CONCERNING A BOER CONVOY
Heilbron: May 22.
Heilbron lies in a deep valley. About it on every side rolls the grassy
upland country of the Free State, one smooth grey-green surge beyond
another, like the after-swell of a great gale at sea; and here in the
trough of the waves, hidden almost entirely from view, is the town
itself, white stone houses amid dark trees, all clustering at the foot
of a tall church spire. It is a quiet, sleepy little place, with a few
good buildings and pretty rose gardens, half-a-dozen large stores, a
hotel, and a branch line of its own.
For a few days it had been capital of the Free State. The President,
his secretaries, and his councillors arrived one morning from Lindley,
bringing the 'seat of government' with them in a Cape cart. For nearly
a week Heilbron remained the chief town. Then, as suddenly as it had
come, the will-o'-the-wisp dignity departed, and Steyn, secretaries,
councillors, and Cape cart, hurried away to the eastward, leaving behind
them rumours of advancing hosts--and (to this I can testify) three
bottles of excellent champagne. That was on Sunday night. The
inhabitants watched and wondered all the next day.
On the Tuesday morning, shortly after the sun had risen, Christian De
Wet appeared with sixty waggons, five guns, and a thousand burghers,
very weary, having trekked all night from the direction of Kroonstadt,
and glad to find a place of rest and refreshment. 'What of the
English?' inquired the new-comers, and the Heilbron folk replied that
the English were coming, and so was Christmas, and that the country to
the southward was all clear for ten miles. Thereat the war-worn commando
outspanned their oxen and settled themselves to coffee. Forty minutes
later the leading patrols of Broadwood's Brigade began to appear on the
hills to the south of the town.
Looked at from any point of view, the British force was a formidable
array: Household Cavalry, 12th Lancers and 10th Hussars, with P and Q
Batteries Royal Horse Artillery (you must mind your P's and Q's with
them), two 'pom-poms,' and two galloping Maxims; and, hurrying up behind
them, Light Horse, Mounted Infantry, Nineteenth and Twenty-first
Brigades, thirty field-guns, more 'pom-poms,' two great 5-in. ox-drawn
siege pieces ('cow guns' as the army calls them), and Ian Hamilton. It
was an army formidable to any foe; but to those who now stared upwards
from the little town and saw the dark, swift-moving masses on the
hills--an avalanche of armed men and destructive engines about to fall
on them--terrible beyond words.
'And then,' as the poet observes, 'there was mounting in hot haste,'
saddling up of weary ponies, frantic inspanning of hungry oxen cheated
of their well-earned rest and feed, cracking of long whips, kicking of
frightened Kaffirs; and so pell-mell out of the town and away to the
northward hurried the commando of Christian De Wet.
The Cavalry halted on the hills for a while, the General being desirous
of obtaining the formal surrender of Heilbron, and so preventing
street-fighting or bombardment. An officer--Lieutenant M. Spender-Clay,
of the 2nd Life Guards--was despatched with a flag of truce and a
trumpeter; message most urgent, answer to be given within twenty
minutes, or Heaven knows what would happen; but all these things take
time. Flags of truce (prescribe the customs of war) must approach the
enemy's picket line at a walk; a mile and a half at a walk--twenty
minutes; add twenty for the answer, ten for the return journey, and
nearly an hour is gone. So we wait impatiently watching the two
solitary figures with a white speck above them draw nearer and nearer to
the Boer lines; 'and,' says the brigadier, 'bring two guns up and have
the ranges taken.'
There was just a chance that while all were thus intent on the town, the
convoy and commando might have escaped unharmed, for it happened that
the northern road runs for some distance eastward along the bottom of
the valley, concealed from view. But the clouds of dust betrayed them.
'Hullo! what the deuce is that?' cried an officer.
'What?' said everyone else.
'Why, that! Look at the dust. There they go. It's a Boer convoy.
Gone away.'
And with this holloa the chase began. Never have I seen anything in war
so like a fox hunt. At first the scent was uncertain, and the pace was
slow with many checks.
Before us rose a long smooth slope of grass, and along the crest the
figures of horsemen could be plainly seen. The tail of the waggon train
was just disappearing. But who should say how many rifles lined that
ridge? Besides, there were several barbed-wire fences, which, as anyone
knows, will spoil the best country.
