GOAL-KEEPER
Baden-Powell was at Henley, preparing to enjoy the festivities of the
1899 Regatta in one of the pleasantest houses on the river, when a
telegram arrived calling him to the War Office. This was on Wednesday,
and the business the state of things in the Transvaal. On Saturday he
was on the sea, sailing away from the coast of England.
As we have said before, Baden-Powell keeps a khaki kit in perfect
readiness for emergencies ("he is terribly methodical," says one of
his brothers), and, therefore, when Lord Wolseley asked him how soon
it would be before he could start, the delighted B.-P. answered with a
very enthusiastic "Immediately." But ships are not kept in such easy
readiness as kits, and two whole days had to elapse before our hero
could set sail for the land where war was brewing. Those two days he
spent with his family and in paying farewell visits to his friends.
The Old Carthusian naturally bent his steps towards Charterhouse, and
sought out Dr. Haig-Brown in the Master's Lodge. "I hope they'll give
me a warm corner," he said, gripping the Doctor's hand. And then in a
few weeks this Old Boy was in his African corner, enjoying its
Avernus-like warmth.
The story of the siege of Mafeking is one of the most interesting an
Englishman can read about. One may truthfully say that it is the story
of a single man--our hero, B.-P. Good men he has had under him,
skilful officers and valorous troops; but all the daring, all the
gallantry, all the heroism would have been powerless in such a
situation without the unlimited resourcefulness of the intrepid
Goal-Keeper. With a handful of men he has held at bay in a small and
very exposed town as many as 6000 Boers, commanded at one time by the
dogged and unscrupulous Cronje. And not only this. With his small
force he has kept the enemy on tenterhooks all the weary weeks of the
siege, sallying out at night to fling his gallant men upon their
trenches, storming them in their lines by day, and actually giving the
large army besieging his little garrison a taste of cold steel.
In years to come, I suppose, only the imagination will be able to
realise the effect on the stoical British mind of Baden-Powell's brisk
and witty telegrams. England at that time, let it be known, was in a
state of sullen wonderment. Every dispatch brought consternation to
our minds. Here were our troops pouring into South Africa, soldiers of
renown at their head, regiments famous throughout the world,
representing our courage and prestige, and yet check after check,
reverse after reverse--no progress, no sign of progress. In the midst
of this national gloom came telegrams full of cheery optimism from
little Mafeking--a name hardly known then to the man in the street,
now as familiar as Edinburgh and Dublin. Who, for instance, can forget
the famous message which ran: "October 21st. All well. Four hours'
bombardment. One dog killed"? In an instant the gloom was dispelled.
In 'bus and tram and railway carriage men chuckled over the exquisite
humour of that telegram. Leader writers, unbending, referred to it
decorously. The funny men on newspaper staffs made jests about it,
and the "Oldest Evening Paper" enshrined it in verse:--
Four long, long hours they pounded hard,
Whizz! went the screaming shell--
Of reeking tube and iron shard
There was an awful smell.
On us they wasted all their lead,
On us who stood at bay,
And with our guns (forgive it, Stead!)
Popped quietly away.
They could not make the city burn,
However hard they tried.
Not one of us is dead, but learn
A dog it was that died.
The reaction was extraordinary. The almost unknown Colonel
Baden-Powell instantly became "B.-P." to the general public, and in
the twinkling of an eye his photograph appeared in the shop-windows
beside those of Sir Redvers Buller, Sir George White, and Lord
Methuen. Everybody was cracking jokes about the war, and the Boers
seemed to be already under the heel of the conqueror. When men opened
their newspapers in the railway carriage it was with the remark,
"How's old B.-P. getting along?" The doings of other soldiers in more
important positions lost much of their interest, and the public mind
became riveted on Mafeking. Here was a light-hearted cavalry-officer
locked up in a little frontier town with seven hundred Irregular
cavalry, a few score volunteers, six machine-guns and two 7-pounders;
against whom was pitted the redoubtable Cronje with one 10-pounder,
five 7-pounders, two Krupp 12-pounders, and one Krupp 94-pounder, and
probably an army of something like 6000 wily Boers. And yet the
Goal-Keeper, 870 miles from English Cape Town and only 150 miles from
Boer Pretoria, was as light-hearted and optimistic as a general
leading an overwhelming army against a baffled and disorganised foe.
