LOOT AND LURID CRAZES
_A chapter in which we also tell of a modest Prince and a
gallant Adventurer._
"THE FRIEND" contained notices of Kruger sovereigns and Transvaal
pennies for sale, of Boer rifles and saddles, but none of the postage
stamps of the former Free State or the newly surcharged ones in use by
the Army. Though Transvaal pennies fetched twenty-five shillings and
were in great demand, the real enthusiasm of collectors was for
postage stamps, and officers and others were busy as bees buying
stamps and having them erased to make them the more valuable.
South Africa is as bare and barren a place for collectors, and even
for the modest traveller who wishes for merely one trifling souvenir,
as can be imagined. The war provided some trophies in the way of
shells and Mauser rifles, but outside these there was nothing except,
perhaps, the empty ostrich eggs to be found in every Boer house--and
also to be found everywhere else in the civilised world.
The most coveted war trophies were: first, the Transvaal and Free
State flags; second, the extraordinary waistcoats worn by a few Boers,
and covered all over with cartridge slits or pockets made especially
to hold the Mauser "clips" of five cartridges each; third, old Dutch
Bibles illustrated by quaint woodcuts, and fourth, Boer rifles.
However, even the war trophies were few and hard to get, and the
singular energy of collectors expended itself in the gathering of new
and old postage stamps, at which generals, colonels, and Tommies
busied themselves, and a well-known London man of my acquaintance
cleared a profit of L300, still reserving for himself a handsome
collection.
The name of Prince Francis of Teck no longer appeared in THE FRIEND
beneath the demand he had been making for horses. I remember that the
circus-ground he had pre-empted for the safe-keeping of his stock was
now full of animals one day, half-empty the next day, and full again
on the third, as he bought and distributed his live stock. I want,
before I forget it, to tell how some of us editors entertained him
without having the vaguest idea who he was.
He was invited to dinner at the Free State Hotel by Mr. Landon, who
saw him seated and then introduced him to the rest of us, but in so
indistinct a manner that we did not catch his name. We simply saw in
our company a handsome and stalwart young officer of imposing stature,
and evidently profound good-nature. We all conversed upon the current
topics of the day and place, and one of us, I remember, had occasion
to differ with our guest, diametrically, upon some point--doing so as
bluntly, though not at all rudely, as men were apt to do in such a
place and at such a time--when the extra and more elaborate
formalities are apt to be laid aside for future use at the Mount
Nelson Hotel, and later in the routine of life at home.
After dinner our guest suggested that he should enjoy a chat and smoke
in our company elsewhere than in the noisy dining-room, so we invited
him to Mr. Kipling's bedroom, which was larger than Mr. Landon's or
Mr. Gwynne's or mine. We spent a very pleasant hour in freest
converse, one of us being prone upon one bed and rolling around on it
pipe in mouth, while our guest lolled upon a cot beside the chest of
drawers, and the others held down two chairs and looked after the
distribution of the cigarettes and the less dry refreshments at our
command.
We were not able, by any means, to agree with some of the propositions
of our guest, but he accepted our views in a spirit of good-humour, or
of a desire to learn what we had seen and studied. He talked a great
deal about horses, and about the fertile ingenuity of the native horse
trader, as well as of his own ability to defeat him at his wiles--but
we took no hint from this. When he had gone we asked Mr. Landon, "Who
was that? We did not catch his name."
The largest advertisement in the paper was that of Murray Guthrie,
Esq., M.P., whose address just then was "the Railway Station." He was
most generously giving up his time to the receipt and distribution of
those parcels for the troops which were now beginning to come from
England in great and little packing-cases, and large and small bundles
numbering enough to be reckoned by the car-load.
[Illustration: _The Capitulation of Bloemfontein._
_From a painting by Lester Ralph._]
We had received the news of the killing of Colonel de
Villebois-Mareuil in an engagement with Lord Methuen's force, and
Mr. Gwynne wrote a spirited leader in honour of the Frenchman's
memory.