Broadwood began giving all kinds of orders--Household Cavalry to advance
slowly in the centre; 12th Lancers to slip forward on the right,
skirting the town, and try to look behind the ridge, and with them a
battery of horse guns; 10th Hussars, to make a cast to the left, and the
rest of the guns to walk forward steadily.
Slowly at first, and silently besides; but soon the hounds gave tongue.
Pop, pop, pop--the advanced squadron--Blues--had found something to fire
at, and something that fired back, too; pip-pop, pip-pop came the double
reports of the Boer rifles. Bang--the artillery opened on the crest-line
with shrapnel, and at the first few shells it was evident that the enemy
would not abide the attack. The horsemen vanished over the sky-line.
The leading squadron pushed cautiously forward--every movement at a
walk, so far. Infantry brigadiers and others, inclined to impatience,
ground their teeth, and thinking there would be no sport that day, went
home criticising the master. The leading squadron reached the crest,
and we could see them dismount and begin to fire.
We were over the first big fence, and now the scent improved. Beyond
the first ridge was another, and behind this, much nearer now, dust
clouds high and thick. The General galloped forward himself to the
newly-captured position and took a comprehensive view. 'Tell the
brigade to come here at once--sharp.'
A galloper shot away to the rear. Behind arose the rattle of trotting
batteries. The excitement grew. Already the patrols were skirting the
second ridge. The Boer musketry, fitful for a few minutes, died away.
They were abandoning their second position. 'Forward, then.' And
forward we went accordingly at a healthy trot.
In front of the jingling squadrons two little galloping Maxims darted
out, and almost before the ridge was ours they were spluttering angrily
at the retreating enemy, so that four burghers, as I saw myself,
departed amid a perfect hail of bullets, which peppered the ground on
all sides.
But now the whole hunt swung northward towards a line of rather
ugly-looking heights. Broadwood looked at them sourly. 'Four guns to
watch those hills, in case they bring artillery against us from them.'
Scarcely were the words spoken, when there was a flash and a brown blurr
on the side of one of the hills, and with a rasping snarl a shell passed
overhead and burst among the advancing Cavalry. The four guns were on
the target without a moment's delay.
The Boer artillerists managed to fire five shots, and then the place
grew too hot for them--indeed, after Natal, I may write, even for them.
They had to expose themselves a great deal to remove their gun, and the
limber and its six horses showed very plainly on the hillside, so that
we all hoped to smash a wheel or kill a horse, and thus capture a real
prize. But at the critical moment our 'pom-poms' disgraced themselves.
They knew the range, they saw the target. They fired four shots; the
aim was not bad. But four shots--four miserable shots! Just pom-pom,
pom-pom. That was all. Whereas, if the Boers had had such a chance,
they would have rattled through the whole belt, and sent eighteen or
twenty shells in a regular shower. So we all saw with pain how a
weapon, which is so terrible in the hands of the enemy, may become
feeble and ineffective when used on our side by our own gunners.
After the menace of the Boer artillery was removed from our right flank,
the advance became still more rapid. Batteries and squadrons were urged
into a gallop. Broadwood himself hurried forward. We topped a final
rise.
Then at last we viewed the vermin. There, crawling up the opposite
slope, clear cut on a white roadway, was a long line of waggons--ox
waggons and mule waggons--and behind everything a small cart drawn by
two horses. All were struggling with frantic energy to escape from
their pursuers. But in vain.
The batteries spun round and unlimbered. Eager gunners ran forward with
ammunition, and some with belts for the 'pom-poms.' There was a
momentary pause while ranges were taken and sights aligned, and
then----! Shell after shell crashed among the convoys. Some exploded
on the ground, others, bursting in the air, whipped up the dust all
round mules and men. The 'pom-poms,' roused at last from their apathy
by this delicious target and some pointed observations of the General,
thudded out strings of little bombs. For a few minutes the waggons
persevered manfully. Then one by one they came to a standstill. The
drivers fled to the nearest shelter, and the animals strayed off the
road or stood quiet in stolid ignorance of their danger.
