SOUTH AFRICAN MEMORIES

SOCIAL, WARLIKE & SPORTING

FROM DIARIES WRITTEN AT THE TIME

BY

LADY SARAH WILSON

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1909

DEDICATION

TO THE MEMORY OF MY
BELOVED SISTER,
GEORGIANA, COUNTESS HOWE,
TO WHOSE EFFORTS AND UNCEASING
LABOURS IN CONNECTION WITH THE YEOMANRY HOSPITALS,
DURING THE WAR IN SOUTH AFRICA, THE EARLY
BREAKDOWN OF HER HEALTH, AND
SUBSEQUENT DEATH, WERE
UNDOUBTEDLY DUE,
THIS BOOK,
CONTAINING RECOLLECTIONS OF THAT
GREAT AND MYSTERIOUS LAND, THE GRAVE
OF SO MANY BRAVE ENGLISHMEN, IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED

PREFACE

Everything of interest that has happened to me in life chances
to have been in connection with South Africa. In that land, where
some of my happiest days have been spent, I have also experienced
long periods of intense excitement and anxiety; there I have made
acquaintance with all the charm of the veldt, in the vast country
north of the great Zambesi River, hearing the roar of the lions
at night, and following their “spoor” by day; and last, but not
least, I have there made some very good friends. Only a few years
ago, when peacefully spending a few weeks at Assouan in Egypt, I
was nearly drowned by the capsizing of a boat in the Nile; again
the spirit of the vast continent (on this occasion far away to
the north) seemed to watch over me. For all these reasons I
venture to claim the indulgence of the public and the kindness of
my friends, for these recollections of days in South Africa, in
which shade and sunshine have been strangely mingled, and which
to me have never been dull. To sum up, I have always found that
life is what you make it, and have often proved the truth of the
saying, “Adventures to the adventurous.”

I am indebted to Colonel Vyvyan for statistics respecting the
Mafeking Relief Fund; and to Miss A. Fielding, secretary to the
late Countess Howe, for a résumé of the work of the
Yeomanry Hospital during the Boer War.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I

The above words, written by one of the greatest philosophers
of olden time, have often impressed me, and I have frequently
quoted them when asked why I did not write an account of the
interesting travels and adventures I have had in my life. It has
therefore required a great deal of courage to take up my pen and
record a few recollections of South Africa. I felt that, were
they ever to be written at all, it must be before the rapidly
passing years diminish the interest in that land, which in the
past has been the object of such engrossing attention; and that
at the present time, when the impending Federation of South
Africa has at length crowned the hopes of those patriots who have
laboured patiently and hopefully to bring about this great
result, it might be appropriate to recall those days when
Englishmen, who had made South Africa their home, had much to
contend with, even before the fierce struggle to keep “the flag
flying” in the years of 1899-1902.

During that period, which commenced after the disaster at
Majuba Hill, “equal rights” were a golden dream which only the
most optimistic ever hoped to see realized. From then onwards, as
old colonists have so often told me, the Boers brought up the
younger generation in the belief that the “Roinek”^[1] was a coward, and in
consequence their arrogance in the country districts became
wellnigh intolerable, while at the Cape the Bond party grew so
strong it bid fair to elbow out the English altogether. Now,
while the country is still young, the fair prospect opens out of
Briton and Boer living in amity and peace together, and mutually
supplying, in the government of their vast inheritance, such
elements as are wanting in the character of each.

My first visit to South Africa was a short one, and took place
at the end of 1895. During the foregoing summer everyone’s
attention had been directed to the Transvaal, and more especially
towards the Rand, by reason of the unprecedented and, as it
turned out, totally unwarranted rise in the gold-mining shares of
that district; in this boom, people both at home and in
Johannesburg madly gambled, and large fortunes were quickly made
by those who had foresight enough not to hold on too long. For
already the political horizon was darkening, and the wrongs of
the “Uitlanders,” real and apparent as they were, became a
parrot-cry, which waxed and waned, but never died away, till the
ultimatum of President Kruger, in October, 1899, brought matters
to a climax.

We sailed from Southampton in December, 1895, in the
Tantallon Castle, then one of the most modern and
up-to-date of the Castle liners. The ship was crowded to its
utmost capacity, and among the passengers, as I afterwards
learned, were many deeply concerned in the plotting which was
known to be going on at Johannesburg, either to extort
concessions from President Kruger, or, failing this, to remove
him altogether. I knew very little about all this then, but
before I had been many days on board it was not difficult to
discover that much mystery filled the air, and I was greatly
excited at arriving in South Africa in such stirring times. There
is no such place for getting to know people well as on a
sea-voyage of eighteen days. Somehow the sea inspires confidence,
and one knows that information imparted cannot, anyway, be posted
off by the same day’s mail. So those who were helping to pull the
strings of this ill-fated rebellion talked pretty freely of their
hopes and fears during the long, dark tropical evenings.

I became familiar with their grievances—their unfair
taxation; no education for their children except in Dutch; no
representation in Parliament—and this in a population in
which, at that time, the English and Afrikanders at Johannesburg
and in the surrounding districts outnumbered the Dutch in the
proportion of about 6 to 1. They laid stress on the fact that
neither the Boers nor their children were, or desired to become,
miners, and, further, that for the enormous sums spent on
developing and working the mines no proper security existed. I
must admit it was the fiery-headed followers who talked the
loudest—those who had nothing to lose and much to gain. The
financiers, while directing and encouraging their zeal, seemed
almost with the same hand to wish to put on the brake and damp
their martial ardour. In any case, all were so eloquent that by
the time our voyage was ended I felt as great a rebel against
“Oom Paul” and his Government as any one of them.

Before leaving the Tantallon Castle, however, I must
pass in review some of those whose home it had been with
ourselves for the best part of three weeks. First I remember the
late Mr. Alfred Beit, interesting as the man who had made the
most colossal fortune of all the South African magnates, and who
was then already said to be the most generous of philanthropists
and the kindest of friends; this reputation he fully sustained in
the subsequent years of his life and in the generous disposition
of his vast wealth. I have often been told that Mr. Cecil Rhodes
owed the inspiration of some of his colossal ideas to his friend
Mr. Beit, and when it came to financing the same, the latter was
always ready to assist in carrying out projects to extend and
consolidate the Empire. In these latter years, and since his
comparatively early death, I have heard those who still bear the
brunt of the battle lament his loss, and remark, when a railway
was to be built or a new part of the country opened up, how much
more expeditiously it would be done were Mr. Beit still
alive.

Other names that occur to me are Mr. Abe Bailey, well known in
racing circles to-day, and then reputed a millionaire, the
foundation of whose fortune consisted in a ten-pound note
borrowed from a friend. Mr. Wools Sampson,^[2]
who subsequently so greatly distinguished himself at Ladysmith,
where he was dangerously wounded, had an individuality all his
own; he had seen every side of life as a soldier of fortune,
attached to different regiments, during all the fighting in South
Africa of the preceding years. He was then a mining expert,
associated with Mr. Bailey in Lydenburg, but his heart evidently
lay in fighting and in pursuing the different kinds of wild
animals that make their home on the African veldt. Dr. Rutherford
Harris, then the Secretary of the Chartered Company; Mr. Henry
Milner, an old friend; Mr. Geoffrey Glyn and Mr. F. Guest, are
others whom I specially remember; besides many more, some of whom
have joined the vast majority, and others whom I have altogether
lost sight of, but who helped to make the voyage a very pleasant
one.

We landed at Cape Town shortly before Christmas Day. As I have
since learnt by the experience of many voyages, it is nearly
always at dawn that a liner is brought alongside the quay at the
conclusion of a long voyage; in consequence, sleep is almost out
of the question the last night at sea, owing to the noisy
manipulations of the mail-bags and luggage. However, one is
always so glad to get on shore that it is of very little import,
and on this occasion we were all anxious to glean the latest news
after being cut off from the world for so many days. The papers
contained gloomy accounts of the markets. “King Slump” still held
his sway, and things abroad looked very unsettled; so most of our
friends appeared, when we met later, with very long faces. After
breakfast, leaving our luggage to the tender mercies of some
officious agent, who professed to see it “through the Customs,”
we took a hansom and drove to the Grand Hotel, en route to
the hotel, in the suburb of Newlands, where we had taken rooms.
My first impressions of Cape Town certainly were not
prepossessing, and well I remember them, even after all these
years. The dust was blowing in clouds, stirred up by the
“south-easter” one hears so much about—an icy blast which
appears to come straight from the South Pole, and which often
makes its appearance in the height of summer, which season it
then was. The hansom, of the oldest-fashioned type, shook and
jolted beyond belief, and threatened every moment to fall to
pieces. The streets from the docks to the town were unfinished,
untidy, and vilely paved, and I remember comparing them very
unfavourably with Melbourne or Sydney. However, I soon modified
my somewhat hasty judgment. We had seen the town’s worst aspects,
and later I noticed some attractive-looking shops; the imposing
Houses of Parliament, in their enclosed grounds, standing out
sharply defined against the hazy background of Table Mountain;
and the Standard Bank and Railway-station, which would hold their
own in any city. At the same time, as a place of residence in the
summer months, I can well understand Cape Town being wellnigh
deserted. Those who can boast of even the most moderate means
have their residences in the attractive suburbs of Rondebosch,
Newlands, or Wynberg, and innumerable are the pretty little
villas and gardens one sees in these vicinities. There the
country is beautifully wooded, thick arching avenues of oak
extending for miles, interspersed with tracts of Scotch firs and
pines, the latter exhaling a delicious perfume under the sun’s
powerful rays. Everywhere green foliage and abundant vegetation,
which, combined with the setting of the bluest sky that can be
imagined, make the drives round Cape Town some of the most
beautiful in the world. At Newlands, the Governor’s summer
residence, a pretty but unpretentious abode, Sir Hercules and
Lady Robinson then dispensed generous hospitality, only
regretting their house was too small to accommodate visitors,
besides their married daughters. We stayed at the Vineyard Hotel
in the immediate neighbourhood—a funny old-fashioned
hostelry, standing in its own grounds, and not in the least like
an hotel as we understand the word. There whole families seemed
to reside for months, and very comfortable it was, if somewhat
primitive, appearing to keep itself far apart from the rush of
modern improvements, and allowing the world to go by it unheeded.
Only half a mile away, at Rondebosch, was situated then, as now,
on the lower slopes of Table Mountain, the princely domain of the
late Mr. Cecil Rhodes. At the moment of which I write the house
itself was only approaching completion, and I must now record a
few particulars of our introduction to this great Englishman and
his world-famed home. We drove to Groot Schuurr, or “Great Barn,”
one afternoon with Mr. Beit. The house is approached by a long
avenue of enormously high Scotch firs, which almost meet aloft,
and remind one of the nave of some mighty cathedral, such is the
subdued effect produced by the sunlight even on the brightest
summer day. A slight rise in the road, a serpentine sweep, and
the house itself comes into view, white, low, and rambling, with
many gables and a thatched roof. The right wing was then hidden
by scaffolding, and workmen were also busy putting in a new
front-door, of which more anon; for a tall, burly gentleman in a
homely costume of flannels and a slouch hat emerged from the
unfinished room, where he would seem to have been directing the
workmen, and we were introduced to Cecil John Rhodes, the Prime
Minister of Cape Colony.

