SOUTH AGAIN.
Ordered home--Back to the Battery--Good-bye to the horses--The charm
of the veldt--Recent work of the Battery--Paget's farewell speech--
Hard-won curios--The last bivouac--Roberts's farewell--The southward
train--De Wet?--Mirages--A glimpse of Piquetberg road--The _Aurania_--
Embarkation scenes--The last of Africa--A pleasant night.
September 27 was a red-letter day. News came that all the C.I.V. were
going home on the following Monday. I was overwhelmed with
congratulations in the barrack-room. I exercised the Captain's
Argentine in the afternoon, and visited the station, where I learnt
that the Battery had been wired for, and had arrived, but was camped
somewhere outside.
On the next day I got another charwoman-clerk appointed, said good-bye
to my R.A. friends and the Captain, who congratulated me too, and was
free to find the Battery and rejoin. After some difficulty, I found
them camped about four miles out, close to the C.I.V. Infantry. It was
delightful to walk into the lines, and to see the old familiar scenes,
and horses, and faces. Every one looked more weather-beaten and
sunburnt, and the horses very shaggy and hard-worked, but strong and
fit. My mare had lost flesh, but was still in fine condition. The
Argentine was lashing out at the others in the same old way. Tiny, the
terrier, looked very weary and travel-stained after much forced
marching, which she had loyally undergone to the last. Jacko had not
turned a hair.
Williams turned up with "Pussy" in a lather, having been hunting for
me all round Pretoria. We ate bully-beef and biscuit together in the
old style. I took my pair down to water for the last time, "for auld
lang syne," and noticed that the mare's spine was not the comfortable
seat it used to be.
Then the last "boot and saddle" went, and they were driven away with
the guns and waggons to the station, and thence to the remount depôt,
to be drafted later into new batteries. Ninety-four horses were handed
over, out of a hundred and fourteen originally brought from England, a
most creditable record.
The camp looked very strange without the horses, and it was odder
still to have no watering or grooming to do. In the evening, the
change from barrack-room to veldt was most delightful. We made a fire
and cooked tea in the old way, and talked and smoked under the soft
night sky and crescent moon. Then what a comfortable bed afterwards!
Pure air to breathe, and plenty of room. I felt I had hardly realized
before how pleasant the veldt life had been.
The Battery had done a great deal of hard work since I left; forced
marches by night and day between Warmbad, Pynaar's River, Waterval,
Hebron, Crocodile River, and Eland's River; generally with Paget, once
under Colonel Plumer, and once under Hickman. They had shared in
capturing several Boer laagers, and quantities of cattle. When they
left the brigade, a commando under Erasmus was negotiating for a
surrender, which was made a day or two later, as we afterwards heard.
Altogether, they had done very good work, though not a round was
fired. I only wish I could have been with them.
One thing I deeply regret missing, and that was Paget's farewell
speech to us, when all agree that he spoke with real and deep feeling.
One of our gunners took it down in shorthand, and here it is:--
"Major McMicking, Officers, non-commissioned officers, and men of the
C.I.V. Battery,--
"Lord Roberts has decided to send you home, and I have come to say
good-bye and to express my regret at having to part with you. We have
been together now for some months, and have had rough times, but in
its many engagements the C.I.V. Battery has always done its work well.