Englishmen were quick to recognise the virtue of the man who solemnly
sent the death of a dog to be recorded in the archives of the War
Office; quick to appreciate the peril of his position; and I do not
think I am screwing my string too tight when I say that the safety of
Baden-Powell from that moment became a personal matter to thousands of
Englishmen all the world over. Miss Baden-Powell at this time was
travelling in Scotland, and at some out-of-the-way station she and her
boxes detrained. The station-master passing along the platform
noticed the name of Baden-Powell on the trunks, and instantly rushed
towards her, with beaming face and extended hand,--"Gie me the honour,
ma'am," he cried, "o' shakin' your hand." And from this time gifts and
letters poured in ceaselessly upon Mrs. Baden-Powell in London,
letters from all classes of the nation, costly gifts, humble
gifts--all testifying to the giver's love and admiration of her
gallant son in Mafeking. One of these presents took the form of a
large portrait of B.-P. worked in coloured silks, another a little
modest book-marker. And in the streets gutter-merchants were doing a
roaring trade in brooches and badges with B.-P.'s face smiling on the
enamel as contentedly as if immortalised on a La Creevy miniature.
Finally, to complete this apotheosis, Madame Tussaud announced on
flaming placards that Baden-Powell had been added to the number of her
Immortals.
This, then, was the sudden fate of the man who had returned to England
from wandering alone within a stone's throw of the Matabele bivouac
fires unknown and unhonoured by the public. I wonder if Baden-Powell
had a presentiment of what was to be when, in the early days of the
siege, he corrected the proofs of _Aids to Scouting_, and came upon
his own words towards the end of that manual: "Remember always that
you are helping your _side_ to win, and not merely getting glory for
yourself or your regiment--that will come of itself."
The wit of Baden-Powell in some measure obscured from the popular view
the grimness of his task. Like the true Briton that he is, he
considered it part of his duty to make light of his difficulties. But
the holding of Mafeking was stern work. The Boers themselves never
dreamed the defence would be seriously maintained, and in the early
days of the siege they sent in a messenger under a flag of truce
offering terms of surrender. Baden-Powell gave the messenger a
sumptuous lunch, himself the most delightful of hosts, and sent him
back with word to the accommodating Boers that he would be sure and
let them know immediately he was ready to yield the town. And to
Cronje's humanitarian plea that Baden-Powell should surrender in order
to avoid further bloodshed, the Goal-Keeper made answer, one can see
his eyes twinkling, "Certainly, but when will the bloodshed begin?" A
little later he got in with a still more irritating piece of irony,
addressing a letter to the burghers asking them if they seriously
thought that they could take the town by sitting down and looking at
it.
But this was at a time when Baden-Powell, in common with the rest of
us, believed that the triumphant British Army would soon be coming up
to Mafeking, and he himself able to sally out and strike a crushing
blow at the besieging force. Weeks passed and the hope died. The Boers
cut off the water-supply, and, with contrary ideas of logic, thought
that such an action would damp the spirits of Baden-Powell. But that
thoughtful and resourceful commander had seen that all the old wells
were cleaned, and well filled, so that Mafeking was as secure from a
water-famine as it was from the entrance of the Boers. Besides this,
Baden-Powell had constructed bomb-proof shelters everywhere, and a boy
stood ready with bell-rope in hand to ring immediate warning of a
shell's approach. Trenches were dug giving cover and leading from
every portion of the town. So perfect indeed were Baden-Powell's
defences that it was possible to walk entirely round the little town
without being exposed to the Boer fire. Telephones, too, were
established between the headquarter bomb-proofs of outlying posts and
the headquarter bomb-proof where Baden-Powell and Lord Edward Cecil,
D.S.O., laid their heads together and planned the town's defence. And
to keep the enemy at a respectful distance, Baden-Powell continually
sent out little forces to harass them and keep them in a state of
nerves. The Matabele never knew when Impessa was coming, and the Boers
could never lie down to sleep with the assurance that they would not
be awakened by the rattle of British musketry and the dread "Reveillé"
of cold steel. Here is one instance. Knowing that the Boers fear the
bayonet more than rifle bullets, Baden-Powell determined upon a sortie
in which his men should get within striking distance of the large army
closing round the town. One night he sent fifty-three men with orders
to use only the bayonet, and this insignificant force crept silently
to the enemy's trenches in the darkness, and scattered six hundred
Boers from their laager. So close to the town were the assaulted
trenches of the enemy that the officer's sudden and thrilling
"Charge" rang out distinctly on the night to the ears of those
anxiously waiting the result of the sortie in Mafeking. This gallant
attack completely "funked" the Boers, and at two o'clock in the
morning, long after the little force had returned triumphantly to the
town, they began another fusillade, firing furiously at nothing for a
whole hour. Fight after fight ensued. Whenever the enemy occupied a
position likely to inconvenience the town, Baden-Powell took arms
against them, and drove them out. After several experiences of this
kind the Boer lost his temper, and with it all sense of honour. It is
difficult to write without unbridled contempt of their inhuman
bombardment of the women and children's laager in the gallant little
town which neither their valour nor cunning could reduce. Baden-Powell
loves children, and few incidents in the siege of Mafeking could be
more distressing to those who know the stout-hearted Defender than
these cruel bombardments. His sorrow over the killed and wounded
children was of the most poignant character. One of the officers wrote
to his mother during these dark days, saying how the whole garrison
was touched to the heart by seeing their Commander nursing terrified
children in his arms, and soothing their little fears. If anything
could have stirred that just and honest nature to unholy thoughts of
vengeance it would have been the murder of these children; and I doubt
not that he will hit the harder and the more relentlessly when he gets
at close quarters with his enemy, fired by the thought of those
mangled little bodies and the remembrance of their mothers' agony. And
in addition to the murderous shells of the Boers, typhoid and malaria
were at their fell work in the women's laager; the children's
graveyard just outside the laager extended its sad bounds week by
week, and the cheerfulness that marked the beginning of the siege died
in men's hearts.
