FINAL EXPERIENCES IN SOUTH AFRICA
Military Jealousies--Football--Cracked Ribs--A Mutiny--De Wet--A
Historian under Difficulties--Pretoria--Lord Roberts--With the
Boers--Memorable Operation--Altercation.
Military men are more full of jealousies and more prone to divide into
cliques than any set of men whom I have met. South Africa was rent with
their quarrels, and one heard on every side of how General This was
daggers drawn with General That. But the greatest cleavage of all was
between the Roberts men and the Buller men. The former were certainly
very bitter against the reliever of Ladysmith, and the comments about
the difference between his evening telegrams and those of next morning
were painful to hear. I had, however, less sympathy, as Buller was a
coarse-fibred man, though a brave soldier. Several authentic anecdotes
pointed to this want of perception. When, for example, he entered
Ladysmith the defenders saved up a few cakes and other luxuries for the
day of their release. These they laid before Buller at the welcoming
lunch. “I thought you were a starving city,” said he, looking round at
them. This story I heard from several men who claimed to speak with
knowledge as well as bitterness. It would have been sad had Buller’s
long meritorious, hard-fighting career gone down in clouds, but it
cannot be denied that in the French, or I think in any other service,
he could not have survived Colenso. The strange speech which he made
at a London luncheon after the war proved, I think, that his mind had
lost something of its grip of realities. Roberts, as usual, played the
noblest possible part in this unhappy controversy. “I shall handle
Buller with all possible tenderness,” he said to one of his Staff, and
he lived up to his words.
I found the hospital on my return to be in a very improved condition.
I fell ill myself, however, though it was not serious enough to
incapacitate me. I still think that if I had not been inoculated I
should at that time have had enteric, and there was surely something
insidious in my system, for it was a good ten years before my digestion
had recovered its tone. My condition was not improved by a severe
bruising of the ribs caused by a foul in one of the inter-hospital
football matches which we had organized in order to take the minds of
the men from their incessant work. Charles Gibbs strapped me up with
plaster, as in a corset, but I was getting too old for rough handling
which I could have smiled at in my youth.
One quaint memory of those days rises before me. There was a sharp
quarrel between Drury, our Military C.O. representing routine
discipline, and our cooks and servants representing civilian ideas
of liberty. It was mishandled and had reached such a point when I
returned from the army that the men were on absolute strike, the work
was disorganized and the patients were suffering. Drury was breathing
fire and fury, which only made the men more obdurate. It really looked
as if there might be a considerable scandal, and I felt that it was
just such a case as Mr. Langman would have wished me to handle. I asked
leave of Major Drury, therefore, that I might take the matter up, and
he was, I fancy, very glad that I should, for he was at the end of his
resources, and a public exposure of a disorganized unit means also a
discredited Commander. I therefore sat behind the long mess table, and
had the six ringleaders before me, all standing in a line with sullen
mutiny in their faces. I talked to them gently and quietly, saying
that I was in some sense responsible for them, since several of them
had been enlisted by me. I sympathized with them in all they had gone
through, and said that all our nerves had been a little overstrained,
but that Duty and Discipline must rise above our bodily weakness. No
doubt their superiors also had been strained and some allowance must
be made on both sides. I then took a graver tone. “This matter is just
going forward for court martial and I have intervened at the last
instant. You clearly understand your own position. You have disobeyed
orders on active service in the presence of the enemy. There is only
one punishment possible for such an offence. It is death.” Six pairs
of eyes stared wildly in front of me. Having produced my effect I went
into their grievances, promised that they should be considered, and
demanded an apology to Major Drury as the condition for doing anything
further. They were six chastened men who filed out of the marquee, the
apology was forthcoming, and there were no more troubles in the camp.
An anxiety came to us about this time from a very unexpected cause, for
Archie Langman, who had been my good comrade in my visit to the army,
went off again, trekking up country with the Imperial Yeomanry and ran
right into the arms of De Wet, who had just raided the line and won a
small victory at a place called Roodeval. The famous guerilla leader
was stern but just, and he treated the hospital men with consideration,
so that Archie returned none the worse for his adventure. But there was
a bad day or two for me between our learning of his capture and of his
release.