Before my promotion I commanded a battalion, and I know what a
heart-breaking it is to lead gallant fellows up to a strong position
unsupported by artillery; and I made up my mind that, if ever I had a
separate command, I would never advance infantry without an artillery
support. I was fortunate enough to have your Battery with me, and it
is very gratifying to know that everything we attempted has been
successful. Owing to the excellent practice made by your guns, you
have the satisfaction of knowing that you have been the cause of great
saving of lives to the Infantry, and at times the Cavalry. I am sorry
to lose you, and I shall miss you very much. There is more hard work
to be done; and you cannot realize what it is to me to lose a body of
men whom I knew I could always rely upon. There are many episodes,
some of which will remain a lasting memory to me. One in particular I
might refer to, when, two days after leaving Lindley, two companies of
Munster Fusiliers came unexpectedly under heavy rifle-fire at short
range; your guns coming smartly into action, dispersed the enemy with
a few well-directed shrapnel. It was one of the smartest pieces of
work I have ever seen. On another occasion, outside Bethlehem (I
forget the name of the place),[A] when in a rear-guard action with De
Wet, you advanced under a heavy cross-fire of shrapnel, when you
rendered splendid service, and saved Roberts' Horse by silencing two
guns and smashing a third. On that day not a single life was lost on
our side. On still another occasion, outside Bethlehem, under heavy
shell-fire from five guns in a strong position, the steadiness with
which your guns were served would have done credit to the finest
troops in the Empire. There are other incidents that I might mention,
but these three occur to me specially at the moment. You are returning
home, to receive a hearty welcome, which you undoubtedly deserve, and
I hope you will sometimes think of me, as I certainly shall of you;
and now you can tell your friends what I think of you. I wish you a
safe and pleasant voyage. Good-bye."
[Footnote A: Bultfontein.]
We shall also tell them what we thought of him. There was not a man of
us but liked, admired, and trusted him--as I know did his whole
brigade. And that he trusted us, is an honour we shall not forget.
It was good to be going home again; but I think every one felt half
sorry that we were not to share in finishing the work before his
brigade. The whole C.I.V. regiment was being sent home together; but
the Infantry, of course, had done the bulk of their work when we began
ours. It was curious that this was the first occasion on which the
three arms of the C.I.V., Infantry, Mounted Infantry, and Artillery,
had been united under one command.
We spent the next two days in preparations for departure, in sorting
of harness, sifting and packing of kit, and great burnings of
discarded rubbish.
On the first of October, Williams and I walked into Pretoria to do
some business, and try and pick up some curios. We had an exhausting
conflict with a crusty old Jew, with whom we bargained for scjamboks
and knobkerries. It was with great difficulty we got him to treat with
us at all, or even show us his wares. He had been humbugged so often
by khakis that he would not believe we were serious customers, and
treated our advances with violence and disdain. We had to be
conciliatory, as we wanted his wares, though we felt inclined to loot
his shop, and leave him for dead. After some most extraordinary
bargaining and after tempting him with solid, visible gold, we each
secured a scjambok and a knobkerry at exorbitant prices, and left him
even then grumbling and growling.
Scjamboks are whips made of rhinoceros' hide. They take a beautiful
polish, and a good one is indestructible. A knobkerry is a stick with
a heavy round knob for a head, overlaid, head and stem, with copper
and steel wire, in ingenious spirals and patterns. The Kaffirs make
them.
I also wired to my brother to meet our train at Elandsfontein. He had
written me, saying he had been sent there from the Convalescent Camp,
having the luck to find as his commandant Major Paul Burn-Murdoch, of
the Royal Engineers, who was a mutual friend of ours.
I was on picket duty that night--my last on the veldt. The camp looked
very strange with only the four lines of men sleeping by their kits,
and a few officers' horses and a little knot of ten mules for the last
buck-waggon. It was an utterly still moonlight night, only broken by
the distant chirruping of frogs and the occasional tinkle of a mule's
chain.
At seven the next morning we met the C.I.V. Infantry and Mounted
Infantry, and were all reviewed by Lord Roberts, who rode out with his
Staff to say good-bye to us. He made us a speech we were proud to
hear, referring particularly to the fine marching of the Infantry, and
adding that he hoped we would carry home to the heart of the country a
high opinion of the regular British soldier, alongside whom we had
fought. That we certainly shall do. He prophesied a warm reception at
home, and said he hoped when it was going on we would remember one
man, our Honorary Colonel, who would have liked to be there to march
at our head into the city of London; "good-bye and God speed." Then we
cheered him and marched away.