[Illustration: Goal-Keeper
By permission of the "Daily Graphic."]
The cheerfulness, but not the determination. Baden-Powell wrote home
in December, after some two months of the siege, saying that they were
all a little tired of it, but just as determined as ever never to
submit. And in order to keep up the spirits of the garrison in the
hour when it seemed to many Englishmen that Mafeking was to be another
Khartoum and he a second Gordon, Baden-Powell began to plan all
manner of entertainments for the amusement of the women and children.
The special correspondent of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ in Mafeking, who
sent to his journal some of the most interesting letters received
during the siege, bore witness to Baden-Powell's efforts in this
direction. In one of his letters he said: "The Colonel does all in his
power to keep up the spirits of the people. To-day we have quite a big
programme of events--the distribution of flags in the morning, cricket
afterwards, general field sports, plain and fancy cycle races, a
concert in the afternoon, and in the evening a dance given by the
bachelor officers of the garrison. We have no Crystal Palace or
monster variety hall, but nevertheless we manage to enjoy ourselves on
truce days, and it goes without saying that the institution of sports
and pastimes has done wondrous things in the way of relieving the
tension on the public mind, and keeping up the health of the
population. It may shock the mind of some cranks to hear that we so
spend our Sundays; but if such persons wish to test the worth and the
wisdom of a rational Sabbath, transfer them here, and let them have a
week of shell-fire. They will speedily become converts." During the
Matabele campaign, it may be remarked, Baden-Powell always held divine
service on Sunday, and even to those whose training makes them regard
the playing of innocent games on Sunday an offence, this holiday of
Sunday in Mafeking must surely be regarded as a holy-day, pleasing to
the Father of men. The love of Baden-Powell for children, his intense
eagerness to keep alive the flame of joy in their young hearts, and
the spark of hope still burning in the hearts of their defenders,
could not, we may be very certain, inspire any decision displeasing to
high Heaven.
Baden-Powell's dauntless courage, his brisk unchanging hopefulness,
and his unflinching determination to "stick it out," were the
inspiration of the splendid little garrison. To many of them surrender
would have meant nothing more than release from a diet of horse-flesh
and the irritating confinement of a siege; but no man and no woman in
Mafeking even breathed the suggestion that Baden-Powell should haul
down his flag; and on the hundredth day of the siege Mafeking sent a
telegram of loyal devotion to the Queen, whose anxiety for their
safety was not concealed from the world. A hundred days have long
since passed, and if the request of Lord Roberts that Baden-Powell
should hold out to the middle of May turns out to be history, the
siege will have lasted considerably over two hundred days. And during
these long, long days men have been in the trenches night and day,
children crying to their mothers to be taken away from the pitiless
rain of Boer bullets and the terrifying scream of Boer shells; day by
day fever has crept in to lessen the number of brave men whose faith
in the Old Carthusian never once wavered, and to rob poor mothers of
their little ones. And with all these distressing experiences to wear
him down and sicken his heart, our hero found himself further hampered
by treachery in his own camp.
Treachery it was that frustrated Baden-Powell's great effort to break
the cordon pressing so relentlessly upon little Mafeking, and by that
means open up communication with those marching to his relief. The
battle of Game Tree fort, as it is called, is one of those events
which thrill the heart with pride, and then at the conclusion bring
tears into the eyes with the reflection that so much skill in the
planning, so much valour in the execution, should be defeated by base
treachery.