I looked at the man, of whom I had heard so much, with a great
deal of curiosity. Shy and diffident with strangers, his manner
even somewhat abrupt, one could not fail to be impressed with the
expression of power, resolution, and kindness, on the rugged
countenance, and with the keen, piercing glance of the blue eyes,
which seemed to read one through in an instant. He greeted us, as
he did every newcomer, most warmly, and under his guidance we
passed into the completed portion of the house, the rooms of
which were not only most comfortable, but also perfect in every
detail as regards the model he wished to copy—viz., a Dutch
house of 200 years ago, even down to the massive door
aforementioned, which he had just purchased for £200 from a
colonial family mansion, and which seemed to afford him immense
pleasure. As a first fleeting memory of the interior of Groot
Schuurr, I call to mind Dutch armoires, all incontestably old and
of lovely designs, Dutch chests, inlaid high-backed chairs,
costly Oriental rugs, and everywhere teak panelling—the
whole producing a vision of perfect taste and old-world repose.
It was then Mr. Rhodes’s intention to have no electric light, or
even lamps, and burn nothing but tallow candles, so as to keep up
the illusion of antiquity; but whether he would have adhered to
this determination it is impossible to say, as the house we saw
was burnt to the ground later on, and is now rebuilt on exactly
the same lines, but with electric light, every modern comfort,
and lovely old red tiles to replace the quaint thatched roof.

Passing through the rooms, we came to the wide verandah, or
stoep, on the other or eastern side. This ran the whole length of
the edifice, and was used as a delightful lounge, being provided
with luxurious settees and armchairs. From here Mr. Rhodes
pointed out the view he loved so well, and which comes vividly to
my mind to-day. In front three terraces rise immediately beyond
the gravel courtyard, which is enclosed on three sides by the
stoep. These, bright with flowers, lead to a great grass plateau,
on which some more splendid specimens of Scotch firs rear their
lofty heads; while behind, covered with trees and vegetation, its
brilliant green veiled by misty heat, Table Mountain forms a
glorious background, in striking contrast to the cobalt of the
heavens. To the right of the terraces is a glade, entirely
covered with vivid blue hydrangeas in full bloom, giving the
appearance of a tract of azure ground. Lower down the hillside,
in little valleys, amidst oak and other English forest trees, a
carpet is formed of cannas of many hues, interspersed with masses
of gleaming white arum lilies, which grow here wild in very great
profusion.

Our time was too short on this occasion to see any portion of
Mr. Rhodes’s estate or the animals—antelope of many kinds,
wildebeestes, elands, and zebras—which roamed through his
woods. We lunched with him two days later on Christmas Eve, and
then the weather was so hot that we only lazily enjoyed the shade
and breezes on the stoep. Well do I remember on that occasion how
preoccupied was our host, and how incessantly the talk turned to
Johannesburg and the raging discontent there. In truth, Mr.
Rhodes’s position was then a very difficult one: he was Prime
Minister of Cape Colony, and therefore officially neutral; but in
his heart he remained the keen champion of the oppressed
Uitlanders, having nominated his brother, Frank Rhodes, to be one
of the leaders of the Reform Committee at Johannesburg. No wonder
he was graver than was his wont, with many complications
overshadowing him, as one afterwards so fully realized. His
kindness as a host, however, suffered no diminution, and I
remember how warmly he pressed us to stay with him when we
returned from the north, though he did add, “My plans are a
little unsettled.” This suggested visit, however, was never paid;
Mr. Rhodes a few weeks afterwards was starting for England, to,
as he termed it, “face the music.” I shall have occasion to
describe him in his home, and the life at Groot Schuurr, more
fully later on, when I passed many happy and
never-to-be-forgotten weeks beneath his hospitable roof. As years
went on, his kindness to both friends and political foes grew
almost proverbial, but even in 1895 Groot Schuurr, barely
finished, was already known to be one of the pleasantest places
near Cape Town—a meeting-place for all the men of the
colony either on their way to and from England, or on the
occasion of their flying visits to the capital.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER II

In the last week of the old year we started on our journey to
Kimberley, then a matter of thirty-six hours. The whole of one
day we dawdled over the Great Karroo in pelting rain and mist,
which reminded one of Scotland. This sandy desert was at that
season covered with brown scrub, for it was yet too early for the
rains to have made it green, and the only signs of life were a
few ostriches, wild white goats, and, very rarely, a waggon piled
with wood, drawn along the sandy road by ten or twelve donkeys.
As to vegetation, there were huge clumps of mimosa-bushes, just
shedding their yellow blossoms, through which the branches showed
up with their long white thorns, giving them a weird and withered
appearance. It must indeed have required great courage on behalf
of the old Voor-trekker Boers, when they and their families left
Cape Colony, at the time of the Great Trek, in long lines of
white-tented waggons, to have penetrated through that
dreary-waste in search of the promised land, of green veldt and
running streams, which they had heard of, as lying away to the
north, and eventually found in the Transvaal. I have been told
that President Kruger was on this historical trek, a Voor-looper,
or little boy who guides the leading oxen.

Round Kimberley the country presented a very different
appearance, and here we saw the real veldt covered with short
grass, just beginning to get burnt up by the summer’s heat. Our
host, Mr. J. B. Currey, a name well known in Diamond-Field
circles, met us at the station. This is a good old South African
custom, and always seems to me to be the acme of welcoming
hospitality, and the climax to the kindness of inviting people to
stay, merely on the recommendation of friends—quite a
common occurrence in the colonies, and one which, I think, is
never sufficiently appreciated, the entertainers themselves
thinking it so natural a proceeding.

Kimberley itself and the diamond industry have both been so
often and so well described that I shall beware of saying much of
either, and I will only note a few things I remarked about this
town, once humming with speculation, business, and movement, but
now the essence of a sleepy respectability and visible
prosperity. For the uninitiated it is better to state that the
cause of this change was the gradual amalgamation of the
diamond-mines and conflicting interests, which was absolutely
necessary to limit the output of diamonds. As a result the
stranger soon perceives that the whole community revolves on one
axis, and is centred, so to speak, in one authority. “De Beers”
is the moving spirit, the generous employer, and the universal
benefactor. At that time there were 7,000 men employed in the
mines, white and black, the skilled mechanics receiving as much
as £6 a week. Evidence of the generosity of this company
was seen in the model village built for the white workmen; in the
orchard containing 7,000 fruit-trees, then one of Mr. Rhodes’s
favourite hobbies; and in the stud-farm for improving the breed
of horses in South Africa. If I asked the profession of any of
the smart young men who frequented the house where we were
staying, for games of croquet, it amused me always to receive the
same answer, “He is something in De Beers.” The town itself
boasts of many commodious public buildings, a great number of
churches of all denominations, an excellent and well-known club;
but whatever the edifice, the roofing is always corrugated iron,
imported, I was told, from Wolverhampton. This roofing, indeed,
prevails over the whole of new South Africa; and although it
appears a very unsuitable protection from the burning rays of the
African sun, no doubt its comparative cheapness and the quickness
of its erection are the reasons why this style was introduced,
and has been adhered to. By dint of superhuman efforts, in spite
of locust-plagues, drought, and heavy thunderstorms, the
inhabitants have contrived to surround their little one-storied
villas with gardens bright with flowers, many creepers of vivid
hues covering all the trellis-work of the verandahs.

The interest of Kimberley, however, soon paled and waned as
the all-engrossing events of the Uitlander rebellion in
Johannesburg rapidly succeeded each other. One sultry evening our
host brought us news of tangible trouble on the Rand: some ladies
who were about to leave for that locality had received wires to
defer their departure. Instantly, I recollect, my thoughts flew
back to the Tantallon Castle and the dark words we had
heard whispered, so it was not as much of a surprise to me as to
the residents at Kimberley; to them it came as a perfect
bombshell, so well had the secret been kept. The next day the
text of the Manifesto, issued by Mr. Leonard, a lawyer, in the
name of the Uitlanders, to protest against their grievances,
appeared in all the morning papers, and its eloquent language
aroused the greatest enthusiasm in the town. Thus was the
gauntlet thrown down with a vengeance, and an ominous chord was
struck by the statement, also in the papers, that Mr. Leonard had
immediately left for Cape Town, “lest he should be arrested.” It
must be remembered that any barrister, English or Afrikander,
holding an official position in the Transvaal, had at that time
to take the oath of allegiance to the Boer Government before
being free to practise his calling. The explanation of the
exceedingly acute feeling at Kimberley in those anxious days lay
in the fact that nearly everyone had relations or friends in the
Golden City. Our hosts themselves had two sons pursuing their
professions there, and, of course, in the event of trouble with
England, these young men would have been commandeered to fight
for the Boer Government they served. One possibility, however, I
noticed, was never entertained—viz., that, if fighting
occurred, the English community might get the worst of it. Such a
contingency was literally laughed to scorn. “The Boers were
unprepared and lazy; they took weeks to mobilize; they had given
up shooting game, hence their marksmen had deteriorated; and 200
men ought to be able to take possession of Johannesburg and
Kruger into the bargain.” This was what one heard on all sides,
and in view of more recent events it is rather significant; but I
remember then the thought flashed across my mind that these
possible foes were the sons of the men who had annihilated us at
Majuba and Laing’s Nek, and I wondered whether another black page
were going to be added to the country’s history.

The next day, December 29, Kruger was reported in the papers
to be listening to reason; but this hopeful news was short-lived,
for on Monday, the 30th—as usual, a fiercely hot
day—we received the astounding intelligence that Dr.
Jameson, administrator of Mashonaland and Matabeleland, had
entered the Transvaal at the head of the Chartered Company’s
Police, 600 strong, with several Maxim and Gardner guns. No
upheaval of Nature could have created greater amazement, combined
with a good deal of admiration and some dismay, than this
sensational news. The dismay, indeed, increased as the facts were
more fully examined. Nearly all the officers of the corps held
Imperial commissions, and one heard perfect strangers asking each
other how these officers could justify their action of entering a
friendly territory, armed to the teeth; while the fact of Dr.
Jameson himself being at their head heightened the intense
interest. I did not know that gentleman then, but I must say he
occupied in the hearts of the people at Kimberley, and, indeed,
of the whole country, quite a unique position.

