HE had been talking that morning at the Office of the siege of
Ladysmith, for six relatives of the family were at the front, three
with Sir George White in the besieged place, and three with Sir Redvers
Buller, fighting for their deliverance. Word had come to the house the
night before that Ladysmith might be relieved any hour, and every
one knew that unless help came speedily, the garrison would have to
surrender. Duty took me to Cambridge that day, and I had gone upstairs
to get ready, and coming down again I heard a shout in the hall as
if something had happened, but it did not occur to me what it was. My
hostess was speaking excitedly somewhere, and I could not catch what she
was saying. Servants had rushed out from bedrooms and other places, and
were standing on the breakfast-table in a house near the War landings.
As I reached the hall the butler, a most stately personage, broke forth
from his quarters and rushed past me carrying his coat on his arm, and
then in his shirt sleeves, having forgotten to put on his coat, and
without a hat--he will likely deny this, but he was a spectacle for gods
and men--he ran, yes, he who was intended by nature to be an archbishop,
ran across the square. Then I understood, and turned to a footman, who
looked as if he would like to follow the butler.
“Ladysmith,” was all I said.
“Yes,” he cried; “word come, War Office, sent here, butler gone, make
sure”; then he went out to the doorstep to catch the first sight of the
returning butler. Meanwhile my hostess had come down to the hall, and
there had gathered the household of all kinds and degrees--my host and
the other guests had gone out--housemaids, ladies' maids, kitchen-maids,
footmen, her majesty the cook, and every other person beneath the roof,
high and low, and we were all trembling lest there had been some mistake
in the message, and the news was not true. The butler came across St.
James's Square, and when he saw us standing--forgetting himself again,
but now he had his coat on--he waved triumphantly, and then we knew
that Ladysmith was saved. We gave some sort of cheer and shook hands
indiscriminately, each one with his neighbour, and with two or three
neighbours, and talked together, mingling names of Generals and
relatives, and places, and battles, while the butler, who had arrived
and regained his breath, but not yet his unapproachable dignity, assured
us that the siege was lifted, and that White, and what remained of his
gallant men, were unconquered.
It was time for me to start, and I told the hansom man to drive round by
the War Office, that I might see this great thing. When we got down
the Press were just leaving with the intelligence, and the first of the
public were reading the news. Each man took the news in his own fashion,
one laughing and slapping his legs, another crying and speaking
to himself, a third rushing out to cheer, and I, why I, being an
unemotional Scot, remembered that if I fooled away any more time,
reading news of victories, I might lose my train, so I rushed back to
the hansom.
“Is't all correct?” the driver leant down from his perch, determined
not to let himself go till he was perfectly certain that, not only the
straight tip had been given, but that at last the event had come off.
“All right,” I said; “Buller's army have driven back the Boers, and the
advance guard has entered Ladysmith.”
Whereupon he whipped off his hat, and standing up in his place, a stout,
red-faced Englishman in sporting dress, he gave a cheer all on his own
account, and then when I got in he opened the trap and shouted down,
“Old Buller's done it; he had a bloomin' tough job, but he's a game
sportsman, and I said he'd do it. And old Buller's done it.” Again he
celebrated the event with a cheer, and we started for Charing Cross.
Something occurred to me, and I pushed the trap open. “Look here,” I
said, “the people near the War Office have heard the news, but after we
pass Piccadilly Circus you'll be the first man to tell that the siege is
raised.”
“Right, sir, I'm on the job. Old Buller's done it.” By the time we
reached Bloomsbury he had the whole country to himself, and he did his
duty manfully. As we crossed a thoroughfare, he would shout to the'bus
drivers on either side, “Ladysmith relieved; just come from the War
Office. Old Buller's done it.” Then in an instant, before we plunged
into the opposite street, one could see the tidings run both ways,
from 'bus to 'bus, from cab to cab, and the hats waving in the air, and
hear, “Ladysmith and Buller.” Bloomsbury is a fearfully decorous and
immovable district, inhabited by professors and British Museum students,
and solid merchants, and professional men, but my driver for once
stirred up Bloomsbury. A householder would be standing on his doorstep
in tall hat and frock coat, well brushed, and with a daintily folded
umbrella under his left arm, fastening the left button of the second
glove, and looking out upon the world from the serene superiority of a
single eyeglass. Then he would catch sight of us, and the sound of
something my driver was flinging to the men on a furniture van.