Baden-Powell's plans for the taking of this fort were perfectly
understood by his officers. The little force entrusted with the work
of carrying Game Tree moved out of the town in the dusk of early
morning, and in a few minutes the roar of artillery announced the
beginning of a desperate fight. The scream of the engine of the
armoured train told the men at the guns to cease firing, meaning that
Captain Vernon was ready to rush the position with the bayonet. The
scene that followed was magnificent. Waving their hats and cheering
like schoolboys after a football match, our men started to run through
the scrub towards the silent fort. And then as they went, a pitiless
fire suddenly poured in upon them, a hail of bullets tore up the
ground at their feet, swept down their gallant ranks, like grass
before the scythe, and the men realised amid that enclosing and
remorseless fire that treachery had forewarned the Boers, that Game
Tree was impregnable. But did they waver or turn back? Not them. They
were many yards from the fort, and their orders were to storm it. On
they rushed, the officers well in front, waving their swords in the
air and shouting cheerfully to their men to follow. Three officers,
Vernon, Sandford, and Paton, seem to have made a race of it. Through
that terrible zone of fire these young Englishmen rushed forward with
all the zeal of men striving to be first to touch the tape. Captain
Vernon fell ten yards from the thundering fort, and Sandford and Paton
were left to fight out that splendid race alone. With a shout from his
parched lips, Paton leaped upon the redoubt, caught with his strong
hand the corner of a sandbag, jerked it out of position, thrust his
revolver through the loophole, and, panting like a man spent, fired
into the enemy's midst till he fell, shot through his gallant heart.
Sandford, too, had run a great race, and had almost tied with Paton on
the post. He flung himself upon the piled wall that could only be
broken by heavy artillery, and fell shot through, with his breast
almost against the muzzles of the enemy's guns. Nor were the
non-commissioned officers and men far behind their valiant leaders;
one intrepid sergeant, who was twice wounded, and at some distance
from the redoubt, continued the race across the bullet-swept scrub and
reached the sandbags almost on the heels of Paton. The men went
forward shouting and cheering, unafraid to look death in the face,
afraid only to turn back with their faces from the sandbags where the
smoke drifted, and from whence the hail of bullets rained. There was
no coward among their ranks, and even when the gallant souls realised
that the position was impregnable, there was not a single man among
them who wavered, or dropped back in the race. From the moment when
the order to charge had been given, the attack was an eagerly
contested race, with Death sitting on the flaming fort with the crown
of glory for their prize.
When an aide-de-camp from the officer commanding the operations
galloped up to Baden-Powell with the woeful intelligence that Captain
Vernon had been repulsed, the Goal-Keeper hesitated, and the
bystanders saw that he was taking counsel with himself as to whether a
second attack should be made upon Game Tree fort. But his decision was
soon reached, and in a quiet voice he said, "Let the ambulance go
out." And that was the way in which Baden-Powell took the defeat of
his great plan for breaking the tightening cordon round Mafeking.
In history are recorded sieges of a more thrilling character than that
of Mafeking, but if you consider the story of this little town's
defence you will find, I believe, that in few other cases have
difficulties of so oppressive a character been borne with greater
fortitude and courage. In a large town a siege is not so wearing to
the nerves as it is in a little village the size of Mafeking; and in
the case of this miniature garrison the troublesomeness has been
doubled by the small number of men to share the burden of days and
nights spent in the trenches, now blistered by the sun's rays, now
drenched to the skin with rain that converted the ditches into small
rivers. It is not our purpose to magnify Baden-Powell's defence, but
it is necessary to caution you against the natural course of following
his example and treating the Boer bombardment as a joke. It was no
joke; and, if it had been, even the best of jokes pall when repeated
through days and weeks and weary months. But the garrison would never
let anybody dream that they were doing heroic things, never send
imploring messages for help to men already occupied with the enemy in
other parts of South Africa. To the question, "How long can you hold
out?" Baden-Powell had only one answer, "As long as the food lasts."
And so we take leave of our friend the Old Carthusian defending his
warm corner. As the last page is turned we see him walking through the
streets of Mafeking, now glancing with hard steely eye to the forts
which throw their coward shells into the women's laager, now turning
to give an order with clenched hands and locked jaws, and now stooping
down to lift a child into his arms and caress away its little fears.
On his mind weighs the safety of that town with its handful of brave
lives, the prestige of England, which suffers if the flag once set
above the roofs of any town, whatever the size, falls before the
assault of the Queen's enemies, and the thought that far away in
distant London the mother who made him what he is, waits on the rack
for his delivery. Be sure that never a thought of adding to his own
reputation enters the mind of Baden-Powell in little Mafeking, that
never does bitterness for tardy release enter his soul, and that all
his labour has but one great all-embracing end--the victory of his
side. "Play the game; play that your side may win. Don't think of
your own glorification or your own risks--your side are backing you
up. Play up and make the best of every chance you get."
FINIS
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Baden-Powell, by Harold Begbie