It was in the diamond-fields he had worked as a young doctor,
usurping gradually almost the entire medical practice by his
great skill as well as by his charm of manner. Then, as Mr.
Rhodes’s nominee, he had dramatically abandoned medicine and
surgery, and had gone to the great unknown Northern Territory
almost at a moment’s notice. He had obtained concessions from the
black tyrant, Lobengula, when all other emissaries had failed;
backwards and forwards many times across the vast stretch of
country between Bulawayo and Kimberley he had carried on
negotiations which had finally culminated, five years previously,
in his leading a column of 500 hardy pioneers to the promising
country of Mashonaland, which up to that time had lain in
darkness under the cruel rule of the dusky monarch. During three
strenuous years Dr. Jameson, with no military or legal education,
had laboured to establish the nucleus of a civilized government
in that remote country; and during the first part of that period
the nearest point of civilization, from whence they could derive
their supplies, was Kimberley, a thousand miles away, across a
practically trackless country. Added to this difficulty, the
administrator found himself confronted with the wants and rights
of the different mining communities into which the pioneers had
gradually split themselves up, and which were being daily
augmented by the arrival of “wasters” and others, who had begun
to filter in as the country was written about, and its great
mining and agricultural possibilities enlarged upon. Finally,
goaded thereto and justified therein by Lobengula’s continued
cruelties, his raids on the defenceless Mashonas, and his threats
to the English, Dr. Jameson had led another expedition against
the King himself in his stronghold of Bulawayo. On that occasion
sharp fighting ensued, but he at length brought peace, and the
dawning of a new era to a vast native population in the country,
which, with Mashonaland, was to be known as Rhodesia. In fact, up
to then his luck had been almost supernatural and his
achievements simply colossal. Added to all this was his capacity
for attaching people to himself, and his absolutely fearless
disposition; so it is easy to understand that Kimberley hardly
dared breathe during the next momentous days, when the fate of
“the Doctor,” as he was universally called, and of his men, who
were nearly all locally known, was in suspense.

During many an evening of that eventful week we used to sit
out after dinner under the rays of a glorious full moon, in the
most perfect climatic conditions, and hear heated discussions of
the pros and cons of this occurrence, which savoured more of
medieval times than of our own. The moon all the while looked
down so calmly, and the Southern Cross stood out clear and
bright. One wondered what they might not have told us of scenes
being enacted on the mysterious veldt, not 300 miles away. It was
not till Saturday, January 4, that we knew what had happened, and
any hopes we had entertained that the freebooters had either
joined forces with their friends in Johannesburg, or else had
made good their escape, were dashed to the ground as the fulness
of the catastrophe became known. For hours, however, the aghast
Kimberleyites refused to believe that Dr. Jameson and his entire
corps had been taken prisoners, having been hopelessly
outnumbered and outmanoeuvred after several hours’ fighting at
Krugersdorp; and, when doubt was no longer possible, loud and
deep were the execrations levelled at the Johannesburgers, who,
it was strenuously reiterated, had invited the Raiders to come to
their succour, and who, when the pinch came, never even left the
town to go to their assistance. If the real history of the Raid
is ever written, when the march of time renders such a thing
possible, it will be interesting reading; but, as matters stand
now, it is better to say as little as possible of such a
deplorable fiasco, wherein the only points which stood out
clearly appeared to be that Englishmen were as brave, and perhaps
also as foolhardy, as ever; that President Kruger, while
pretending to shut his eyes, had known exactly all that was going
forward; that the Boers had lost nothing of their old skill in
shooting and ambushing, while the rapid rising and massing of
their despised forces was as remarkable in its way as Jameson’s
forced march.

It was said at the time that the proclamation issued by the
Government at home, repudiating the rebels, was the factor which
prevented the Johannesburgers from joining forces with the
Raiders when they arrived at Krugersdorp, as no doubt had been
arranged, and that this step of the Home Government had,
curiously enough, not been foreseen by the organizers of this
deeply-laid plot. There is no doubt that there were two forces at
work in Johannesburg, as, indeed, I had surmised during our
voyage out: the one comprising the financiers, which strove to
attain its ends by manifesto and public meeting, with the hint of
sterner measures to follow; and the other impatient of delay, and
thus impelled to seek the help of those who undoubtedly became
freebooters the moment they crossed the Transvaal border.
Certainly Dr. Jameson’s reported words seemed to echo with
reproach and disappointment—the reproach of a man who has
been deceived; but whatever his feelings were at that moment of
despair, when his lucky star seemed at length to have deserted
him with a vengeance, I happen to know he never bore any lasting
grudge against his Johannesburg friends, and that he remained on
terms of perfect friendship even with the five members of the
Reform Committee, with whom all the negotiations had gone
forward. These included Colonel Frank Rhodes,^[3] always one of his favourite
companions.

As an instance of how acute was the feeling suddenly roused
respecting Englishmen, I remember that Mr. Harry Lawson, who was
staying in the same house as ourselves, and had decided to leave
for Johannesburg as special correspondent to his father’s paper,
the Daily Telegraph, was actually obliged to travel under
a foreign name; and even then, if my memory serves me right, he
did not succeed in reaching the Rand. In the meantime, as the
daily papers received fuller details, harrowing accounts came to
hand of the exodus from Johannesburg of men, women, and children
travelling twenty in a compartment meant for eight, while others,
not so fortunate, had to put up with cattle-trucks. The Boers
were said to have shown themselves humane and magnanimous. Mr.
Chamberlain, the papers wrote, was strengthening the hands of the
President, to avert civil war, which must have been dangerously
near; but the most important man of the moment in South Africa
was grudgingly admitted to be “Oom Paul.” His personal influence
alone, it was stated, had restrained his wild bands of armed
burghers, with which the land was simply bristling, and he was
then in close confabulation with Her Majesty’s High Commissioner,
Sir Hercules Robinson, whom he had summoned to Pretoria to deal
with such refractory Englishmen. The journals also took advantage
of the occasion to bid Kruger remember this was the opportunity
to show himself forgiving, and to strengthen his corrupt
Government, thereby earning the gratitude of those Afrikanders,
for whom, indeed, he was not expected to have any affection, but
to whom he was indebted for the present flourishing financial
state of his republic, which, it was called to mind, was next
door to bankrupt when England declared its independence in 1884.
If such articles were translated and read out to that wily old
President, as he sipped his coffee on his stoep, with his bland
and inscrutable smile, it must have added zest to his evening
pipe. I read in Mr. Seymour Fort’s “Life of Dr. Jameson” that the
Raid cost the Chartered Company £75,000 worth of material,
most of which passed into the hands of the Boer Government, while
the confiscated arms at Johannesburg amounted to several thousand
rifles and a great deal of ammunition. Respecting the guns taken
from Jameson’s force, curiously enough, we surmised during the
siege of Mafeking, four years later, that some of these were
being used against us. Their shells fired into the town, many of
which did not explode, and of which I possess a specimen, were
the old seven-pound studded M.L. type, with the Woolwich mark on
them.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER III

Oom Paul was in the proud position of this fly in the weeks
immediately following the Raid, as well as during many years to
come. When we returned to Cape Town early in January, 1896, we
found everything in a turmoil. Mr. Rhodes had resigned the
premiership and had left for Kimberley, where he had met with a
most enthusiastic reception, and Mr. Beit had been left in
possession at Groot Schuurr. The latter gentleman appeared quite
crushed at the turn events had taken—not so much on account
of his own business affairs, which must have been in a critical
state, as in regard to the fate of Mr. Lionel Philips, his
partner; this gentleman, as well as the other four members of the
Reform Committee,^[4] and
a few lesser lights besides, had all been arrested during the
past week at Johannesburg, and charged with high treason. Even at
Cape Town, Captain Bettelheim and Mr. S. Joel, who had left the
Transvaal, had one forenoon been requested to accompany some
mysterious gentleman, and, very much to their surprise, had found
themselves lodged in Her Majesty’s gaol before lunch. This
occurrence came as a bombshell to the Cape Town community, it
having been assumed that there was no extradition for political
offences. Johannesburg was known to be disarming almost
unconditionally “in consequence of a personal appeal from the
Governor,” and another telegram informed the world that the men
in so doing were broken-hearted, but were making the sacrifice in
order to save Dr. Jameson’s life. Some unkind friends remarked
that their grief must have been tempered with relief, in ridding
themselves of the weapons that they had talked so much about, and
yet did not use when the time for action came. However, the ways
of Providence are wonderful, and this inglorious finale was
probably the means of averting a terrible civil war. Sir Hercules
Robinson was still at Pretoria, conferring with the President,
who, it was opined, was playing with him, as nothing either
regarding the fate of Dr. Jameson and his officers, or of the
political prisoners, had been settled. It was even rumoured that
there was a serious hitch in the negotiations, and that Lord
Salisbury had presented an ultimatum to the effect that, unless
the President ratified the Convention of 1884, and ceased
intriguing with Germany, war with England would ensue. This story
was never confirmed, and I think the wish was father to the
thought. I remember, during those eventful days, attending with
Mrs. Harry Lawson a garden-party at Newlands, given by Lady
Robinson, who was quite a remarkable personality, and an old
friend and admirer of the ex-Prime Minister’s. The gardens showed
to their greatest advantage in the brilliant sunshine, and an
excellent band played charming tunes under the trees; but
everyone was so preoccupied—and no one more than the
hostess—that it was rather a depressing entertainment.

At last events began to shape themselves. We learnt that the
Governor had left Pretoria on January 15, and that the military
prisoners, including most of the troopers, were to be sent home
to England immediately, for the leaders to stand their trial. The
same morning I heard privately that Mr. Rhodes meant to leave by
that very evening’s mail-steamer for England, to face the inquiry
which would certainly ensue, and, if possible, to save the
Charter of that Company with which he had so indissolubly
connected himself, and which was, so to speak, his favourite
child. I remember everyone thought then that this Charter would
surely be confiscated, on account of the illegal proceedings of
its forces.

The fact of Mr. Rhodes’s departure was kept a profound secret,
as he wished to avoid any demonstration. The mail-steamer was the
even then antiquated Moor of the Union Line, and she was
lying a quarter of a mile away from the docks, awaiting her
mail-bags and her important passengers. Besides Mrs. Harry Lawson
and ourselves, Mr. Rhodes, Mr. Beit, and Dr. Rutherford Harris,
the two latter of whom were also going to England, embarked quite
unnoticed on a small launch, ostensibly to make a tour of the
harbour, which as a matter of fact we did, whilst waiting for the
belated mail. An object of interest was the chartered P. and O.
transport Victoria, which had only the day before arrived
from Bombay, with the Lancashire Regiment, 1,000 strong, on
board, having been suddenly stopped here on her way home,
pessimists at once declaring the reason to be possible trouble
with Germany. A very noble appearance she presented that
afternoon, with her lower decks and portholes simply swarming
with red-coats, who appeared to take a deep interest in our
movements. At last we boarded the mail-steamer, and then I had
the chance of a few words with the travellers, and of judging how
past events had affected them. Mr. Beit looked ill and worried;
Mr. Rhodes, on the other hand, seemed to be in robust health, and
as calm as the proverbial cucumber. I had an interesting talk to
him before we left the ship; he said frankly that, for the first
time in his life, during six nights of the late crisis he had not
been able to sleep, and that he had been worried to death.

“Now,” he added, “I have thought the whole matter out, I have
decided what is best to be done, so I am all right again, and I
do not consider at forty-three that my career is ended.”

“I am quite sure it is not, Mr. Rhodes,” was my reply; “and,
what is more, I have a small bet with Mr. Lawson that in a year’s
time you will be in office again, or, if not absolutely in
office, as great a factor in South African politics as you have
been up to now.”

