WE LEAVE "THE FRIEND" TO SEE A FIGHT
_The Thirteenth Number, produced by Mr. James Barnes of New
York._
The last of the dinner was still in our mouths, the last words in
answer to the toasts had not been spoken five hours when, at daybreak
on the 29th, we were all, except Mr. James Barnes, on the way to the
battle of the Glen (or of Karree Siding, as it is sometimes called).
Mr. Barnes most kindly remained to take entire control of THE FRIEND,
which is to say that he undertook the work of four men, and had as his
only assistant a bright young American journalist from Philadelphia,
Mr. Joseph W. Jenkins. This young gentleman had worked hard and
gratuitously for us from the first as the gatherer of the news of the
little capital, and very fertile and versatile he proved.
Mr. Bennet Burleigh took Mr. Kipling to the fight in his Cape-cart,
and they started out with more style and comfort than an Oriental
general swaying on the cushioned howdah of his elephant charger. But
the course of a day in war is as uncertain as that of love or as the
nature of the white men, and, early in the day, the Poet of the Empire
was under a hot Mauser fire. Far from being nervous or regretting the
experience, he seemed to feel only the tingle of the excitement. If
you could get him to refer to it you saw that he rejoiced to have felt
the breath and heard the weird, low song of the leaden rain.
For myself I had such an inglorious escapade as no man would care to
dwell upon who was in a war to get the best or the worst, but not to
be incapacitated by what could have happened at home. In a word, I
went into a wire fence off the back of a frightened racehorse, and was
obliged to go on to the battle, belated and with both fore-arms torn
into strips, not to speak of injuries which must stay by me as
mementoes of the day so long as I live.
Mr. Barnes's number of THE FRIEND was a good one. His editorial, "As
to the Future," was very vigorous, and must have pleased Sir Alfred
Milner, who did us the honour to say that he valued the paper as a
most efficient arm of the effort to pacify and reconcile to their fate
our neighbours of the Free State. He suggested to me that we should
address ourselves more directly to the Boers, and always with a view
to impressing them with our magnanimous intentions, and the benefits
and advantages of enlightened British rule. It was his suggestion,
also, that all articles calculated to encourage resignation on their
part should be duplicated in the Taal language, and this wise plan we
began at once to endeavour to follow. We succeeded but feebly, because
we did not know the Taal ourselves, and we could not trust the
majority of the sometimes "slim" ones among the few who were able to
perform the work of translation creditably.
In this number of the paper Mr. Barnes published No. 4 of Mr.
Kipling's "Fables for the Staff," and the poem by Mr. Kipling on
Perceval Landon's birthday. "A Realistic Comedy," by an anonymous
writer, the third of Mr. Gwynne's articles on the art of war, and a
bit of a brief correspondence between the army telegraphists and Mr.
Bennet Burleigh were also in this entertaining number.
Mr. Barnes was exceedingly well liked by all who knew him in the army,
and was much sought as a companion, for his unvarying good humour and
for such a fund of anecdotes, songs, and imitations as was possessed
by no one else of our acquaintance. I think the best of his anecdotes
of his own experiences in the war was concerning the Boer losses at
Driefontein. The British had found more than sixty bodies, and knew
that fifty other Boers had been killed. (I will not say that these are
the exact figures, but they give a just idea of the actual losses of
the Boers.) Nevertheless, when Barnes questioned a Boer prisoner taken
at that battle, the man said that his force had suffered a loss of
only eight killed.
"Then who is it that gets killed by our bullets in all these fights?"
Barnes asked. "We fight you, and after each battle we see the dead
being carried off; we find other dead on the field, and we see the
loose mounds of earth under which you have hastily buried others. Who
are these dead men?"
"I don't know," said the prisoner, "our commandant said we only had
eight men killed at Abraham's Kraal (Driefontein)."