We heard some interesting details about the capture of Villebois,
which I think have never been published. His commando threatened
Boshof, and when our force began to attack the kopje where he was
lodged our second shell killed him. He was not the only nobleman in
his commando, for among the prisoners we captured one was a Russian
prince and another was the Comte Breda, a Frenchman, like his leader.
Another prisoner was a stalwart Englishman named Simpson, whose long
beard was braided to keep it out of the way when he was shooting.
Physically, he was the most splendid specimen of manhood our soldiers
had seen in the Boer ranks. Lord Methuen ordered a military burial,
and commanded Colonel Higgins of the Third Welsh Borderers to obtain a
fitting tombstone. The English general attended the funeral, which
took place in Boshof cemetery. "General" Villebois was buried in a
blanket, but this was covered by the Union Jack when the body was
solemnly borne to the grave between the lines of the men of the Loyal
North Lancashire Regiment. No chaplain officiated, but none of the
formalities of a complete military service were omitted. The Comte
Breda made a little speech at the close, thanking the British for
their courtesy and kindness. After that our own dead were buried in
the same little cemetery.
The affair provoked great and deep discussion, and so many British
officers were displeased by what Lord Methuen had seen fit to do that
THE FRIEND was at pains to try and clear the air of the false
impression that one brave general had not a right to honour another
in this soldierly way. We also pictured Villebois as he appeared to
us, a knight of ancient pattern, a restless, gallant warrior, who had
political reasons for wishing to keep himself in the mind of his
people while waiting for the ripening of his plans. The line on his
gravestone, "died on the field of Honour," was originally written "on
the field of battle," and was ordered to be changed at the last
moment. This phrase also angered many British, who, presumably,
thought that a grand monument had been set up over the unfortunate
Frenchman. In fact, the stone only cost ten pounds when dressed and
inscribed, and in a country where such things fetch twice their value
here.
* * * * *
THE FRIEND.
(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)
No. 19.] BLOEMFONTEIN, SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1900. [Price One Penny.
COL. DE VILLEBOIS-MAREUIL.
BY MR. H. A. GWYNNE.
(_The following message has been received by F.M. Lord
Roberts from Lord Methuen: "Arrangements have been made for
the burial of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil this evening with
military honours."_)
A short, well-built, admirably proportioned man, with quick,
expressive eyes, and an open, frank countenance was the late Colonel
de Villebois-Mareuil. He was a soldier, and a gallant soldier, from
the top of his close-cropped head to the soles of his daintily-shod
feet. Wherever there was war, or the possibilities of war, de
Villebois-Mareuil was on the spot ready to fight for whichever side,
in his eyes, appeared to have the greater claims on justice. Impulsive
to a degree, he was often drawn to conclusions for which he could
never give logical grounds. The picturesqueness of the Boer side of
the war, the presence of old Huguenot names among those of the Boer
leaders, the imagined wrongs of the two Republics, were quite
sufficient to attract the generous and emotional Frenchman into the
struggle. And once in the struggle, he gave the whole of his energy to
it. Not content with drawing the sword for the two Republics, he
wielded a charming pen on their behalf. Some of his letters to the
Paris _Liberte_ prove that if the world has lost a gallant soldier, it
has also lost a brilliant war correspondent.
To us English, imbued as we are with a full appreciation of everything
which appears manly or sporting, the figure of Colonel de
Villebois-Mareuil is particularly sympathetic. We overlook his
somewhat illogical defence of what appears to us the gross injustice
of the Transvaal's dealings with Englishmen, and we only see a gallant
Frenchman fighting and laying down his life for a cause which he
espoused with the warmth of a generous nature. There is something
touching in a sentence of his which appears in one of his letters from
South Africa. "When I came here I believed I was going to the
sacrifice." Gallant, generous, chivalrous soldier: May God rest his
soul!