He thought a minute, and then said:

“It will take ten years; better cancel your bet.”^[5] was careful not to ask him any
questions which might be embarrassing for him to answer, but he
volunteered that the objects of his visit to England were, first,
to do the best he could for his friends at Johannesburg,
including his brother Frank, who were now political prisoners,
practically at the mercy of the Boers, unless the Imperial
Government bestirred itself on their behalf; and, secondly, to
save his Charter, if by any means it could be saved. This doubt
seemed to haunt him. “My argument is,” I remember he said, “they
may take away the Charter or leave it, but there is one fact that
no man can alter—viz., that a vast and valuable territory
has been opened up by that Company in about half the time, and at
about a quarter the cost, which the Imperial Government would
have required for a like task; so that whether, in consequence of
one bad blunder, and partly in order to snub me, Cecil Rhodes,
the Company is to cease, or whether it is allowed to go on with
its work, its achievements and their results must and will speak
for themselves.” With reference to the political prisoners, I
recollect he repeated more than once:

“You see, I stand in so much stronger a position than they do,
in that I am not encumbered with wife and children; so I am
resolved to strain every nerve on their behalf.” About six
o’clock the last bell rang, and, cutting short our conversation,
I hurriedly wished him good-bye and good luck, and from the deck
of our little steamer we watched the big ship pass out into the
night.

We had now been a month in South Africa, and had seen very
little of the country, and it appeared that we had chosen a very
unfavourable moment for our visit. We were determined, however,
not to return home without seeing the Transvaal, peaceful or the
reverse. The question was, how to get there. By train one had to
allow three days and four nights, and, since the rebellion, to
put up with insults into the bargain at the frontier, where
luggage and even wearing apparel were subjected to a minute
search, involving sometimes a delay of five hours. Our projected
departure by sea via Natal was postponed indefinitely, by the
non-arrival of the incoming mail-steamer from England, the old
Roslin Castle, which was living up to her reputation of
breaking down, by being days overdue, so that it was impossible
to say when she would be able to leave for Durban. Under these
circumstances Sir Hercules Robinson proved a friend in need; and,
having admonished us to secrecy, he told us that the P. and O.
Victoria, the troopship we had noticed in the harbour, was
under orders to leave at once for Durban to pick up Dr. Jameson
and the other Raiders at that port; and convey them to England;
therefore, as we only wanted to go as far as Durban, he would
manage, by permission of the Admiral at Cape Town, to get us
passages on board this ship. Of course we were delighted, and
early next morning we embarked. It was the first time I had ever
been on a troopship, and every moment was of interest. As spick
and span as a man-of-war, with her wide, roomy decks, it was
difficult to imagine there were 2,000 souls on board the
Victoria, and only in the morning, when the regiment
paraded, appearing like ants from below, and stretching in
unbroken lines all down both sides of the ship, did one realize
how large was the floating population, and how strict must be the
discipline necessary to keep so many men healthy, contented, and
efficient. There were a few other civilians going home on leave,
but we were the only so-called “indulgence passengers.” The time
passed all too quickly, the monotonous hours of all shipboard
life, between the six-thirty dinner and bedtime, being whiled
away by listening to an excellent military band.

We were told to be dressed and ready to disembark by 6 a.m. on
the morning we were due at Durban, as the Admiral had given
stringent instructions not to delay there any longer than was
necessary. I was therefore horrified, on awaking at five o’clock,
to find the engines had already stopped, and, on looking out of
the porthole, to see a large tender approaching from the shore,
apparently full of people. I scrambled into my clothes, but long
before I was dressed the tug was alongside, or as nearly
alongside as the heavy swell and consequent deep rolls of our
ship would allow. Durban boasts of no harbour for large ships.
These have to lie outside the bar, and a smooth sea being the
exception on this part of the coast, disembarking is in
consequence almost always effected in a sort of basket cage,
worked by a crane, and holding three or four people. When I got
on deck, the prisoners were still on the tender, being
mercilessly rolled about, and they must indeed have been glad
when, at six o’clock, the signal to disembark was given.

I shall never forget that striking and melancholy scene. The
dull grey morning, of which the dawn had scarcely broken; the
huge rollers of the leaden sea, which were lifting our mighty
ship as if she had been but a cockleshell; and the tiny steamer,
at a safe distance, her deck crowded with sunburnt men, many of
whose faces were familiar to us, and who were picturesquely
attired, for the most part, in the very same clothes they had
worn on their ill-fated march—flannel shirts, khaki
breeches, high boots, and the large felt hats of the Bechuanaland
Border Police, which they were wearing probably for the last
time. As soon as they came on board we were able to have a few
hasty words with those we knew, and their faces seem to pass in
front of me as I write: Sir John Willoughby and Captain C.
Villiers, both in the Royal Horse Guards, apparently nonchalant
and without a care in the world; Colonel Harry White—alas!
dead—and his brother Bobby, who were as fit as possible and
as cheery as ever, but inclined to be mutinous with their
unwilling gaolers; Major Stracey,^[6]
Scots Guards, with his genial and courtly manners, apparently
still dazed at finding himself a prisoner and amongst rebels; Mr.
Cyril Foley, one of the few civilians, and Mr. Harold
Grenfell,^[7] 1st Life Guards, like boys who
expect a good scolding when they get home; and last, but not
least, Dr. Jameson, to whom we were introduced. “What will they
do with us?” was the universal question, and on this point we
could give them no information; but it can be imagined they were
enchanted to see some friendly faces after a fortnight’s
incarceration in a Boer prison, during the first part of which
time they daily expected to be led out and shot. I remember
asking Dr. Jameson what I think must have been a very
embarrassing question, although he did not seem to resent it. It
was whether an express messenger from Johannesburg, telling him
not to start, as the town was not unanimous and the movement not
ripe, had reached him the day before he left Mafeking. He gave no
direct answer, but remarked: “I received so many messages from
day to day, now telling me to come, then to delay starting, that
I thought it best to make up their minds for them, before the
Boers had time to get together.”

We were soon hurried on shore, as Mr. Beresford,^[8] the 7th Hussars, who had
brought the prisoners on board, had to return to the town to make
some necessary purchases for them, in the way of clothes, for
they possessed nothing but what they stood up in.

We left Durban immediately by train for Pietermaritzburg,
where we were the guests of Sir Walter and Lady Hely Hutchinson,
at Government House, a very small but picturesque residence where
Lady Hely Hutchinson received us most kindly in the absence of
her husband, who was in the Transvaal, superintending the
departure of the remaining prisoners. Here we seemed to have left
warlike conditions behind us, for the town was agog with the
excitement of a cricket-match, between Lord Hawke’s eleven and a
Natal fifteen. On the cricket-field we met again two of our
Tantallon Castle fellow-passengers, Mr. Guest and Mr. H.
Milner, who had come down from Johannesburg with the cricketers.
We were interested to compare notes and to hear Mr. Milner’s
adventures, which really made us smile, though they could hardly
have been a laughing matter to him at the time. He told us that,
after twice visiting Captain C. Coventry, who was wounded in the
Raid, at the Krugersdorp Hospital without molestation, on the
third occasion, when returning by train to Johannesburg, he was
roughly pulled out of his carriage at ten o’clock at night, and
told that, since he had no passport, he was to be arrested on the
charge of being a spy. In vain did he tell them that only at the
last station his passport had been demanded in such peremptory
terms that he had been forced to give it up. They either would
not or could not understand him. In consequence the poor man
tasted the delights of a Boer gaol for a whole night, and, worst
indignity of all, had for companions two criminals and a crowd of
dirty Kaffirs. The following morning, he said, his best friend
would not have known him, so swollen and distorted was his face
from the visitations of the inseparable little companions of the
Kaffir native. He was liberated on bail next day, and finally set
free, with a scanty apology of mistaken identity. At any other
time such an insult to an Englishman would have made some stir;
as it was, everyone was so harassed that he was hardly
pitied.

The Governor returned two days before our departure, and we
had a gay time, between entertainments for the cricketers and
festivities given by the 7th Hussars. Feeling in Durban, with
regard to the Raiders, was then running high, and for hours did a
vast crowd wait at the station merely in order to give the
troopers of the Chartered Forces some hearty cheers, albeit they
passed at midnight in special trains without stopping. Very
loyal, too, were these colonists, and no German would have had a
pleasant time of it there just then, with the Kaiser’s famous
telegram to Kruger fresh in everyone’s memory.

From Pietermaritzburg to Johannesburg the railway journey was
a very interesting one. North of Newcastle we saw a station
bearing the name of Ingogo; later on the train wound round the
base of Majuba Hill, and when that was felt behind it plunged
into a long rocky tunnel which pierces the grassy slope on which
the tragedy of Laing’s Nek was enacted—all names, alas! too
well known in the annals of our disasters. After leaving the
Majuba district, we came to the Transvaal frontier, where we had
been told we might meet with scanty courtesy. However, we had no
disagreeable experiences, and then the train emerged on the
endless rolling green plains which extend right up to and beyond
the mining district of the Rand.

Now and then one perceived a trek waggon and oxen with a Boer
and his family, either preceded or followed by a herd of cattle,
winding their slow way along the dusty red track they call road.
At the stations wild-looking Kaffir women, half naked and
anything but attractive in appearance, came and stared at the
train and its passengers. It is in this desolate country that
Johannesburg, the Golden City, sprang up, as it were, like a
fungus, almost in a night. Nine years previously the
Rand—since the theatre of so much excitement and
disappointment—the source of a great part of the wealth of
London at the present day, was as innocent of buildings and as
peaceful in appearance as those lonely plains over which we had
travelled. As we approached Johannesburg, little white landmarks
like milestones made their appearance, and these, we were told,
were new claims pegged out. The thought suggested itself that
this part of South Africa is in some respects a wicked country,
with, it would almost seem, a blight resting on it: sickness, to
both man and beast, is always stalking round; drought is a
constant scourge to agriculture; the locust plagues ruin those
crops and fruit that hailstones and scarcity of water have
spared; and all the while men vie with and tread upon one another
in their rush and eagerness after the gold which the land keeps
hidden. Small wonder this district has proved such a whirlpool of
evil influences, where everyone is always striving for himself,
and where disillusions and bitter experiences have caused each
man to distrust his neighbour.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER IV

At Johannesburg we were the guests of Mr. Abe Bailey at Clewer
Lodge. Our host, however, was unfortunately absent, “detained” in
the precincts of the gaol at Pretoria, although allowed out on
bail. In the same house he had entertained in 1891 my brother
Randolph^[9] and his friend Captain G.
Williams, Royal Horse Guards, on their way to Mashonaland. One of
my first visitors was another fellow-traveller of theirs, Mr.
H.C. Perkins, the celebrated American mining expert. This
gentleman was a great friend of Randolph’s, and he spoke most
touchingly of his great attachment to the latter, and of his
grief at his death. For five years Mr. and Mrs. Perkins had lived
in Johannesburg, where they both enjoyed universal respect, and
their approaching departure, to settle once more in America, was
deplored by all. Considered to be the highest mining expert of
the day, Mr. Perkins had seen the rise of the Rand since its
infancy, and he had been shrewd enough to keep out of the late
agitation and its disturbances. Under his guidance we saw the
sights of the towns: the far-famed Rand Club; the Market Square,
crammed, almost for the first time since the so-called
“revolution,” with trek-waggons and their Boer drivers; the
much-talked-of “Gold-fields” offices, barred and barricaded,
which had been the headquarters of the Reform Committee; the
Standard Bank, where the smuggled arms had been kept; and finally
the Exchange and the street enclosed by iron chains, where the
stock markets were principally carried on. We were also shown the
interior of the Stock Exchange itself, though we were warned that
it was scarcely worth a visit at that time of depression. We
heard the “call of the shares,” which operation only took twenty
minutes, against nearly two hours during the time of the recent
boom. Instead of the listless, bored-looking individuals below
us, who only assumed a little excitement when the revolving,
clock-like machine denoted any popular share, we were told that a
few months ago every available space had been crowded by excited
buyers and sellers—some without hats, others in their
shirt-sleeves, almost knocking one another over in their desire
to do business. Those must indeed have been palmy days, when the
money so lightly made was correspondingly lightly spent; when
champagne replaced the usual whisky-split at the Rand Club, and
on all sides was to be heard the old and well-known formula,
“Here’s luck,” as the successful speculator toasted an old friend
or a newcomer.