“What's that?” he would cry in a sharp, excited, insistent voice;
“anything about Ladysmith?”
“Relieved,” from the hansom top. “War Office news. Old Buller's done
it.”
Down fell the umbrella on the step, and down came the eyeglass from
the eye, and with an answering cheer the unstarched, enthusiastic,
triumphant, transformed householder bolted into his home to make it
known from attic to kitchen that White and his men had not fought in
vain.
Round the dustbin at the corner of a street half a dozen street boys were
gathered, and the driver in his glory passed a word to them also. They
did not know where they would get their dinner, and they had not had
much breakfast, their whole stock of clothes would not have been worth
1s. 9d., and not one of them had a cap, but they also were a bit of
England, and this victory was theirs, and the last I saw of them they
were standing each one upon his head and waving joyfully with his feet.
“See, sir, how the kids took it,” for my driver was getting more
magnificent every minute; “said all along old Buller would do it.”
Coming down Euston Road was one blaze of glory, and when we swept into
King's Cross Station at the gallop, and my driver saw the crowd of
waiting porters and other hangers-on, an audience as yet unspoiled and
waiting, ready for such news, it was, I take it, the greatest moment in
his life. He pulled up the horse on his haunches, and again stood up on
his high place.
“Straight from the War Office, as hard as we could drive; it's all right
at Ladysmith--the siege is lifted, and old Buller's done it”; and then,
to crown the occasion, “Three cheers for General Buller.”
He led from the top, and they joined from below, and so great was the
excitement that when I offered the usual tip to the porter to carry my
things to the carriage, he flatly refused to take it.
“Hexcuse me, sir, not to-day; I ain't that sort. You brought the news of
Ladysmith.” Which indeed was all my share of the glory of the passage:
the rest belonged to my driver, who was indeed a Mercury fit for the
work of the gods.
Just as the train was starting a man arrived with a pile of newspapers
to sell them on the downward journey, for the special editions with the
relief of Ladysmith had been got out with vast celerity. It was a pretty
sight when the train stopped at some country station to see the man jump
out and hear him shout the news, while the people, a moment ago stolid
and indifferent, crowded round him to buy the paper. And then the train
went on its way, followed by a cheer, because Ladysmith was safe. At one
station two respectable country women got into the compartment where I
had been alone, and they had been so eager, as their kind is, to secure
their places, that they had not caught the news before the train left
the station. By-and-by they began talking together, and it appeared that
the elderly woman had a son at the front, a reservist in an infantry
regiment with General Buller, while the other was the wife of a
reservist who was with the cavalry under General French. It was hard
lines, one could not but feel, for those women to have a son and a
husband taken away from their homes and peaceful employment, and sent
out to hardship and danger. And it would not have been wonderful if they
had complained of their lot. But no, my heart swelled with pride as in
a corner of the carriage, and behind my newspaper, I heard the mother and
the wife exchanging news from the seat of campaign, and talking cheerily
of critical affairs. Till at last, and quite suddenly, trouble arose,
and there might have been a hot quarrel in that compartment.
“My man's all right,” said the wife; “he's with French, you know, and
French looks after his men, 'e does. Jim says as 'ow 'is General won't
let 'is men into any traps.”
“Who are ye getting hat may I ask?” said the elderly lady, flushing
purple with indignation--“talking about traps. If it's General Buller
ye're meanin', hexcuse me telling you, 'e don't get 'is men into traps. My
boy says that he 'ad the hardest job of them hall, 'ad General Buller, and
George, 'e writes and says to me in 'is last letter, 'you just wait and
see if General Buller don't do it'--them's 'is very words, 'you just
wait and see if General Buller don't do it.'”
The younger woman explained she had been making no reflections on
General Buller, but only had been telling how proud her husband was of
his Commander, but nothing would appease the old lady.
“I know nothing about French, and I say nothing against French, but I
wish you to understand that Buller is a good old sort, and, as sure as
you're sitting there in this carriage, 'e'll do the job.”
Then I laid down my newspaper, and addressed the reservist's mother.
“Madam,” I said, “your son was right, and Buller is a good old sort;
he's done the job, and Ladysmith is safe.”
We all shook hands, two women wept, but not for sorrow, and a man looked
out of the window, intent upon the scenery.