The army had got forward with little fighting, and Pretoria was in our
hands. It seemed to all of us that the campaign was over and that only
cleaning-up remained to be done. I began to consider my own return
to Europe, and there were two potent influences which drew me, apart
from the fact that the medical pressure no longer existed. The first
was that I had during all this time continued to write the History
of the War, drawing my material very often from the eye-witnesses to
these events. But there was a good deal which could only be got at the
centre, and therefore if my book was to be ready before that of my
rivals it was necessary for me to be on the spot. The second was that
a political crisis and a general election were coming on, and it was
on the cards that I might be a candidate. I could not, however, leave
Africa until I had seen Pretoria, so, with some difficulty, I obtained
leave and was off on the much-broken and precarious railway on June 22.
That journey was certainly the strangest railway journey of my life.
From minute to minute one never knew what would happen. I was in the
good company of Major Hanbury Williams, Lord Milner’s Secretary, who
allowed me to share his special carriage, and we had with us a little
alert man named Amery, then unknown to fame, but now deservedly in
the seats of the mighty. There were others but I have forgotten them.
When the train stopped in the middle of the veldt, which it continually
did, one never knew whether it was for five minutes or for five hours,
as did actually occur, and as it went on again without warning one had
to sit tight. We met a down train with its windows shattered and heard
that twenty folk had been injured in a Boer ambuscade. Every hour we
expected to be attacked. Once during one of our long halts we saw a
horseman come cantering over the great green expanse. We got out to
see and interview him. He was a tall, slab-sided fellow, unarmed, but
with a rakish debonnaire look to him. He said he was a loyal British
farmer, but I had no doubt in my own mind that he was a Boer scout who
wanted to see what our train was carrying. He sat easy in his saddle
for some little time, chatting with us, and then suddenly wheeled his
grey horse round and galloped away. Some way further down the line we
saw a farm burning, and a fringe of our irregulars riding round it. I
was told that it was one of De Wet’s farms and that it was a punishment
for cutting the line. The whole scene might have been in the Middle
Ages--say a company of Moss troopers on a raid over the English border.
When we came to the place of the Roodeval disaster, where our
Derbyshire militia had been sadly cut up by De Wet, the train had to
stop, for the line was under repair, and we were able to go over the
ground. The place was littered with shells for the heavy guns taken
from some looted train. Then there were acres covered with charred
or partly charred letters, blowing about in the wind, for De Wet had
burned the mail bags--one of his less sportsmanlike actions. Napoleon
went one better, however, on a certain occasion when he published an
intercepted British mail, which led to a British reprisal of the same
sort, not at all conducive to the peace of families. I picked up one
letter which fluttered up to me, and I read in rough handwriting, “I
hope you have killed all them Boers by now,” with many x (kisses)
underneath. Among other things were some of the band instruments,
across which De Wet had driven his heavy wagons.
It gave me a strange thrill when I looked out early one morning at
a deserted platform and saw the word Pretoria printed upon a board.
Here we were at last at the very centre of all things. The Transvaal
Hotel was open and for several days it was my head-quarters while I
examined men and things. One of my first tasks was to see Lord Roberts,
who desired to interview me on account of some sensational articles by
Burdett-Coutts which had appeared in the London Press upon the state of
the hospitals. Of course that state had in many cases, possibly in all,
been awful, but the reason lay in the terrible and sudden emergency.
Every one had done his best to meet it and had met it to a surprising
degree, but cases of hardship were numerous all the same. This I
explained to Lord Roberts--and also to the Royal Commission in London.
As an unpaid independent volunteer my words may have had more weight
than those of some far greater authority who was personally involved.
I can see Roberts now as he sat behind a small desk in his room. His
face looked red and engorged, but that was due no doubt to his life in
the sun. He was urbane and alert, reminding me at once of our former
meeting in London. His light blue eyes were full of intelligence and
kindness, but they had the watery look of age. Indeed, I can hardly
remember in all military history a case where a man over seventy had
been called out from retirement to conduct so arduous a campaign, and
it was his conception of the fine flank march to Paardeburg which had
actually beaten the Boers, however long they might keep up appearances
of resistance. We had a short vivid talk and I never saw him again
until he came to my own house at Hindhead to inspect my rifle range in
1902.
Of Lord Kitchener I saw nothing at Pretoria, but on one occasion a big
man on a huge bay horse went past me at a hard gallop on the veldt and
as he passed he waved his hand, and I knew it was the famous soldier.
He had been under a cloud since Paardeburg, and indeed it is hard to
see how his tactics can be justified, since he attacked the Boers
and lost some 2,000 men, when they were headed off and were bound to
surrender in any case. There may be reasons unknown to a civilian, but
I have heard soldiers speak warmly about it, for some of the attackers
were mounted troops who had to gallop to the edge of the donga,
and could do nothing when they got there. Colonel Hannay actually
registered some protest before obeying the orders in which he and many
of his men met their death. However, it was to Kitchener that all men
turned now when the organization of the lines of communication was
the vital point, and that rather than actual battle was his forte. I
have been told by some who have been in action with him that he became
nervously restless and impatient in a fight, while Roberts, on the
other hand, became cooler and more quiet the greater the danger grew.