Over his grave we forget that he fought against us, and we think only
of the gallant soldier. A British bullet laid him low, but a British
General lays him to rest with full military honours.
* * * * *
A BALLADE OF TEN-A-PENNY.
BY J. H. M. A.
Kopjes are steep, and the veldt is brown--
(Utterly true, if you pause to think)
Biscuits are done and your luck is down;
"Modder" is not an inspiriting drink
(Dead Boers' taint, and defunct mules stink).
Better the sound of the screaming bomb,
Excitement and hurry of Hell's own brink--
Alas! for a tune on the gay Pom-pom.
"Action front!"--And the guns are round,
Teams go back with the chains a-clink.
We're reaping the storm that the scouts have sown
(The sun gets red and the clouds are pink).
"Show for the lyddite, that's all"--you think
(Frenchmen would shrug, with a _sacre nom_),
When out in the dusk, in the half of a jink,
Suddenly singeth the brisk Pom-pom.
"Pom-pom-pom"--and the shells have flown;
"Bang-bang-bang"--without rise or sink--
Accurate sameness to half a tone--
Whizzing one-pounders--don't stop to think--
Open the ranks like a "spieler's" wink.
This is a speedy and frolicsome bomb,
Do not despise it, but do not shrink,
This is a nerve-test, this swift Pom-pom.
ENVOI.
Oom, when you sit in the dark and think,
After the war, and your nights are long,
Bitterness sweeten of cups you drink
With a memory sad of your sweet Pom-pom.
* * * * *
HOW THE CALF WAS AVENGED.
BY LEONARDITE, 82ND BTY., R.F.A.
It happened about the time of the Paardeberg affair, or, to be exact,
at 12.10 a.m. on the 22nd of February, 1900, our battery (the 82nd
R.F.A.) had throughout the day catered diligently and well for the
tastes of Cronje and his followers. They had breakfast betimes in the
shape of shrapnel (unboiled), liberally and impartially distributed to
all and sundry within the laager; luncheon, tea, and supper followed
in due succession, each consisting principally of the same palatable
diet, flavoured at intervals with the celebrated Lyddite sauce. This
same is noted for its piquancy and marvellous power of imparting
elasticity to the lower extremities (gouty and dropsical people please
copy).
We returned to camp that night pretty well tired out, and hungry
enough to eat "beef" (troop horse, isn't it?), and wondering what our
good Poulter, the battery _chef_, had prepared in the shape of
grub--we had fought all day on a couple of "Spratt's gum-hardeners."
As we neared the camp a most appetising odour smote our olfactory
nerves. "Beef stew," says our No. 1, who has a wonderful nose for
odours. "Garn," retorts Driver Jones, who loves a joke; "more likely
an old goat that's 'scorfed' the inside of one of 'Redfern's trenches'
(this is a battery joke); too strong for beef." Well, by this time we
had arrived, and some one who knew said it was veal, and that Mason,
our Mason, Mason the mighty hunter and what-not, had commandeered it.
Presently arrived the cooks and camp kettles, and we settled down to a
good "buster." When nothing was left but empty pots and vain
longings, we lit our pipes, and the aromatic fumes of our Boer's Head
_cabbagio_ were wafted heavenwards, our veracious raconteur related
how he had captured the calf. How our pulses throbbed and our blood
rose to fever heat as he told how he tore away his game from under the
very horns of its enraged mother; and how, with the calf on his back,
he had been chased five miles and over a big kopje strewn with
boulders as big as an A.S.C. waggon, and finally, seeing no other mode
of escape, had hurled the animal (the calf, not its maternal relative)
from the top of the kopje, and in sheer desperation had leaped down
after it, breaking his fall by alighting on its body.
Bidding us good-night, he left us to imagine what he would have broken
had he alighted off its body.