At half-past twelve we were at the station, where the guns had already
been entrained by a fatigue party. Ours was the first of three trains,
and was to carry the Battery, and two companies of Infantry. Williams
and I secured a small lair underneath a limber in an open truck, and
bundled in our kit. The platform was crowded with officers and
Tommies, and many and envious were the farewells we had. Kilsby, of T
Battery, whom I had made friends with at the barracks, was there to
see me off. At 4.30, amidst great cheering, we steamed out and began
the thousand mile run to Capetown, slowly climbing the long wooded
pass, under an angry, lowering sky. At the top a stormy sun was
setting in a glowing furnace of rose-red. We hastily rigged some
tarpaulins over our limber, and escaped a wetting from a heavy shower.
We had managed to distribute and compress our kit so as to leave room
to lie down in, and after dark we lit a lantern and played picquet.
About eight we came to Elandsfontein, and there on the platform were
my brother and Major Burn-Murdoch. The latter hurried us off to the
restaurant--forbidden ground to us men as a rule, sat us down among
the officers, and gave us a rattling good dinner, while our comrades
munched their biscuits outside. De Wet, we heard, was ahead, having
crossed the line with 1000 men, two nights ago, further south. We
agreed that it would be a happy irony if he held up our train, the
first to carry troops homeward--the herald of peace, in fact; and just
the sort of enterprise that would tickle his fancy. Suddenly the train
jerked off, and I jumped into my lair and left them. It was a warm
night, and we sat under the stars on the seats of the limber, enjoying
the motion and the cool air. About ten we pulled up at a station, and
just after we had stopped, four rifle-shots rapped out in quick
succession not far ahead. De Wet, we at once conjectured. In the
darkness on our left we heard an impatient corporal turning out his
sleepy guard, and a stir and clatter of arms. One of our companies of
infantry was also turned out, and a party formed to patrol the line,
outposts having reported some Boers tampering with the rails. The rest
of the train was sound asleep, but we, being awake, got leave to go
with the patrol. Williams borrowed a rifle from somewhere, but I could
not find a weapon. They made us connecting files between the advance
party and main body, and we tramped up the line and over the veldt for
about an hour, but nothing happened, and we came back and turned in.
De Wet let us alone, and for five days we travelled peaceably through
the well-known places, sometimes in the pure, clear air of true
African weather, but further south through storms of cold rain, when
Scotch mists shrouded everything, and we lay in the bottom of our
truck, on carefully constructed islands of kit and blankets, among
pools of water, passing the time with books and cards. Signs of war
had not disappeared, and at every station down to Bloemfontein were
the same vigilant camps (often with parties posted in trenches), more
charred remains of trains, and ever-present rumours of raiding
commandos.
One novel sight I saw in the interminable monotony of desert veldt.
For a whole afternoon there were mirages all along the horizon, a
chain of enchanted lakes on either side, on which you could imagine
piers, and boats, and wooded islands.
At Beaufort West we dropped our "boys," the Kaffir mule-drivers; they
left us in a great hubbub of laughing and shouting, with visions
before them, I expect, of a golden age, based on their accumulated
wealth of high pay. We passed Piquetberg Road about midnight of
October 6th. Plumbley, the store-keeper, was there, and the belle of
the village was holding a moonlight levée at the end of the train.
There was a temporary clear from the rain here, but it soon thickened
down again. When we steamed away I climbed out on the buffers (the
only way of getting a view), and had a last look at the valley, which
our wheels had scored in so many directions. Tulbagh Pass, Bushman's
Rock, and the hills behind it were looking ghostly through a humid,
luminous mist; but my posture was not conducive to sentimentality, as
any one who tries it will agree; so I climbed back to my island, and
read myself to sleep by a candle, while we clattered and jolted on
into the night.