"I understand," said Barnes. "He must know how many you lost. But we
saw over sixty dead bodies where you had been fighting. Whose bodies
do you suppose they were? Not Boers, of course, but still, they
belonged to some people who had been shot. There seems to be in South
Africa a mysterious race of people who follow you around in this war
and persist in getting in the way of our bullets. I should think you
would warn them of their danger, or give orders for them to stop
coming to all the battles. They may have wives and children who mourn
them; at all events, they are not needed as filters in all the rivers,
or for starting informal cemeteries all over the veldt as they have
been doing ever since the fighting began. I wonder what people they
are."
"I don't know. We only lost eight," said the Boer.
"And we buried sixty," said Barnes. "Really you ought to find out who
these bullet-stoppers are, and warn them not to be always getting
killed by us who have no quarrel with them and are only trying to
shoot Boers."
Another of Mr. Barnes's tales is of that awful daybreak massacre at
Maghersfontein. Mr. Barnes was forging ahead to learn what had
happened when he met three men in kilts dashing over the veldt, away
from the battle.
"Here," Mr. Barnes cried, "who are you? Where are you going?"
"Oh, mon," said one of the poor unnerved chaps, "we are a' that's left
o' the ---- ----."
In defence of themselves against some inconvenience which Mr. Burleigh
had complained, some telegraphers of the R.E. Corps declared that the
staff in Bloemfontein "performed seventeen hours last Sunday in order
to remove pressure produced to a great extent by work other than
military. Whilst every other arm of the service had been enjoying a
brief and well-earned rest, our portion has consisted of at least
twelve hours' hard work at the instrument, cooped up in a room reeking
with a pestilential atmosphere which has, in several cases, produced
violent vomiting.
"After all, we can nurse to our breasts the satisfaction that our
gallant Commander-in-Chief has been pleased to specially thank the
much-despised corps for the indispensable services rendered by it."
* * * * *
THE FRIEND.
(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)
No. 11.] BLOEMFONTEIN, THURSDAY, MARCH 29, 1900. [Price One Penny
GOVERNMENT NOTICE.
By order of his Lordship the Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief the
British Forces in South Africa, it is notified that Quit Rents on
Farms should now be paid in to the Receiver at the Landdrost's Office.
Amounts not paid on or before the 31st May, 1900, are liable to be
doubled.
JAMES A. COLLINS, Landdrost.
Landdrost's Office, Bloemfontein, March 26, 1900.
* * * * *
FABLES FOR THE STAFF.[9]
[Footnote 9: Copyrighted, used by the author's permission.]
VAIN HORSES.
BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
IV.
A Cavalry-horse of indubitable Valour, carrying a complete Wardrobe
Office and Housekeeping Apparatus on his back, met by chance a Boer
pony of unprepossessing Exterior.
"My ungroomed Friend," said the Horse, "let me draw your attention to
my Master's portable Bath, Umbrella, Typewriter, Hair Brushes,
Dressing-case, and complete Service of Plate; also to my own spare
Shoes and cold Collation for the next Week. Few I opine enjoy such
luxurious appointments."
"They are indeed _fin de siecle_ and _non-plus-ultra_," remarked the
ewe-necked Son of the Veldt, "but You must excuse Me for I see my
Master approaching. He does not use Hair-brushes, and I have neither
spare shoes nor curry combs."
"Then I must trouble you to return as my Prisoner," said the Horse.
"On the contrary," replied the Child of the ungrassed Kopje; "it is a
condition and not a theory that confronts us. Let me draw your
attention to my scintillatery heels."
So saying the Unkempt Equine departed in a neat cloud of Dust, from
the Centre of which his Master scientifically shot the Cavalry Horse
in the Abdomen.
* * * * *
A BIRTHDAY GREETING.[10]
[Footnote 10: The birthday of Mr. Perceval Landon. Copyrighted, and
used here by permission.]
(29th March.)
BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
Tell the smiling Afric morn,
Let the stony kopje know,
Landon of the _Times_ was born
One and thirty years ago.
Whisper greetings soft and low,
Pour the whisky, deal the bun,
Only Bell and Buckle know
All the evil he has done.
* * * * *
FOR WIDOWS AND ORPHANS.
In accordance with the public notice printed in this journal, a
meeting of war correspondents was held yesterday afternoon at the Free
State Hotel, Bloemfontein, when the arrangements for a concert to be
given in the Town Hall "in aid of widows and orphans" were discussed.