However, to return to Johannesburg as we found it, after the
1895 boom. Even then it seemed to me that for the first time in
South Africa I saw life. Cape Town, with its pathetic dullness
and palpable efforts to keep up a show of business; Kimberley,
with its deadly respectability—both paled in interest
beside their younger sister, so light-hearted, reckless, and
enterprising. Before long, in spite of gloomy reflections on the
evils of gold-seeking, I fell under the fascination of what was
then a wonderful town, especially wonderful from its youth. The
ever-moving crowds which thronged the streets, every man of which
appeared to be full of important business and in a desperate
hurry, reminded one of the City in London. Smart carriages with
well-dressed ladies drove rapidly past, the shops were cunningly
arranged with tempting wares, and all this bustle and traffic was
restored in little over a week. A fortnight previously a
revolution was impending and a siege was looming ahead. Business
had been at a complete standstill, the shops and houses barred
and barricaded, and many of the inhabitants were taking a hurried
departure; while bitterness, discord, and racial feeling were
rampant. Now, after a few days, that cosmopolitan and rapidly
changing population appeared to have buried their differences,
and the uninitiated would never have guessed the town had passed,
and was, indeed, still passing, through troublous times. Mr.
Perkins, however, was pessimistic, and told us appearances were
misleading. He rightly foresaw many lean years for those
interested in the immediate future of the Rand, though even he,
perhaps, hardly realized how lean those would become. Since those
days much water has flown under the bridge, and the trade of the
town, not to speak of the mining industry, has gone from bad to
worse. Recently Federation, the dream of many a statesman
connected with South Africa, has opened a new vista of political
peace and prosperity to its chastened citizens. Many of these, in
affluent circumstances in 1896, have since gone under
financially; but some of the original inhabitants still remain to
show in the future that they have learned wisdom from their past
troubles, brought on principally by their mad haste to get rich
too quickly.

During our stay at Johannesburg we made an expedition to
Pretoria in order to see our host and other friends, who were
still on bail there, awaiting their trial, and also to visit the
seat of the Boer Government. By these remarkable State railways
the short journey of thirty-two miles occupied three hours. We
passed one very large Boer laager, or military camp, on the line,
which looked imposing enough in the bright sunlight, with its
shining array of white-tarpaulin-covered waggons; companies of
mounted burghers, armed to the teeth, and sitting their ragged
but well-bred ponies as if glued to the saddle, were to be seen
galloping to and fro. Although the teeth of the enemy had been
drawn for the present, the Boers were evidently determined to
keep up a martial display. As Pretoria was approached the country
became very pretty: low hills and many trees, including lovely
weeping-willows, appeared on the landscape, and away towards the
horizon was situated many a snug little farm; running streams
caught the rays of the sun, and really rich herbage supplied the
pasture for herds of fat cattle. The town itself did not prove
specially interesting. An imposing space called Church Square was
pointed out to us with great pride by the Dutch gentleman who
kindly did cicerone. There we saw the little primitive “dopper”
church where the President always worshipped, overshadowed and
dwarfed by the magnificent Houses of Parliament, built since the
Transvaal acquired riches, and by the no less grand Government
Offices. As we were standing before the latter, after the fashion
of tourists, our guide suddenly became very excited, and told us
we were really in good luck, for the President was just about to
leave his office on his return home for his midday meal. In a few
minutes the old gentleman emerged, guarded by four armed
burghers, and passed rapidly into his carriage. We took a good
look at this remarkable personage. Stout in figure, with a
venerable white beard, in a somewhat worn frock-coat and a rusty
old black silk hat, President Kruger did not look the stern
dictator of his little kingdom which in truth he was. Our Dutch
friend told us Oom Paul was in the habit of commencing work at 5
a.m., and that he transacted business, either at his house or in
the Government Offices, with short intermissions, until 5 p.m.
Simply worshipped by his burghers, he was on a small scale, and
in his ignorant fashion, a man of iron like Bismarck, notably in
his strong will and in the way in which he imposed the same on
his countrymen. The extent of his personal influence could be
gauged when one considered that his mere orders had restrained
his undisciplined soldier-burghers, who, irritated by being
called away from their peaceful existences, maddened by the loss
of some of their number who fell in the fighting, and elated by
their easy victory, were thirsting to shoot down the leaders of
the Raid, as they stood, in the market-square at Krugersdorp. The
state of the Boer Government at that time added to the
President’s difficulties. He was hampered by the
narrowest—minded Volksraad (Parliament) imaginable, who
resented tooth and nail even the most necessary concessions to
the Uitlanders; he was surrounded by corrupt officials, most of
whom were said to be implicated in the late rebellion; he was the
head of a community which was known to be split up into several
sections, owing to acute religious disputes; and yet he
contrived, at seventy-one years of age, to outwit the 60,000
Uitlanders at Johannesburg, and to present his rotten republic as
a model of all that was excellent and high-minded to the world at
large. At the same time he compelled his burghers to forget their
own differences, as they hurled defiance at the common foe. It
seems to be a truism that it requires a Boer to rule a Boer; and
in some ways the mantle of President Kruger would appear to have
descended in our days upon General Louis Botha. According to all
accounts, his will is now law to the ignorant back Veldt Boers,
although his guiding principles savour more of the big stick than
of the spoon-feeding system. Undoubtedly loyal to England, he
bids fair in the future to help found a nation, based upon the
union of British and Boer, inheriting their traditions,
cultivating their ideals, and pursuing their common ends.

But this Utopia seemed far away in 1896, and it was, alas!
destined that many lives should be laid down, and much treasure
expended, before its advent. For the moment lamentations were
rife in Johannesburg, and at many a dinner-party unprofitable
discussions raged as to what would have happened had Dr. Jameson
entered the city. On this point no one could agree. Some people
said the town could have been starved out in a few days, and the
water-supply cut off immediately; others asserted that the Boers
were in reality overawed by Dr. Jameson’s name and prestige, and
would have been glad to make terms. The practical spirits opined
that the only thing which would have saved the inhabitants in any
case was the tame ending which actually came about—namely,
the High Commissioner’s intervention coupled with President
Kruger’s moderation and wisdom in allowing England to punish her
own irregular soldiers. The more one heard of the whole affair,
the more it seemed to resemble a scene out of a comic opera. The
only people at Johannesburg who had derived any advantage from
the confusion were several hitherto unknown military commanders,
who had proudly acquired the title of Colonel, and had promptly
named a body of horse after themselves. During the days before
the final fiasco these leaders used to make short detours round
the town in full regimentals, and finally fill up the time by
being photographed in groups. Mercifully, as it turned out, they
were not ready for active service when Dr. Jameson was reported
at Krugersdorp.

We made an excursion to the so-called battle-field before
leaving for the South. We started in a covered waggonette with no
springs to speak of, drawn by six mules, and a pair of horses as
leaders. Two Kaffirs acted as charioteers, and kept up an
incessant jabber in Dutch. The one who held the reins looked
good-natured enough, but the other, whose duty it was to wield
the enormously long whip, had a most diabolical cast of
countenance, in which cruelty and doggedness were both clearly
depicted. We found his face a true indication of his character
before the end of the day. Bumping gaily along, we soon left the
well-built houses behind, and after passing the Malay quarter of
the town, remarkable by reason of the quaint houses these blacks
make out of paraffin tins, flattened out and nailed together with
wonderful neatness, we emerged on the open veldt. Of course the
road was of the roughest description, and sometimes we had to
hold on with all our might to avoid the concussion of our heads
with the wooden roof. In spite of this, as soon as the Kaffirs
saw an open space before them, the huge whip was cracked, and
away went our team at full gallop, seemingly quite out of
control, the driver leaning back in his seat with a contented
grin, while his colleague manipulated the unwieldy whip. The
tract ran parallel to the Rand for some distance, and we got a
splendid view of Johannesburg and the row of chimney-shafts that
so clearly define the reef.

On passing Langlaate village, we were stopped by a party of
Boers, who had off-saddled by the side of the road. As they were
fully armed and their appearance was not prepossessing, we
expected to be ordered to alight while our conveyance was being
searched. However, our fears were unfounded, and they were most
polite. The driver muttered something in Dutch, whereupon the
leader came to the door, and said in broken English: “Peeck
neeck—I see all right.” I am sorry to say one of the
gentlemen of our party muttered “Brute” in an audible whisper;
but, then, he had undergone a short, but a very unpleasant term
of imprisonment, with no sort of excuse, at the instance of a
Boer Veldtcornet, so no wonder he had vowed eternal
vengeance. Luckily, this officer did not hear, or else did not
understand, the ejaculation, so after a civil interchange of
good-days we drove on.