When I woke at dawn on October 7th we were standing in a siding at the
Capetown docks, the rain coming down in torrents, and Table Mountain
blotted out in clouds. Collecting our kit from sopping crannies and
corners, we packed it and paraded at six, and marched off to the quay,
where the _Aurania_, our homeward transport, lay. Here we gave in
revolvers, carbines, blankets, etc., were split up into messes, and,
after much waiting, filed off into the fore part of the ship,
descended a noisome-smelling funnel by an iron staircase, and found
ourselves on the troop-deck, very similar to that of the _Montfort_,
only likely to be much more crowded; the same low ceiling, with
cross-rafters for kit and hooks for hammocks, and close-packed tables
on either side.
More C.I.V. had arrived, and the quays were swarming with soldiers and
civilians. Williams had decided to stay and see something of Capetown,
and was now to get his discharge. There were a few others doing so
also. He was discharged in form, and drove away to the Mount Nelson
Hotel, returning later disguised as a civilian, in a long mackintosh
(over his uniform), a scarf, and a villainous-looking cap; looking, as
he said, like a seedy Johannesburg refugee. But he was free! The
Manager of his hotel, which, I believe, is the smartest in South
Africa, had looked askance at his luggage, which consisted of an
oat-sack, bulging with things, and a disreputable-looking bundle.
At about three there was a great shouting and heaving of the crowd,
and the High Commissioner came on the scene, and walked down the quay
through a guard of honour which we and the Infantry had contributed to
form, industriously kinematographed on his progress by a fat Jew.
Several staff-officers were with Milner, and a grey-bearded gentleman,
whom we guessed to be Sir Gordon Sprigg. Milner, I heard, made a
speech somewhere. Then a band was playing, and we were allowed half an
hour off the ship. Williams and I had our last talk on the quay, in a
surging crowd of khaki and civilian grey, mingled with the bright hats
and dresses of ladies. Then bells began to ring, the siren to bellow
mournfully, and the band to play valedictory tunes ("Say _au revoir_
and not goodbye," I thought rather an ominous pleasantry). We two said
good-bye, and I squeezed myself up the gangway. Every inch of standing
room aboard was already packed, but I got a commanding position by
clambering high up, with some others, on to a derrick-boom. The pilot
appeared on the bridge, shore-ropes were cast off, "Auld Lang Syne"
was played, then "God save the Queen." Every hat on board and ashore
was waving, and every voice cheering, and so we backed off, and
steamed out of the basin.
Sober facts had now to be considered. There were signs of a heavy
swell outside, and something about "the lift of the great Cape
combers" came into my head. We all jostled down to tea, and made the
best of our time. There was no mistake about the swell, and a terrific
rolling soon began, which first caused unnatural merriment, and then
havoc. I escaped from the inferno below, and found a pandemonium on
deck. The limited space allotted to the troops was crammed, and at
every roll figures were propelled to and fro like high-velocity
projectiles. Shell-fire was nothing to it for danger. I got hold of
something and smoked, while darkness came on with rain, and the
horrors intensified. I bolted down the pit to get some blankets. One
glance around was enough, and having seized the blankets, up I came
again. Where to make a bed? Every yard, sheltered and unsheltered,
seemed to be carpeted with human figures. Amidships, on either side of
the ship, there was a covered gallery, running beneath the saloon deck
(a palatial empty space, with a few officers strolling about it). In
the gallery on the weather side there was not an inch of lying room,
though at every roll the water lapped softly up to and round the
prostrate, indifferent bodies. On the lee side, which was dry, they
seemed to be lying two deep. At last, on the open space of the main
deck aft, I found one narrow strip of wet, but empty space, laid my
blankets down, earnestly wishing it was the dusty veldt, and was soon
asleep. It was raining, but, like the rest, misery made me
indifferent. _Montfort_ experience ought to have reminded me that the
decks are always washed by the night watch. I was reminded of this
about 2 A.M. by an unsympathetic seaman, who was pointing the nozzle
of a hose threateningly at me. The awakened crowd was drifting away,
goodness knows where, trailing their wet blankets. I happened to be
near the ladder leading to the sacred precincts of the saloon deck.
Its clean, empty, sheltered spaces were irresistibly tempting, and I
lawlessly mounted the ladder with my bed, lay down, and went to sleep
again.