Messrs. Bennet Burleigh (_Daily Telegraph_), Pearse (_Daily News_),
Maxwell (_Standard_), and Haarburgher, were appointed members of the
Executive Committee with power to add to their number, and it was
decided that the proceeds of the concert should be divided equally
between the London and Bloemfontein funds. The date, which remains to
be fixed, will probably be Friday of next week, and the prices of
admission 5s., 3s., and 1s., the latter for soldiers in uniform.
* * * * *
A REALISTIC COMEDY.
I haven't often been really defeated, but I felt very like it that
Black Monday.
My convoy consisted of self and Jimmy (my subaltern), two conductors,
100 native drivers, about 500 oxen, and 40 waggons. We were hundreds
of miles from the front so had no escort, and were fifteen miles from
anywhere. The country was simply a succession of kopjes as like each
other as a pair of ammunition boots, the map was much too small a
scale to be of any use, and our native guide had lost the way!
We ought to have struck water about dawn, after trekking all night,
but there wasn't a sign of it. The heat was awful as we toiled our
dusty way between those glaring kopjes, until about noon we sighted a
stagnant dam, half full, and we went for it like savages, men, oxen
and all.
It must have been absolute rank poison. In a couple of hours two men
were writhing on the ground, a score more, blue and shivering, were
feeling touched, and the whole lot were thoroughly funked. It was just
like a native cholera camp in India, and to those who have experienced
that I need say no more.
We sent out our most useful men on our best horses, to hunt the
country, five miles round for a farm or well; we started fires to boil
water and worked our wretched little filters for all they were worth.
Jimmy and I had a bottle of chlorodyne apiece, but they were empty in
an hour or so and our whisky was finished soon afterward. I had meant
to trek again as soon as it got dark, but before the sun touched the
horizon all our scouts were back--not a drop of water anywhere! Had
there been any, I doubt if we could have got to it--half our oxen were
incapable of moving and the blacks were simply off their heads. But I
noticed that our chlorodyne, either by its own power, or by the belief
they put in it, had really done good. So I made up my mind to a night
there and called up one of the conductors.--"Take the native guide and
bring me two of the best horses you can find--ride straight on for all
you are worth--find a farm--offer them any sum to send on this note
of mine to Viten Siding for a doctor and medicines--bring back any
drugs they've got and brandy or spirits--come back as hard as you
can."
Then we settled down to the most ghastly night I've ever spent; we
walked the bed cases up and down--don't know what good this is but had
seen it done in India--put on mustard poultices till we fairly took
the black's skins off--and knocked down a few who were howling about
the camp in sheer panic. I don't know what I should have done without
Jimmy, but even his chaff couldn't keep the poor devils amused. About
midnight I had a bad turn myself and Jimmy put me to bed, but it wore
off, and I fell into a nightmared slumber. Just before dawn I awoke;
Jimmy was brewing coffee and whistling: "When we are married."
"How do you feel?" he said.
"Perfectly fit again. Any dead?"
"Only two, but they were sick before. All the lot in blue funks
still."
"Conductor back?"
"No." Then we strained our eyes in the direction where he had
disappeared.
I remember wondering dreamily why Jimmy whistled so damned out of
tune, and whether any of us would ever get out of this death-trap,
when we saw a speck far up the road. Jimmy stopped in the middle of
"Dolly Day Dreams," spilt his coffee, and dashed off up the road.
The conductor had killed his own horse and the guide's; had found a
farm ten miles away; had sent on my note but Doctor could not arrive
till to-morrow; there were no drugs at the farm, but he'd brought us
two bottles of Dop[11] and four loaves of fresh bread done up in a
brown parcel!
[Footnote 11: Cape Good Hope brandy.]
A crowd of niggers were hovering round as near my tent as they dared
come, hoping to catch an inkling of the news, and I could tell from
the tone of their low mutterings that they expected nothing good. For
a moment I was badly defeated.