After about three hours we reached a shallow ford over a wide
stream, and our driver informed us that this was our destination.
Leaving the carriage, we walked up to some rocks overlooking the
stream, which seemed an inviting place for luncheon; but we were
quickly driven away, as thereon were lying seven or eight
carcasses of dead horses and mules. Curiously enough, the
vultures, or “aas-vogels,” had left the skins on these poor
beasts, for I remember noticing how their coats glistened in the
sunshine. This sight was not very conducive to a good appetite,
and a little farther on we saw another pathetic spectacle: a very
deep trench, made in the past by some gold-prospector, had been
filled in with rocky boulders, and was covered with withered
ferns. Here lay those who had fallen of the Chartered Company’s
Forces. No doubt by now the space is enclosed as a tiny part of
God’s acre, but at that time the rough stones in the deep grave,
and the faded flowers, seemed to enhance the dreariness of the
scene.^[10] As to the locality of the
final encounter and surrender of the Raiders, there was not much
to interest any but military men. Standing on the top of the
eminence before alluded to, one could see the Boer position and
the sore strait of their foes. Whether the column had come
purposely towards this drift, as being the only possible ford for
many miles, or whether they had been guided thereto by a
treacherous guide, no one knew. One thing was certain:
destruction or surrender must have stared them in the face. The
kopjes on the farther side of the stream were bristling with
Boers, and away on the veldt beyond was drawn up the Staats
artillery. And then one realized a most awful blunder of the
Reform Committee, from their point of view. The Boer forces,
arriving hereabouts in hot haste, from a rapid mobilization, had
been almost entirely without ammunition. We were told on good
authority that each burgher had but six rounds, and that the
field-guns were without any shells at all. During the night the
necessary supply was brought by rail from Pretoria, actually
right through Johannesburg. Either by accident or mature
reflection on the part of the conspirators in that city, this
train was allowed to pass to its destination unmolested. It
proved to be one of those small happenings that completely alter
the course of events. If the burghers had not stopped the Raiders
there, nothing could have prevented them from entering
Johannesburg, for after another three miles the long-sought-for
chimneys—the overhanging cloud of smoke—would have
come into view. The very stars in their courses seemed to have
fought for the Boers, and justified President Kruger’s belief
that his people were specially under the protection of
Providence.^[11] Neither will anyone ever
determine the number of Boers killed at Krugersdorp. One
Veldtcornet inserted in all the papers that he defied
anyone to prove that more than four burghers were shot, and of
these two were killed accidentally by their own rifles. Residents
on the spot, however, averred that many more fell; but I think
the point was not disputed in view of President Kruger’s famous
claim for “moral and intellectual damages,” which was then
already beginning to be mooted.

The lengthening shadows at last reminded us that we had to
return to town for a dinner-party given in our honour. It usually
takes some time to catch a team of six mules and two horses
turned out to graze on the veldt; it is endless, however, when
they are as frightened of their drivers as ours appeared to be.
At length they were collected and we made a start, and then our
adventures began. First the leader, a white horse, jibbed. Off
jumped the Kaffir coachman, and commenced hammering the poor
brute unmercifully over head, ears, and body, with what they
called in Africa the shambok.^[12] In consequence the team
suddenly started off, but the long whip, left on the carriage
roof, slipped down, and was broken in two by the wheel passing
over it. Anyone who has driven behind mules knows how absolutely
powerless the Jehu is without a long whip; so here we were face
to face with a real misfortune: increasing darkness, jibbing
leaders, no whip, and fifteen sandy miles to traverse before
dinner-time. With every sort of ejaculation and yell, and a
perfect rain of blows with the shambok from the Kaffir
still on foot, we lurched forward at a gallop, escaping by a
hair’s-breadth another gold-prospector’s trench. But the same
leader jibbed again after another mile. I must admit he was a
most irritating brute, whose obstinacy had been increased by the
cruelty of the driver. It was now decided to put him in the
“wheel,” where he would be obliged to do his work. We crawled on
again till our white friend literally threw himself down. I have
related this incident to show how cruel Kaffirs can be, for now
the rage of the evil-looking driver burst forth. He not only
hammered the prostrate horse to any extent, but then made the
rest of the team pull on, so as to drag him along on his side. Of
course this could not be allowed, and Major —— jumped
out and commanded him to desist, take out the useless horse, and
tie him behind. At first the Kaffir was very mutinous, and it was
only when a stick was laid threateningly across his back that he
sulkily complied, looking the while as if he would like to murder
the man he was forced to obey. One hears so much nowadays of the
black population having equal rights with the white inhabitants,
that it is well to remember how ferociously their lack of
civilization occasionally comes out. Doubtless there are cruel
men both white and black, but for downright brutality the nigger
is hard to beat, and it is also quite certain that whom the
latter does not fear he will not love. I have personally
experienced great devotion and most attentive service on the part
of natives, and they are deserving of the kindest and most
considerate treatment; but it has often made me indignant to hear
people, who have had little or no experience of living in the
midst of a native population, prate of the rights of our “black
brothers,” and argue as if the latter thought, judged, amused
themselves, or, in short, behaved, as the white men do, who have
the advantage of hundreds of years of culture.

The day following our drive to Krugersdorp we left for Cape
Town and England. We made the voyage on the old Roslin
Castle. Always a slow boat, she had on this occasion, in
sporting parlance, a “wing down,” having broken a piston-rod on
her way out from England, when we had vainly awaited her at Cape
Town, and I think it was nearly three weeks before we landed at
Plymouth. Again Randolph’s African journey was brought back to my
recollection. The captain of the Roslin Castle, Travers by
name, had commanded the Scot, which brought his party home
from Mashonaland, and he had very agreeable recollections of many
an interesting conversation and of quiet rubbers of whist.

Numerous and exciting events had been crowded into the past
six weeks, and in spite of revolutions and strife we had found
our South African visit a very pleasant one. A curious thing
about that continent is: you may dislike it or fall under its
charm, but in any case it nearly always calls you back. It
certainly did in my case; and while recalling the people we had
met and the information we had acquired it was impossible not to
think a little of the Boers themselves, their characteristics and
their failings. At Johannesburg I had been specially struck by
men, who knew them from long experience, telling me how fully
they appreciated the good points of the burghers—for
instance, their bravery, their love of their country, and their
simple, unquestioning, if unattractive faith, which savoured of
that of the old Puritans. Against these attributes their
pig-headedness, narrow-mindedness, laziness, and slovenliness had
to be admitted. All these defects militated against their living
in harmony with a large, increasing, and up-to-date community
like the Johannesburg Uitlanders. Still, one could not forget
that the Transvaal was their country, ceded to them by the
English nation. They left Cape Colony years ago, to escape our
laws, which they considered unjust. It is certain we should never
have followed them into the Transvaal but for the sudden
discovery of the gold industry; it is equally true they had not
the power or the wish to develop this for themselves, and yet
without it they were a bankrupt nation. There is no doubt that
the men who made the most mischief, and who for years embarrassed
the President, were the “Hollanders,” or officials sent out from
the mother-country of the Dutch. They looked on the Transvaal
only as a means for getting rich. Hence the fearful state of
bribery and corruption among them, from the highest official
downwards. But this very bribery and corruption were sometimes
exceedingly convenient, and I remember well, when I revisited
Johannesburg in 1902, at the conclusion of the war, hearing
people inveigh against the hard bargains driven by the English
Government; they even went so far as to sigh again for the good
old days of Kruger’s rule. Now all is changed once more, after
another turn of the kaleidoscope of time, and yet it is well to
remember that such things have indeed been.

CHAPTER V

On May 6, 1899, we sailed from Southampton on the S.S.
Norman. We purposed to spend a few months in Rhodesia, but
such is the frailty of human plans that eventually we stayed in
South Africa for one year and three months.

Dr. Jameson was our fellow-passenger to Cape Town, and with
him we travelled up to Bulawayo, and passed five weeks there as
the guests of Major Maurice Heaney.^[13] Part of this time we spent
on the veldt, far from civilization, sleeping in tents, and using
riding ponies and mule waggons as transport. I can recommend this
life as a splendid cure for any who are run down or overworked.
The climate of Rhodesia in the month of June is perfection; rain
is unknown, except as the accompaniment of occasional
thunderstorms; and it is never too hot to be pleasant. Game was
even then practically non-existent in Matabeleland, but our
object was to inspect the mines of Major Heaney’s various
companies. The country was pretty and well wooded, and we crossed
many river-beds, amongst them the wide Umzingwani. This stream is
a mighty torrent during the rains, but, like many others in South
Africa, it becomes perfectly dry during the winter season, a
peculiarity of the continent, which caused a disappointed man to
write that South Africa produced “birds without song, flowers
without smell, and rivers without water.”

While camped on the banks of this vanished river, we used to
hear lions roaring as evening fell, and could distinguish their
soft pads in the dry sand next morning; but they were so shy that
we never caught a glimpse of one, nor could they be tempted into
any ambush.

During these weeks the abortive Bloemfontein Conference had
been holding its useless sessions; the political world seemed so
unsettled, and war appeared so exceedingly likely, that we
decided to return to Cape Town, especially as Mr. Rhodes, who was
expected out from England almost immediately, had cabled asking
us to stay at Groot Schuurr, where we arrived early in July. A
few days afterwards I had a ticket given me to witness the
opening of the Legislative Council, or Upper House, by Sir Alfred
Milner. It was an imposing ceremony, and carried out with great
solemnity. The centre of the fine hall was filled with
ladies—in fact, on first arriving, it gave one the idea of
a ladies’ parliament; but in a few minutes the members filed in,
shortly before the state entry of His Excellency the Governor.
Then, for the first time, I saw the man of the hour; dignified
without being stiff, and looking every inch his part, he went
through his rôle to perfection. The speech was, as usual,
utterly devoid of interest, and, contrary to the hope of excited
partisans, Transvaal affairs were studiously avoided. A few days
later we went to Government House to be introduced to Sir Alfred;
he at once impressed a stranger as a man of intense strength of
mind and purpose, underlying a somewhat delicate physique, which
was at that time, perhaps, enhanced by a decidedly worn and
worried expression of countenance. Later on I had many
conversations with Mr. Rhodes about the Governor. He used to
say—and no one was better qualified to judge—that Sir
Alfred Milner was one of the strongest men he had ever met. “In
the business I am constantly having to transact with him,
connected with the Chartered Company,” he remarked, “I find him,
his mind once made up, unmovable—so much so that we tacitly
agree to drop at once any subject that we do not agree on, for
nothing could be gained by discussing it. I allow he makes his
decisions slowly, but once made they are irrevocable.”

Mr. Rhodes used also to say he admired beyond words Sir
Alfred’s behaviour and the line he adopted in that most difficult
crisis before the war. “He assumes,” said his appreciator, “an
attitude of perfect frankness with all parties; he denies himself
to no one who may give him any information or throw fresh light
on the situation; to all he expresses his views, and repeats his
unalterable opinions of what is required.”

Other people told me how true these words were, and how
ingeniously and yet ingenuously Sir Alfred Milner contrived to
treat a unique position. Standing alone, the central isolated
figure, surrounded by a young and inexperienced staff, his
political advisers men for whom he could have but little
sympathy, and whose opinions he knew to be in reality
diametrically opposed to his and to the present policy at home,
the Governor steered clear of intrigue and personal quarrels by
his intensely straightforward and able conduct. He was in the
habit of almost daily seeing Mr. Rhodes, financiers from
Johannesburg, military men thirsting for war, who were commencing
to arrive from England, as well as his Cabinet Ministers. To
these latter he probably volunteered information about the other
interviews he had had, thereby disarming their criticisms.