In organization, however, Kitchener was inhuman in his cool accuracy.
“Regret to report great dynamite explosion. Forty Kaffirs killed,”
was the report of one officer. “Do you need more dynamite?” was the
answering telegram from Lord Kitchener.
There was a bench outside my hotel on which a group of old bearded
burghers used to smoke their pipes every day. I went down and sat
among them with my Boer pipe filled with the best Magaliesburg. I
said nothing, so soon they began to make advances, speaking excellent
English in rough guttural fashion. Botha was not far from the town, and
it was notorious that spies took him out the news every night. These
old fellows were clearly a collecting station, so I thought it would be
useful to give them something to ponder. After conversational remarks
one of them said: “Tell us, Mister, when are we to have peace?” They
were under the impression that the whole British nation was longing for
peace, and it was this which encouraged the resistance. “Oh,” said I,
“I hope not for a long time yet.” They all looked at each other, and
then the spokesman said: “Why do you say that, Mister?” “Well, it’s
this way,” said I. “This country, you see, is going to be a British
Colony. It would be very awkward for us to have a Colony which was full
of dangerous men. We couldn’t kill them then, could we? They would be
fellow-citizens and under the law’s protection, the same as we. Our
only chance is to kill them now, and that’s what we will do if we have
the time.” The old fellows all grunted and puffed furiously at their
pipes, but they could find no answer. Possibly some version of the
matter may have reached the point I was aiming at.
Our longest excursion from Pretoria was to Waterval, whither Bennett
Burleigh took me in his Cape cart. Once we got quite close to a Boer
patrol, about a dozen horsemen. Burleigh could not believe that they
were actually the enemy until I pointed out that several of the horses
were white, which was hardly ever known in our service. He then
examined them with his glass, and found I was right. They were clearly
on some quest of their own, for they took no notice of us, though they
could easily have cut us off. Our drive took us to the great prison
camp where so many British and Colonial soldiers had a humiliating
experience. The prisoners had only got free a week or two before,
and the whole place, many acres in size, was covered with every sort
of souvenir. I contented myself with a Boer carbine which had been
broken by a British prisoner, a band triangle, a half-knitted sock,
the knitting needles being made from the barbed wire, and a set of leg
fetters from the camp gaol. A tunnel had been bored just before the
general delivery by some captive Hussars. It was a wonderful work,
considering that it was done chiefly with spoons, and it had just been
finished when relief came. I descended into it, and was photographed by
Burleigh as I emerged. I daresay many of my friends have copies of it
still, with my inscription: “Getting out of a hole, like the British
Empire.”
I spent a day in Johannesburg, walking its deserted streets and
seeing its great mines now dead or at least in suspended animation.
I descended one of the deep mines, the Robinson, but as the hoisting
machinery was out of order, and we had to walk in darkness down
hundreds (it seemed thousands) of slippery wooden steps, with buckets,
which did the draining, clanking past one’s ear, it was certainly an
over-rated amusement. We got the usual tips as to which mines were
going to boom--on all of which I acted, and all of which proved to be
wrong.
On July 4, after an uneventful journey, which proved in itself that
our grip was tightening upon the country, I found myself back in
the Langman Hospital again. Times were quiet there, though another
of our poor orderlies had just died of erysipelas, which had broken
out in the wards--not traumatic erysipelas, but a variety which
came without apparent cause. I mention the fact because enteric had
been so universal that there really seemed no other disease, and
this was the only appearance of any other ailment. If the army had
all been inoculated, this would, I think, have been absolutely the
healthiest war on record. Of surgical cases we had few, but I remember
one operation which is perhaps rather technical for discussion and
yet stands out very clearly in my memory. It was performed upon the
Dutch military attaché with the Boers, who was picked up wounded and
paralyzed after some engagement. A shrapnel bullet had broken one of
his cervical vertebræ, the bone pressed on the nerves, and they had
ceased to function. Watson Cheyne of London was the operator. He had
cut down on the bone with a free incision and was endeavouring with a
strong forceps to raise the broken arch of bone, when an amazing thing
happened. Out of the great crimson cleft there rose a column of clear
water 2 feet high, feathering at the top like a little palm tree, which
gradually dwindled until it was only a few inches long, and finally
disappeared. I had, I confess, no idea what it was, and I think many
of the assembled surgeons were as taken aback as I was. The mystery
was explained by Charles Gibbs, my mentor in such matters, who said
that the cerebro-spinal fluid, which is usually a mere moistening round
the cord, had been greatly stimulated and increased by the pressure
of the broken bone. It had finally distended the whole sheath. The
forceps had punctured a small hole in the sheath and then the fluid had
been pressed through and shot into the air as I had seen it. Perhaps
the release was too sudden, for the patient died shortly after he was
removed from the table.