And now at this culminating moment I must, with all apologies to
'Brooksby,' change the metaphor, because the end of the chase was
scarcely like a fox hunt. The guns had killed the quarry, and the
Cavalry dashed forward to secure it. It was a fine bag--to wit, fifteen
laden waggons and seventeen prisoners. Such was the affair of Heilbron,
and it was none the less joyous and exciting because, so far as we could
learn, no man on either side was killed, and only one trooper and five
horses wounded. Then we turned homewards.
On the way back to the town I found, near a fine farmhouse with deep
verandahs and a pretty garden, Boer ambulance waggons, two German
doctors, and a dozen bearded men. They inquired the issue of the
pursuit; how many prisoners had we taken? We replied by other
questions. 'How much longer will the war last?'
'It is not a war any more,' said one of the Red Cross men. 'The poor
devils haven't got a chance against your numbers.'
'Nevertheless,' interposed another, 'they will fight to the end.'
I looked towards the last speaker. He was evidently of a different
class to the rest.
'Are you,' I asked, 'connected with the ambulance?'
'No, I am the military chaplain to the Dutch forces.'
'And you think the Free State will continue to resist?'
'We will go down fighting. What else is there to do? History and
Europe will do us justice.'
'It is easy for you to say that, who do not fight; but what of the poor
farmers and peasants you have dragged into this war? They do not tell us
that they wish to fight. They think they have been made a catspaw for
the Transvaal.'
'Ah,' he rejoined, warmly, 'they have no business to say that now. They
did not say so before the war. They wanted to fight. It was a solemn
pledge. We were bound to help the Transvaalers; what would have
happened to us after they were conquered?'
'But, surely you, and men like you, knew the strength of the antagonist
you challenged. Why did you urge these simple people to their ruin?'
'We had had enough of English methods here. We knew our independence
was threatened. It had to come. We did not deceive them. We told
them. I told my flock often that it would not be child's play.'
'Didn't you tell them it was hopeless?'
'It was not hopeless,' he said. 'There were many chances.'
'All gone now.'
'Not quite all. Besides, chances or no chances, we must go down
fighting.'
'You preach a strange gospel of peace!'
'And you English,' he rejoined, 'have strange ideas of liberty.'
So we parted, without more words; and I rode on my way into the town.
Heilbron had one memory for me, and it was one which was now to be
revived. In the hotel--a regular country inn--I found various British
subjects who had been assisting the Boer ambulances--possibly with
rifles. It is not my purpose to discuss here the propriety of their
conduct. They had been placed in situations which do not come to men in
quiet times, and for the rest they were mean-spirited creatures.
While the Republican cause seemed triumphant they had worked for the
Dutch, had doubtless spoken of 'damned rooineks,' and used other similar
phrases; so soon as the Imperial arms predominated they had changed
their note; had refused to go on commando in any capacity, proclaimed
that Britons never should be slaves, and dared the crumbling organism of
Federal government to do its worst.
We talked about the fighting in Natal which they had seen from the other
side. The Acton Homes affair cropped up. You will remember that we of
the irregular brigade plumed ourselves immensely on this ambuscading of
the Boers--the one undoubted score we ever made against them on the
Tugela.
'Yes,' purred my renegades, 'you caught the damned Dutchmen fairly then.
We were delighted, but of course we dared not show it.' (Pause.) 'That
was where De Mentz was killed.'
De Mentz! The name recalled a vivid scene--the old field-cornet lying
forward, grey and grim, in a pool of blood and a litter of empty
cartridge cases, with his wife's letter clasped firmly in his stiffening
fingers. He had 'gone down fighting;' had had no doubts what course to
steer. I knew when I saw his face that he had thought the whole thing
out. Now they told me that there had been no man in all Heilbron more
bitterly intent on the war, and that his letter in the 'Volksstem,'
calling on the Afrikanders to drive the English scum from the land, had
produced a deep impression.
'Let them,' thus it ran, 'bring 50,000 men, or 80,000 men, or even'--it
was a wild possibility--'100,000, yet we will overcome them.' But they
brought more than 200,000, so all his calculations were disproved, and
he himself was killed with the responsibility on his shoulders of
leading his men into an ambush which, with ordinary precautions, might
have been avoided. Such are war's revenges. His widow, a very poor
woman, lived next door to the hotel, nursing her son who had been shot
through the lungs during the same action. Let us hope he will recover,
for he had a gallant sire.