From one great man I must pass to another. A few days after
our arrival at Groot Schuurr, Mr. Rhodes and Sir Charles Metcalfe
arrived from England. Incidentally I may mention the former’s
marvellous reception, and the fact that nearly five miles of road
between Cape Town and Groot Schuurr were decorated with flags and
triumphal arches, while the day was observed as a general
holiday. This had happened to him in a minor degree so often
before that it did not arouse much comment. The same evening we
attended a monster meeting at the Drill Hall, where thousands of
faces were turned simultaneously towards the platform to welcome
back their distinguished citizen. The cheering went on for ten
minutes, and was again and again renewed, till the enthusiasm
brought a lump to many throats, and certainly deeply affected the
central figure of the evening. This meeting, at which no less
than a hundred addresses were presented from every part of
Africa—from the far-off Zambesi to the fruit-growing
district of the Paarl, almost entirely populated by
Dutch—even this great demonstration that one great man was
capable of inspiring quickly faded from my memory in view of the
insight which three weeks as his guest gave me of the many sides
of his life, occupations, and character. The extraordinary
strength of will and tenacity of purpose, points always insisted
on in connection with him, seemed on nearer acquaintance to be
merely but a small part of a marvellous whole.

It often used to occur to me, when with Mr. Rhodes, how
desirable it would be to induce our sons and young men in general
to imitate some of the characteristics which were the motive
power of his life, and therefore of his success. I noticed
especially the wonderful power of concentration of thought he
possessed, and which he applied to any subject, no matter how
trivial. The variety and scope of his many projects did not
lessen his interest in any one of them. At that time he was
building four railways in Rhodesia, which country was also
pinning its faith to him for its development, its prosperity,
and, indeed, its modus vivendi. Apart from this, Cape
politics, although he then held no official position, were
occupying a great deal of his time and thoughts in view of future
Federation. It was, therefore, marvellous to see him putting his
whole mind to such matters as his prize poultry and beasts at the
home farm, to the disposing of the same in what he termed “my
country,” or to the arranging of his priceless collection of
glass—even to the question of a domicile for the baby
lioness lately presented to him. Again, one moment he might be
talking of De Beers business, involving huge sums of money, the
next discussing the progress of his thirty fruit-farms in the
Drakenstein district, where he had no fewer than 100,000
fruit-trees; another time his horse-breeding establishment at
Kimberley was engaging his attention, or, nearer home, the
road-making and improvements at Groot Schuurr, where he even knew
the wages paid to the 200 Cape boys he was then employing. Mr.
Rhodes was always in favour of doing things on a large scale,
made easy, certainly, by his millionaire’s purse. Sometimes a
gardener or bailiff would ask for two or three dozen rose or
fruit trees. “There is no use,” he would exclaim impatiently, “in
two dozen of anything. My good man, you should count in hundreds
and thousands, not dozens. That is the only way to produce any
effect or to make any profit.” Another of his theories was that
people who dwelt in or near towns never had sufficient fresh air.
During one of our morning rides I remember his stopping a
telegraph-boy, and asking him where he lived. When the lad had
told him, he said: “I suppose there are no windows in your
cottage; you had better go to Rhodesia, where you will find
space, and where you won’t get cramped ideas.” Then he rode on,
leaving the boy staring at him with open eyes. An attractive
attribute was his love of his early associations, his father
especially being often the theme of his conversation. He used
freely to express his admiration for the type the latter
represented, now almost extinct, of the old-fashioned country
clergyman-squire. He held with tenacity to the traditions of his
childhood in having always a cold supper on Sunday evenings,
instead of the usual elaborate dinner, also in having the cloth
removed for dessert, to display the mahogany, of which, alas! few
of our tables are now made. With stupidity, or anything thereto
approaching, he was apt to be impatient; neither could he stand
young men who affected indifference to, or boredom with, the
events and sights of the day. I often used to think, however, he
frightened people, and that they did not show to their best
advantage, nor was their intelligence at its brightest when
talking with him. I now refer especially to those in his
employ.

To his opponents in the political world he was generous when
discussing them in private, however bitter and stinging his
remarks were in public. I remember one evening, on Mr. Merriman’s
name being mentioned, how Mr. Rhodes dilated for some time on his
charms as a friend and as a colleague; he told me I should
certainly take an opportunity of making his acquaintance. “I am
so fond of Merriman,” he added; “he is one of the most cultivated
of men and the most charming of companions that I know. We shall
come together again some day.” And this of the man who was
supposed then to hate Cecil John Rhodes with such a deadly hatred
that he, an Englishman born, was said to have been persuaded to
Dutch sympathies by his vindictive feelings against one great
fellow-countryman. Before leaving the subject of Mr. Rhodes, I
must note his intense kindness of heart and genuine hospitality.
Groot Schuurr was a rendezvous for people of all classes,
denominations, and politics; they were all welcome, and they
certainly all came. From morn till eve they passed in and out,
very often to proffer a request, or, again, simply to pay their
respects and have the pleasure of a few minutes’ chat. After his
morning ride, Mr. Rhodes, if nothing called him to town, usually
walked about his beautiful house, the doors and windows of which
stood open to admit the brilliant sunshine and to enable him to
enjoy glimpses of his beloved Table Mountain, or the brilliant
colours of the salvia and plumbago planted in beds above the
stoep. I often call to mind that tall figure, probably in the
same costume in which he had ridden—white flannel trousers
and tweed coat—his hair rather rough, from a habit he had
of passing his hand through it when talking or thinking. He would
wander through the rooms, enjoying the pleasure of looking at his
many beautiful pieces of furniture and curiosities of all sorts,
nearly all of which had a history. Occasionally shifting a piece
of rare old glass or blue Delft china, he would the while talk to
anyone who chanced to come in, greeting heartily his old friends,
and remembering every detail of their circumstances, opinions,
and conduct. Concerning the latter, he did not fail to remind
them of any failings he had taken note of. Those who were frauds,
incompetent, or lazy, he never spared, and often such
conversations were a source of much amusement to me. On the other
hand, those who had been true to him, and had not veered round
with the tide of public opinion after 1896, were ever remembered
and rewarded. It was remarkable to note the various Dutch members
of the Assembly who dropped in, sometimes stealthily in the early
morning hours, or, like Nicodemus, by night. One such gentleman
came to breakfast one day, bringing as a gift two curious antique
pipes and a pouch of Boer tobacco. The pipes were awarded a place
in a glass cabinet, and the giver most heartily thanked; he
finally departed, well pleased with himself. Now comes a curious
trait in the man’s character. Before leaving he whispered to a
friend the request that the fact of his visit should not be
mentioned in Cape Town circles. This request was naturally
repeated at once to Mr. Rhodes, much to the latter’s amusement.
As ill-luck would have it, the cautious gentleman left his
umbrella behind, with his name in full on the handle; this
remained a prominent object on the hall table till, when evening
fell, a trusted emissary came to recover it.

I often used to visit the House of Assembly or Lower House
during that session, and it was instructive to note the faces of
the Opposition when Rhodesia and its undoubted progress were
subjects of discussion, and especially when Mr. Rhodes was on his
feet, claiming the undivided attention of the House. It was not
his eloquence that kept people so attentive, for no one could
call him eloquent; it was the singularly expressive voice, the
(at times) persuasive manner, and, above all, the interesting
things his big ideas gave him to say, that preserved that
complete silence. But, as I said before, the faces of his then
antagonists—albeit quondam friends—hardly disguised
their thoughts sufficiently. They were forced to consider the
country of the man they feared—the country to which he had
given his name—as a factor in their colony; they had to
admit it to their financial calculations, and all the time they
would fain have crushed the great pioneer under their feet. They
had, indeed, hoped to see him humbled and abashed after his one
fatal mistake, instead of which he had gone calmly on his
way—a Colossus indeed—with the set purpose, as a
guiding star ever before his eyes, to retrieve the error which
they had fondly imagined would have delivered him into their
hands. Truly an impressive and curious study was that House of
Assembly in the session of 1899.

The number of people, more or less interesting, whom we met at
Groot Schuurr, seemed to pass as actors on a stage, sometimes
almost too rapidly to distinguish or individualize. But one or
two stand out specially in my recollection. Among them, a type of
a fine old gentleman, was Colonel Schermbrucker. A German by
birth, and over seventy years of age, he had served originally in
the Papal Guard, and had accompanied Pio Nono on the occasion of
his famous flight from Rome. Somewhere in the fifties, at the
time of the arrival of the German Legion, he had settled at the
Cape, and had been a figure in politics ever since. His opinions
were distinctly English and progressive, but it was more as an
almost extinct type of the courtly old gentleman that he
impressed me. His extreme activity for his years, his old-world
manners, and his bright intelligence, were combinations one does
not often meet, and would have made him an interesting figure in
any assembly or country. Another day came Judge Coetzee,
erstwhile Kruger’s confidant and right hand, but then of a very
different way of thinking to his old master. His remark on the
warlike situation was as follows: “Kruger is only a white Kaffir
chief, and as such respects force, and force only. Send
sufficient soldiers, and there will be no fighting.” This was
also Mr. Rhodes’s view, but, as it turned out, both were wrong.
In the meantime the sands were running out, and the troops were
almost on the water, and yet the old man remained obdurate.

Outside the hospitable haven of Groot Schuurr I one day met
Mr. Merriman at lunch as the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Richard
Solomon.^[14] Considerably above the
average height, with a slight stoop and grey hair, Mr. Merriman
was a man whose appearance from the first claimed interest. It
was a few days after his Budget speech, which, from various
innovations, had aroused a storm of criticism, as Budgets are
wont to do. Whatever his private feelings were about the English,
to me the Finance Minister was very pleasant and friendly. We
talked of fruit-farming, in which he takes a great interest, of
England, and even of his Budget, and never did he show any
excitement or irritation till someone happened to mention the
word “Imperialist.” Then he burst out with, “That word and
‘Empire’ have been so done to death by every wretched little Jew
stockbroker in this country that I am fairly sick of them.” “But
surely you are not a Little Englander, Mr. Merriman,” I said, “or
a follower of Mr. Labouchere?” To this he gave an evasive reply,
and the topic dropped. I must relate another incident of our
sojourn at Cape Town. Introduced by Mr. Rhodes’s architect, Mr.
Baker, we went one day to see a Mrs. Koopman, then a well-known
personage in Cape Town Dutch society, but who, I believe, is now
dead. Her collection of Delft china was supposed to be very
remarkable. She lived in a quaint old house with diamond-paned
windows, in one of the back streets, the whole edifice looking as
if it had not been touched for a hundred years. Mrs. Koopman was
an elderly lady, most suitably dressed in black, with a widow’s
cap, and she greeted us very kindly and showed us all her
treasured possessions. I was disappointed in the contents of the
rooms, which were certainly mixed, some very beautiful things
rubbing shoulders with modern specimens of clumsy early Victorian
furniture. A room at the back was given up to the Delft china,
but even this was spoilt by ordinary yellow arabesque wall-paper,
on which were hung the rare plates and dishes, and by some gaudy
window curtains, evidently recently added. The collection itself,
made by Mrs. Koopman at very moderate prices, before experts
bought up all the Dutch relics, was then supposed to be of great
value. Our hostess conversed in good English with a foreign
accent, and was evidently a person of much intelligence and
culture. She had been, and still was, a factor in Cape politics,
formerly as a great admirer of Mr. Rhodes, but after 1896 as one
of his bitterest opponents, who used all her considerable
influence—her house being a meeting-place for the Bond
party—against him and his schemes. We had, in fact, been
told she held a sort of political salon, though hardly in the
same way we think of it in England as connected with Lady
Palmerston, her guests being entirely confined to one
party—viz., the Dutch. This accounted for a blunder on my
part. Having heard that Mrs. Koopman had been greatly perturbed
by the young Queen of Holland’s representations to President
Kruger in favour of the Uitlanders, and seeing many photographs
of this charming-looking girl in the room, I thought I should be
right in alluding to her as “your little Queen.” “She is not my
Queen,” was the indignant reply; “Queen Victoria is my Queen.”
And then, quickly turning to Mr. Baker, she continued: “What have
you been telling Lady Sarah to make her think I am not loyal?” Of
course I had to disclaim and apologize, but, in view of her
well-known political opinions and sympathies, I could not help
thinking her extreme indignation a little unnecessary.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER VI

