess said; "we have
splendid reserved seats, and this event will be unparalleled in the
history of England."
Again the unfortunate girl found herself recoiling, taken by surprise;
again she said:
"Oh, I _could not_! Not to save my life!"
"Not go to see the Coronation! I am surprised at you. Very few South
African girls are lucky enough to benefit by such an opportunity. I
must say I think it very narrow-minded of you. You disappoint me. The
war is over now, and while we are all trying to promote a feeling of
good-fellowship you nourish such an unworthy and narrow-minded
spirit."
Narrow-minded, unworthy!
The iron entered deep into her soul; and when she looks back now and
takes a brief survey of what she suffered throughout those years, that
moment stands out as one into which all the fears, the hopes, the
agonies of one short lifetime had been crowded.
Sometimes the human heart, when tried beyond endurance, will reach a
point where but a trifling incident, an unkind word, is needed to
break down life's stronghold.
This point our heroine had reached.
Something passed out of her soul, an undefinable something of which
the zest for life is made, and as she felt the black waters of despair
closing over her she almost gasped for breath.
She turned away.
"You will never understand. I think it very kind of you to make such
plans for my enjoyment, but--to the Coronation of the English King I
_will not go_. Leave me here--I have some writing to do--no need to be
distressed on my account. My one regret is that my presence here, at
such a time, should be a source of so much painfulness to us both."
With cold courtesy the subject of the approaching Coronation was
dropped, until the next day, when the appalling, the stupefying news
of the postponement of the Coronation spread through the hushed
streets of the great metropolis.
The King was dying, was perhaps already dead. The King had undergone a
critical operation and his life still hung in the balance.
The King could not be crowned.
Already the black wings of Death seemed to be stretched over the
mighty city, with its millions and millions of inhabitants. The
multitude was waiting in hushed expectancy, in breathless suspense.
Hansie, walking through the streets with one of the men whose
sympathy on board had been of such unspeakable comfort to her, never
felt more unreal in her life. Her mind was in a maze, she groped about
for words with which to clothe her thoughts, but groped in vain, for
even the power of thought had been suspended for a time.
Her companion, glancing at her face, asked suddenly, curiously:
"Would you be glad if King Edward were to die?"
There was a long pause, while the girl strove to analyse her feelings.
At last she answered slowly, simply, truthfully:
"No; I would be sorry."
And in these words, good reader, when I think of them, I find a
certain solution to the problem of her behaviour on many occasions
when brought into close contact with her country's enemies.
There was never anything personal in the most bitter feelings of
resentment and hatred of her country's foes, and never at any time did
she belong to the ranks of those among her fellow-patriots who deemed
it an unpardonable crime to recognise and appreciate the good
qualities possessed by them.
A love of fair-play characterised her, even as a child, and it is
certain that the cruel circumstances of the war developed this sense
of justice to an abnormal extent, often bringing upon her, in later
years, misunderstanding and distrust from those who should have been
her friends.
* * * * *
It is June 28th, a glorious, cloudless summer's morn.
Speeding swiftly, almost silently, cutting its way through the calm,
blue waters of the English Channel, a passenger-boat is fast
approaching Holland's shores.
The hour is early, and of the few figures moving on the pier, one
stands apart, watching intently, as the ship draws near.
He waves his hat, he has recognised the figure of the girl who stands
on deck and waves her handkerchief in response to his greeting.
His strong hand clasps hers; and now the discreet reader need not
avert his eyes--no need here to "draw the veil"--for Hansie had
written from London to this tall, broad-shouldered man:
"What is left of me is coming to you now, but we must meet as
_friendly acquaintances_, until we are both certain of ourselves."
How long this "friendly acquaintance" lasted it is difficult to say,
for there is a difference of opinion on the point.
_She_ says, not less than sixty minutes.
_He_ asserts, not more than thirty-five!
* * * * *
The exquisite serenity of her father's native land, especially on such
a perfect day in midsummer, had never seemed to her so sweet.
Here, indeed, she felt that peace _could_ come to her at last.
* * * * *
But not yet--not yet.
Strong emotions of a different kind awaited her, the meeting of
beloved friends and relatives, after seemingly endless years of pain,
proving no less trying than the introduction to a large circle of
_future_ relatives and friends.
Hansie had to be "lionised" as heroine of the war, and this was done
in a whole-hearted, generous way which was a constant source of wonder
to her.
She was "carried on the hands," as the Dutch saying goes, by all who
had the remotest claim on her.