Then a Heaven-sent inspiration seized me--"Well, Brown," I said,
raising my voice, "So that's the chlorodyne is it?"--I seized the big
brown-paper parcel--"It's five o'clock now; tell every Jack man in
camp he's to fall in here sharp at six for a dose of chlorodyne."
The conductor stared at me; I suppose he thought I was mad.
"Don't you hear," I cried; "go off at once, and don't let anybody
interrupt us while we have breakfast." And I managed to give him the
faintest wink--in another minute I heard him shouting my order through
the camp.
"Jimmy, let's make chlorodyne." Jimmy grinned. "Collis Browne's is the
best," he said; "twenty drops for an adult."
Then he started whistling again while we shut up the tent and went to
work.
"Small bottles are no use," I said, "must have wholesale manufactory;
we'll find that demi-john."
We started with two tins of condensed milk--to give it a bit of
body--and a tin of Van Houten's cocoa made a grand colouring. Two big
spoonfuls of red pepper, "to ginger it up." "Must mix our flavour,"
said Jimmy, "or they'll recognize the brand"--so in went Bengal
chutney and strawberry jam. We were rummaging out our grocery
box--"Sardines ain't much use, nor cheese, nor Danish butter; but
here's a bottle of the nastiest pickles I ever tasted, let's give them
the juice of that; they won't believe it's medicine unless it tastes
bad."
"My tooth powder is nasty enough," said Jimmy, "Carbolic something,
and warranted to do no harm--in it goes."
The two bottles of Dop were chucked in as a finish and the mixture was
nasty enough for anybody--rich brown, creamy, and fiery hot.
Jimmy had entered heart and soul into the business.--"None's genuine
without the label," he cried, and rushed at our small stationery box.
"Hullo, sealing wax, here, you find a cork and seal it up; these cards
will do for labels. Some of these niggers can read and write, so we
must play the game right through. If they spot us we're done. Now,
men--Genuine Chlorodyne--for coughs, colds, &c.--every three hours
till the pain ceases; to be well shaken before taken. And another
label--To O.C. No. 2, General Hospital, Viten Sideing,--On H.M.
Service--free--franked. Dirty the paper a bit to show it's come a long
way--then when we throw the jar away they'll see it's genuine."
"They don't have chlorodyne in our hospitals," I suggested.
"Go to blazes! the niggers aren't cute enough for that. But look here,
old chap, you look a bit cheap; we'll resurrect you to start with. I'm
afraid you'll have to take some, but I'll make it as small a dose as I
can."
Then I lay down huddled up in a corner. The opening tableau was ready,
and we rang up the curtain, or rather the tent-flap. Jimmy was as
serious as a judge: "All present, conductor? All right; where's that
medicine got to? Oh, there; now then, anybody got a corkscrew?" A hum
went up from the figures squatting round. Jimmy held up his hand:
"Quiet there, the captain is very bad; I must see to him first." He
lifted my drooping head and forced a spoonful of the filth between my
teeth.
I heaved a sigh, patted myself below the belt, rolled my eyes open,
and stood up, fully recovered!
Astonishment mingled with applause!
We selected a hulking, big brute as the next victim. He was palpably
shamming; he spluttered a bit over his dose, but took the cue from me:
patted himself, rolled his eyes, and was recovered.
Genuine plaudits.
"Next," said Jimmy. It reminded me of the brimstone and treacle at
Dotheboys Hall.
Applause gave way to regular hilarity, and the blacks were soon
ragging each other on the faces they made.
"This is the biggest thing of modern times," said Jimmy as the last man
went off grinning and spluttering. "Talk about faith-healing--well,
either it's an absolute fact, or else we two are the leading medical
stars of the new century."
Then Jimmy and I shook hands, and he tried to whistle "Dolly Day
Dreams" again, but couldn't manage it for a minute or two.
There were a few real bad cases still, but they all pulled through.
Then we served out to the men the best rations we could raise and a
bit of 'baccy apiece. They cooked away with a will, filled themselves
out with breakfast, lay down beneath their wagons, and went to sleep.
Jimmy and I went to sleep too. At sunset we inspanned and made the 10
miles to the farm early. Our doctor met us there.