Charles Gibbs is still in practice, and senior surgeon of Charing Cross
Hospital, but he will forgive me if I remind him that his pupil did
once score over him. One of my enteric patients was obviously dying and
kept murmuring that he would like some solid food. Of course the first
law in treating enteric is, or was, that diet must be fluid, as the
intestine is ulcerated and puncture of it means death by peritonitis.
I said to Gibbs: “Do you consider that this man is sure to die?” “He
is certainly as bad as he can be,” said Gibbs. “Well then,” said I,
“I propose to give him a solid meal.” Gibbs shook his head and was
shocked. “It is a great responsibility you take.” “What’s the odds,”
I asked, “if he has to die anyhow?” “Well, it’s just the difference
whether you kill him or the disease does.” “Well, I’ll take the
chance,” said I--and I did so. A year or so later I was attending a
public meeting at Edinburgh when the following letter, which I copy
from my book of curiosities, was handed up to me.
128, ROYAL ROAD,
KENNINGTON PARK,
LONDON, S.E.
_October 1, 1900._
SIR,--
As one who was under your care at Bloemfontein in “Langman’s Hospital”
I hope you will forgive me in taking the liberty of wishing you
success at Edinburgh. I am actuated in this not only by political
principles but by the fact that I (and others) owe my life to your
kindness and care. You may not remember me, Sir, but I can assure you
the remembrance of you is written in my mind and can never be removed.
Again wishing you success and hoping you will pardon this liberty,
I remain, Sir,
Yours obediently,
(Pte.) M. HANLON, C.I.V.
M. Hanlon was my enteric patient and he had never looked back from the
day he had that square meal. But I don’t say it was an example for the
family practitioner to copy.
On July 11 I went on board the _Briton_ at Capetown and we sailed for
England once more. I called upon Sir Alfred Milner before I left, and
found him a very much older man than when only a few years before I had
met him on the eve of his African experience. His hair was grizzled and
his shoulders bowed, but his brave heart was as steadfast as ever, nor
did it ever fail until his hard and thankless task was done. He made
one error, I think, when he desired to keep South Africa under martial
law when the war was over, but who could have done better, or as well,
under the intolerable conditions which he had to face?
It was a remarkable passenger list on the _Briton_, and a very joyous
voyage. The Duke of Norfolk and his brother Lord Edward Talbot were two
of the most cheery people on the ship. It was a weird sight to see the
senior Baron of England and a lumpy Hollander sitting face to face on
a spar, and slashing each other with bladders to see which could knock
off the other. Blood told, if I remember right. Then there was Sir John
Willoughby, of Jameson Raid fame, Lady Sarah Wilson from Mafeking, the
Duke of Marlborough, Lady Arthur Grosvenor, the Hon. Ivor Guest and
many famous soldiers. Especially was I fortunate in my friendship with
Fletcher Robinson and with Nevinson, which was cemented by this closer
association. Only one cloud marred the serenity of that golden voyage.
There was a foreign officer on board, whose name I will not mention,
who had been with the Boers and who talked with great indiscretion as
to his experiences and opinions. He stated in my presence that the
British had habitually used Dum-Dum bullets, on which I lost my temper
and told him he was a liar. I must say that he behaved very well, for
after thinking it over he saw that he was in the wrong and he sent
down my friend Robinson to my cabin with a query as to whether I would
accept an apology. I answered that I would not, since it was the army,
and not me, which had been insulted. In an hour Robinson reappeared
with the following letter, which ended what might have been a serious
incident.
DEAR SIR,--
Allow me to tell you that I regret lively what I said about expanding
bullets--which I said but after hear saying evidence I request you to
let everybody know that I strongly wish on the contrary that I desire
to be on best terms with every Englishman and beg you for that to be
my interpreter.
Yours very truly.
The first days of August saw me in London once more, and soon all that
strange episode--the green expanse of the veldt, the flat-topped hills,
the enteric wards--had become the vision of a dream.