Feeling the spirit of contentment hovering o'er us, we prepared to
turn in. The guns had previously been unlimbered and were ready for
action, with their muzzles pointing to the enemy. Formed up in rear
were the six gun limbers and six ammunition waggons, each with its
team of six horses still hooked in in case of any emergency. In
addition were the horses of the single riders, tied by their headropes
to different parts of the carriages, making a total of somewhere about
a hundred horses.
Well, we had comfortably settled down and were enjoying our first
sleep when the sentries were startled by a most unearthly noise from
the vicinity of the camp. It sounded like a dyspeptic groan from a
more than ordinarily cavernous stomach. The horses pricked up their
ears and the sentries clutched their carbines tighter as they peered
into the darkness. Suddenly came the sound again--a mournful,
melancholy, hair-raising sound. Like a flash the whole battery of
horses, as though acting on a signal, stampeded into the night, taking
the waggons with them; over sleeping men they went, stopping for no
obstacles, overturning guns in their mad career, and heading straight
for the enemy's trenches. The outposts, thinking the Boers were trying
to break through the lines, opened fire at nothing. The Boers,
thinking they were attacked, did ditto. It was a perfect pandemonium
for a few minutes. The spiteful spit-puff of the Mauser and sharp
crack of the Lee-Metford, the whole blending with the cries of the
injured and the shouts of the men who were trying to stop the
runaways, made an impression that few who witnessed the scene will
ever forget.
We had several more or less severely injured, lost about thirty horses
and one waggon, besides several that were overturned and smashed.
All this damage was caused by the lowing of an old cow who had
wandered through the camp seeking her lost offspring.
MORAL.--Hanker ye after the fleshpots, commandeer ye not, but buy!
buy! buy!
NOTE.--Wanted to know--_vide_ the Press report of Paardeberg
action--Since when has the 82nd Battery, R.F.A., become a mule
battery?
* * * * *
'ORSE OR FUT?
BY MARK THYME.
(_A Song of the Household Brigade._)
I.
It ain't a fatigue to see him,
'E's a taller than usual man,
As 'e struts down the road 'e's as smart as be blowed,
And 'is swagger would stop Big Ben,
'E's a fair take-in for the ladies,
For of course it's a maxim trite
When a cove's in the Guards, why it's just on the cards
'E's a bit of the best All-Right.
CHORUS.
Whether 'e wears a 'elmet,
Or 'airy 'at on 'is nut,
When all's done and said, 'E is 'Ousehold Brigade,
Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
(_Shouted ad lib._): THAT'S RIGHT
Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
II.
O' course 'e's fond of 'is lady,
'Is lady she doats on 'im,
And it's princip'ly that what's the cause of 'er 'at,
With its feathers and twisted brim.
When 'e takes 'er out of a Sunday
She says, "What a lovely sight!
"Oh! there isn't a doubt, But I'm walking about
"With a bit of the best All-Right."
CHORUS.
And when 'e looks in promisc'ous
'Taint often the door is shut,
For she's fond of a mash, with a curly moustache,
Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
(_As before_): That's Right
Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
III.
And then, when the war-clouds gather,
On Service 'e goes away;
And it's "Goodbye, Sal, God bless you, my gal!"
And the woman is left to pray.
Then whether it's toil and 'ardship,
Or whether it's march and fight,
'E's a joker, we know, As is certain to show
'E's a bit of the best All-Right.
CHORUS.
Whether it's sword or bayonet,
Whether it's lance or butt,
'E's bound to go large When they're sounding the Charge,
Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
(_As before--only more so_): That's Right!
Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
* * * * *
HAS THE WAR JUST BEGUN?
The Cradock Dutch newspaper, the _Middellandsche Afrikaander_, says:
"Our English contemporaries are greatly mistaken in thinking that the
war has now virtually ended. The Republicans are now going to act on
the defensive, and now one can expect a deathly struggle. The war has
now lasted nearly six months, and, however much we desire it, there is
no prospect of peace as yet."