Functions were arranged for her, receptions held, to which
white-haired women and stately venerable men came from far to shake
her hand, because she was a daughter of the Transvaal, nothing
more--not because of what she had done and endured, for this was known
to only one or two.
Old friends from South Africa there were in scores, and for the time
the State of Holland was transformed into a colony of Boers, which
seemed complete when the Boer leaders, Botha, de Wet, and de la Rey,
arrived with their staffs. Then it seemed as if the people of Holland
lost their heads entirely, and scenes such as those which took place
daily in the streets are never to be forgotten by those who witnessed
them.
All this, though wonderful, was not the best thing for our heroine,
who was "living on her nerves," though in a different way, as surely
as she did during those cruel years of war.
Added to this she was frequently tried beyond endurance by the
questions:
"Why did the Boers give in? How _could_ the Boers give in and lose
their independence?"
One conversation in particular was burnt into her brain.
"Was it the Concentration Camps?"
"No," the answer came slowly, "no, it was not the Concentration Camps.
The high mortality was past, the weakest had been taken, and there
was no cause for anxiety for those remaining in the Camps. Their
rations had been increased and improved--there was no more of that
first awful suffering."
"What was it, then? The arming of the natives?"
The answer came more slowly:
"No, it was not the arming of the natives. Their forces were more
scattered, for they were chiefly employed in guarding the railway
lines, in protecting stock and guarding block-houses. Though their
addition to the British ranks undoubtedly weakened our strength to
some extent, their inborn respect for the Boer would have prevented
them from ever rendering valuable services to the English. How we
laughed, my sister and I, when, on the railway journey from Pretoria
to Cape Town, we saw the line patrolled by hundreds of these natives,
with gun in hand, stark naked except for a loin-cloth and a bandolier!
So much waste of ammunition! No, the arming of the natives would have
been the last thing to induce the Boers to surrender."
"Then it seems to me incomprehensible! surely death were preferable to
defeat!"
"Yes, a thousand times; but you forget the National Scouts--the
Judas-Boers. _They_ broke our strength. Not by their skill in the use
of arms, not by their knowledge of our country and our methods--no!"
"They broke our strength by breaking our ideals, by crushing our
enthusiasm, by robbing us of our inspiration, our faith, our hope----"
With averted eyes, and seemingly groping for one last ray of light,
the man continued:
"But where were your heroes--your heroes of Magersfontein, Spion Kop,
and Colenso?"
"Where were our heroes?" the girl echoed bitterly. "In their
graves--in our hospitals--in captivity! Ever foremost in the
field--one--by one--they fell---- 'But the remnant that is escaped of
the house of Israel shall again take root downward and bear fruit
upward.'
"Although, under the shadow of this great national calamity, we cannot
see it now, there is hope for our sad South Africa. It is too soon to
speak of a united race, but the time will surely come when, in the
inter-marriage of our children and our children's children, will be
formed a nation great and strong and purified."
Through all those weeks our heroine never slept. It seems incredible
that the frail form of a girl should be endowed with so great a power
of endurance, and that the human mind can stand the strain of smiling
self-control by day, abandonment of grief by night.
Those nearest to her, divining something of what she was passing
through, lavished countless proofs of tender sympathy on her,
innumerable acts of loving care for her personal comfort, and
well-thought-out plans for drawing her away from herself into the
charmed circle of the B---- Labouchere house.
And when her marriage-day drew near she turned away with a superficial
glance at the array of costly presents, to devour once again the
cables from South Africa, the telegrams from her Generals, the letter
and the photograph of her beloved President, inscribed in his
illegible hand, "For services rendered during the late war."
Last, but not least, there came to her official-looking documents
from Het Loo, the personal congratulations of the Queen, the Prince
Consort, and the Queen-mother--and the ancient blood of Holland
coursed more swiftly through her veins as she thought of Wilhelmina,
the dauntless young Queen of the Netherlands, now _her_ Queen.
In all the ranks of the "Petticoat Commando" there was not one woman
who had dared more, risked more, than the brave Queen of Holland when
she dispatched her good man-of-war to bear away from the shores of
Africa the hunted President of the South African Republic, to the
refuge of her hospitable land.
* * * * *
Flowers, flowers everywhere, first in baskets, then in cartloads, then
in waggon-loads, they were deposited at the doors until they
overflowed from the reception-rooms into the halls and staircases, and
even the verandahs--chrysanthemums and roses in riotous profusion,
nestling violets, rarest orchids, bright carnations, heavy with the
richest perfume.