But I shall never hear "Dolly Day Dreams" again without thinking of
bare veldt, black faces, and chlorodyne.
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
THE "N.C.O."
There's some one in the Army that I'd like to write about,
For it's seldom that he gets his share of praise;
He's as gallant as most lions and you can always hear him shout,
Through the rattle of the battle now-a-days.
When we read in all the papers of the Comp'ny officers killed,
We don't stop to think who has to take their place;
But if we knew, our hearts with admiration would be filled
For the N.C.O. with grim and grimy face.
His language on the barrack square, ain't quite what it should be,
And it's probable he likes his whack of beer,
But there's nothing like that voice of his, and never yet will be
To steady the young soldier when he's feeling "Bullet-queer."
He's ahead in all the rushes, he's the last one to retire,
And in battle's got a joke for every one;
He doesn't seem to mind a damn, when under Mauser fire,
And he don't forget the wounded when the day is fought and won.
Then, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, here's more work for you to do,
You've sung of gallant "Tommies" and their deeds,
Just write about their N.C.O.'s and give them all their due,
For good N.C.O.'s are what the Army needs.
C.
* * * * *
IS THE ART OF WAR REVOLUTIONISED?
BY. H. A. GWYNNE.
III.--_Cavalry._
The "Art of War," which, I must confess, is but a feeble equivalent
for the _art militaire_ of the French, covers strategy and tactics. In
discussing the duties of any particular arm in warfare it is obvious
that the discussion must necessarily deal with tactics rather than
strategy, which, I take it, will not undergo any great change as long
as human nature remains subject to its present limitations. But the
arm which I am now discussing has been and will be in the future even
more the chief instrument used by a general who wishes to carry out
big strategic movements. Wherefore cavalry must, above all things, be
mobile, ready to move at the shortest moment, prepared in every
respect to carry out quickly the ideas of the commander.
The "strategic arm," as the cavalry has been styled, has been called
upon, during the present campaign, to face difficulties which have
been almost unknown in former campaigns. First and foremost it has had
to operate against an army of mounted infantry, more mobile than
itself. Waterless plains, heat, and short rations, have been
difficulties which in Europe would be absent. Foreign criticisms on
the operations of our cavalry in the present campaign are based on
false premises, inasmuch that their authors assume a plentiful supply
of water, an equable climate, an easy transport, and a fair amount of
supplies. They have not taken into account the fact that our cavalry
have had to cut themselves off from all supplies in what, for all
practical purposes, is a howling desert, for the English horses have
steadily refused to touch the veldt-grass. If there is one criticism
on the operations of our cavalry which can in any sense be justified,
it is that in many cases we have made it an objective of our movements
to charge the enemy. By doing so, we have perhaps sacrificed
opportunities of outflanking the Boers for the illusive chance of
proving the efficiency of the _arme blanche_ on an enemy, whose only
weapon is a rifle. I once heard a distinguished cavalry officer
declare that it was his conviction that in a two-mile race, starting
fair, the Boer, mounted on his little African pony, would outpace our
troopers riding a big English horse and carrying an equipment which
reminded him of the picture of Father Christmas. But as over two
million people have at different times criticised the weight of
cavalry equipment, and nobody, except the Boer, has given us a remedy,
we may leave this portion of our subject to lecturer--the U.S.
Institute.
The great question which will have to be answered in the near future
is whether the mounted force of an army is to be cavalry or mounted
infantry. To my mind there can be no doubt about the answer. The
mounted forces of the future will be cavalry, and in much greater
proportion to infantry than at present. The great force of mounted
infantry which we have raised in the present war is intended to cope
with an army of Mounted Infantry opposed to us. Whether they will ever
be used again is doubtful. But what certainly will be the case is that
the cavalry of the future will have to know how to shoot, and must be
provided with something better than a carbine to shoot with. And
practically they will then be Mounted Infantry with an _arme blanche_.
"Shock tactics" will have to give place to long-range firing, and the
cavalrymen of the future will be seen digging and holding trenches,
holding kopjes, and _repelling with rifle fire the advance of the
enemy's Cavalry_. This indeed will be a revolution.