Each flower had a separate message for the bride. They understood, and
they enveloped her with their unspoken sympathy.
Some there were adorned with her beloved, her most tragic "Vierkleur,"
and over them she lingered long, breathing a prayer to merciful Heaven
to still her beating heart for ever.
Not in the wild beauty of the Swiss scenery did she find rest, not by
the calm lakes of sapphire blue in which she saw reflected the rugged
mountains, soul-satisfying in their majestic grandeur, not in the
soundless, the mysterious regions of the eternal snows--but in the
north of Holland, where she found herself when autumn fell, Hansie
slept.
Languid and more languid she became; drooping visibly, she sank into
oblivion in that northern village home, conscious only in her waking
hours of the cold, the driving sleet, the howling wind, the ceaseless
drip, drip of the swaying trees.
As the long winter months crept by, her sleep became more and more
profound, less haunted by the hideous nightmares of the past, and
though she at first rebelled, ashamed of her growing weakness, she was
soon forced to yield to the resistless demands of outraged nature.
In this she was supported by her husband, who, unknown to her, was
acting on the advice of the famous nerve-specialist who had watched
her unobserved.
"Let her sleep, if need be for a year, and in the end you will find
her normal and restored, of that I am convinced," he had said; and in
these words her husband found his greatest comfort, as he tucked his
little dormouse in and tip-toed from the darkened room.
Hansie lost count of time, but there were two days in the week of
which she was quite sure--the day on which the South African mail
reached her and the day on which it was dispatched. In between she
slept, as we have seen, but when she woke she always knew that her
enfranchised spirit had been to her native land.
* * * * *
A full year had gone by, fifteen months, and when the first breath of
winter once more touched the land she gradually became aware of
voices calling to her, insistent, imperative voices from across the
seas.
"I must go," she said. "What am I doing here? South Africa is calling.
My people want me there. You and I must go. There is a great work for
us both." And he, no less ardent and enthusiastic, yielded to her
prayers, bade farewell to home and fatherland, sailed away with her to
the unknown.
"In all the world," she said, "there is no pain to be compared with
the pain of being born a patriot; but a patriot in _exile_--may Heaven
protect me from the tragedy of such a fate!"
CONCLUSION
The veil is lifted for one last brief glimpse.
Ten years have gone by since the declaration of peace, ten years each
more wonderful than the last, full to overflowing of life's rich
experience of joy and grief.
By some strange turn in the hand of Destiny, our heroine finds
herself, after many vicissitudes, an inhabitant of the Golden
City--that Golden City which had wrecked her youth and very nearly
wrecked her life.
For years it has seemed incredible to her that she should have been
destined for the position she now holds, a position of so much trust,
so difficult, so critical.
A plaything in the hand of Fate, she thought at first, when looking
from her balcony she saw the Golden City, with its extensive suburbs
stretched out at her feet, and heard the distant, never-ceasing roar
of the innumerable mine-batteries of the Rand. But the resistless hand
of Fate was drawing her into the sphere of work for which she longed
most ardently--woman's work, at home, abroad--and the glamour of
Johannesburg stole over her in time.
* * * * *
The terms of peace have been fulfilled, responsible government for the
Transvaal and Free State, and Hansie thinks with an intolerable pain
of that day at Teneriffe. Had she but known--had she but known--but
the cables (she had called them "lying cables" then, and she was not
far wrong) had spoken only of a glorious victory for the English and
unconditional surrender on the part of the Boers. No word about the
terms, the _only_ terms on which the Boers would ever have yielded
their independence.
Responsible government has been followed by the Union of the South
African provinces.
South Africa is united _in name_, if not yet in reality, but the time
will surely come, as we have said before, when, under the softening
influence of time, a great united race will be born.
* * * * *
Closely pressing around Hansie as she writes are eager little faces,
reverent little fingers touching the scattered pages before her, brave
eyes of blue and brown, looking wonderingly into hers.
"Writing a book, mother? About the spies? And the lemon-juice? Oh,
mother, what will the English say?"
And the accents falling on her ear are in the expressive sweetness of
the South African Dutch, in its most cultured form.
* * * * *
Hansie ought to be a happy woman. None of the joys of life have been
withheld from her, and yet--and yet----
_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| Typographical errors corrected in text: |
| |
| Page 100: 'unkemp hair wast' replaced with |
| 'unkempt hair was' |
| Page 222: rovolver replaced with revolver |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+