In August we left Cape Town, and I went to Bulawayo, where I
spent two months. Gordon^[15] had been appointed A.D.C.
to Colonel Baden-Powell, and during this time was with his chief
on the western borders. The latter was engaged in raising two
regiments of irregular horse, which were later known as the
Protectorate Regiments, and were recruited principally from the
district between Mafeking and Bulawayo. At the latter town was
also another English lady, Mrs. Godley, whose husband was second
in command of one of these regiments. It can easily be imagined
that there was little else discussed then but warlike subjects,
and these were two dreary and anxious months. We had little
reliable news; the local newspapers had no special cables, and
only published rumours that were current in the town. Mr.
Rochfort Maguire, who was then staying with Mr. Rhodes at Cape
Town, used frequently to telegraph us news from there. One day he
would report President Kruger was climbing down; the next, that
he had once more hardened his heart. And so this modern Pharaoh
kept us all on tenterhooks. The drilling and exercising of the
newly recruited troops were the excitements of the day. Soon
Colonel Plumer^[16] arrived, and assumed
command of one of the regiments, which was encamped on the
racecourse just outside the town; the other regiment had its
headquarters at Mafeking. Colonel Baden-Powell and his Staff used
to dash up and down between the two towns. Nearly all the
business men in Bulawayo enlisted, and amongst the officers were
some experienced soldiers, who had seen all the Matabeleland
fighting, and some of whom had even participated in the Raid.
Others who used to drop in for a game of bridge were Lord Timmy
Paulet,^[17] Mr. Geoffrey Glyn, and Dr.
Jameson. To while away the time, I took a course of ambulance
lessons, learning how to bandage by experiments on the lanky arms
and legs of a little black boy. We also made expeditions to the
various mining districts. I was always struck with the
hospitality shown us in these out-of-the-way localities, and with
the cosiness of the houses belonging to the married
mine-managers. Only Kaffirs were available as servants, but, in
spite of this, an excellent repast was always produced, and the
dwellings were full of their home treasures. Prints of the
present King and Queen abounded, and among the portraits of
beautiful Englishwomen, either photographs or merely
reproductions cut out of an illustrated newspaper, I found those
of Lady de Grey,^[18] Georgiana, Lady Dudley, and
Mrs. Langtry,^[19] most frequently adorning
the walls of those lonely homes.

At last, at the end of September, a wire informed us that
hostilities were expected to begin in Natal the following week,
and I left for Mafeking, intending to proceed to Cape Town and
home. On arrival at Mafeking everyone told us an attack on the
town was imminent, and we found the inhabitants in a state of
serious alarm. However, Baden-Powell’s advent reassured them, and
preparations for war proceeded apace; the townspeople flocked in
to be enrolled in the town guard, spending the days in being
drilled; the soldiers were busy throwing up such fortifications
as were possible under the circumstances. On October 3 the
armoured train arrived from the South, and took its first trip on
the rails, which had been hastily flung down round the
circumference of the town. This train proved afterwards to be
absolutely useless when the Boers brought up their artillery.
Night alarms occurred frequently; bells would ring, and the
inhabitants, who mostly slept in their clothes, had to rush to
their various stations. I must admit that these nocturnal
incidents were somewhat unpleasant. Still war was not declared,
and the large body of Boers, rumoured as awaiting the signal to
advance on Mafeking, gave no sign of approaching any nearer.

We were, indeed, as jolly as the proverbial sandboys during
those few days in Mafeking before the war commenced. If Colonel
Baden-Powell had forebodings, he kept them to himself. Next to
him in importance came Lord Edward Cecil, Grenadier Guards,
C.S.O. I have often heard it said that if Lord Edward had been a
member of any other family but that of the gifted Cecils he would
have been marked as a genius, and that if he had not been a
soldier he would surely have been a politician of note. Then
there was Major Hanbury Tracy, Royal Horse Guards, who occupied
the position of Director of Military Intelligence. This officer
was always devising some amusing if wild-cat schemes, which were
to annihilate or checkmate the Boers, and prove eventually the
source of fame to himself. Mr. Ronald Moncrieff,^[20] an extra A.D.C., was, as
usual, not blest with a superabundance of this world’s goods, but
had an unending supply of animal spirits, and he was looking
forward to a siege as a means of economizing. Another of our
circle was Major Hamilton Gould Adams,^[21] Resident Commissioner of
the Bechuanaland Protectorate, who commanded the town guard,
representing the civil as opposed to the military interests. In
contrast to the usual practice, these departments worked
perfectly smoothly together at Mafeking.

Colonel Baden-Powell did not look on my presence with great
favour, neither did he order me to leave, and I had a sort of
presentiment that I might be useful, considering that there were
but three trained nurses in the Victoria Hospital to minister to
the needs of the whole garrison. Therefore, though I talked of
going South every day by one of the overcrowded trains to Cape
Town, in which the Government was offering free tickets to any
who wished to avail themselves of the opportunity, I secretly
hoped to be allowed to remain. We had taken a tiny cottage in the
town, and we had all our meals at Dixon’s Hotel, where the food
was weird, but where certainly no depression of spirits reigned.
I even bought a white pony, called Dop,^[22] from a Johannesburg
polo-player, and this pony, one of the best I have ever ridden,
had later on some curious experiences. One day Dr. Jameson
arrived on his way to Rhodesia, but he was hustled away with more
haste than courtesy by General Baden-Powell, who bluntly told him
that if he meant to stay in the town a battery of artillery would
be required to defend it; and of field-guns, in spite of urgent
representations, not one had reached us from Cape Town. We used
to ride morning and evening on the flat country which surrounds
Mafeking, where no tree or hill obscures the view for miles; and
one then realized what a tiny place the seat of government of the
Bechuanaland Protectorate really was, a mere speck of corrugated
iron roofs on the brown expanse of the burnt-up veldt, far away
from everywhere. I think it was this very isolation that created
the interest in the siege at home, and one of the reasons why the
Boers were so anxious to reduce it was that this town was
practically the jumping-off place for the Jameson Raid. So passed
the days till October 13, and then the sword, which had been
suspended by a hair, suddenly fell.

On that day Major Gould Adams received a wire from the High
Commissioner at Cape Town to the effect that the South African
Republic had sent an ultimatum to Her Majesty’s Government, in
which it demanded the removal of all troops from the Transvaal
borders, fixing five o’clock the following evening as a limit for
their withdrawal. I had delayed my departure too long; it was
extremely doubtful whether another train would be allowed to pass
South, and, even when started, it would stand a great chance of
being wrecked by the Boers tearing up the rails. Under these
circumstances I was allotted comparatively safe quarters at the
house of Mr. Benjamin Weil, of the firm of the well-known South
African merchants. His residence stood in the centre of the
little town, adjacent to the railway-station. At that time
bomb-proof underground shelters, with which Mafeking afterwards
abounded, had not been thought of, or time had not sufficed for
their construction. On all sides one heard reproaches levelled at
the Cape Government, and especially at General Sir William
Butler, until lately commanding the troops in Cape Colony, for
having so long withheld the modest reinforcements which had been
persistently asked for, and, above all, the very necessary
artillery.

At that date the Mafeking garrison consisted of about seven or
eight hundred trained troops. The artillery, under Major Panzera,
comprised four old muzzle-loading seven-pounder guns with a short
range, a one-pound Hotchkiss, one Nordenfeldt, and about seven
^.303 Maxims—in fact, no large modern pieces
whatever. The town guard, hastily enrolled, amounted to 441
defenders, among whom nationalities were curiously mixed, as the
following table shows:

This force did not appear sufficiently strong to resist the
three or four thousand Boers, with field-guns, who were advancing
to its attack under one of their best Generals—namely
Cronje—but everyone remained wonderfully calm, and the
townspeople rose to the occasion in a most creditable manner.

Very late that same evening, just as I was going to bed, I
received a message from Colonel Baden-Powell, through one of his
Staff, to say he had just been informed, on trustworthy
authority, that no less than 8,000 burghers composed the force
likely to arrive on the morrow, that it was probable they would
rush the town, and that the garrison would be obliged to fight
its way out. He concluded by begging me to leave at once by road
for the nearest point of safety. Naturally I had to obey. I shall
never forget that night: it was cold and gusty after a hot day,
with frequent clouds obscuring the moon, as we walked round to
Major Gould Adams’s house to secure a Cape cart and some
Government mules, in order that I might depart at dawn. At first
I was ordered to Kanya, a mission-station some seventy miles
away, an oasis in the Kalahari Desert. This plan gave rise to a
paragraph which I afterwards saw in some of the daily papers,
that I had left Mafeking under the escort of a missionary, and
some cheery spirit made a sketch of my supposed departure as
reproduced here. Later on, however, it was thought provisions
might run short in that secluded spot, so I was told to proceed
to Setlagoli, a tiny store, or hotel as we should call it, with a
shop attached, thirty-five miles south in Bechuanaland, on the
main road to Kimberley, from which quarter eventually succour was
expected. My few preparations completed, I simply had to sit down
and wait for daybreak, sleep being entirely out of the question.
In the night the wind increased, and howled mournfully round the
house. At four o’clock, when day was about to break, I was ready
to start, and some farewells had to be said. These were calm, but
not cheerful, for it was my firm belief that, in all human
probability, I should never see the familiar faces again, knowing
well they would sell their lives dearly.

It was reported amongst my friends at home that, in order to
escape from Mafeking, my maid and myself had ridden 200 miles.
One newspaper extract was sent me which said, concerning this
fictitious ride, that it “was all very well for Lady Sarah, who
doubtless was accustomed to violent exercise, but we commiserate
her poor maid.” Their pity was wasted, for the departure of my
German maid Metelka and myself took place prosaically in that
most vile of all vehicles, a Cape cart. Six fine mules were
harnessed to our conveyance, and our two small portmanteaus were
strapped on behind. The Jehu was a Cape boy, and, to complete the
cortege, my white pony Dop brought up the rear, ridden by a Zulu
called Vellum. This boy, formerly Dr. Jameson’s servant, remained
my faithful attendant during the siege; beneath his dusky skin
beat a heart of gold, and to him I could safely have confided
uncounted treasures. As the daylight increased so did the wind in
violence; it was blowing a perfect gale, and the dust and sand
were blinding. We outspanned for breakfast twelve miles out, at
the farm of a presumably loyal Dutchman; then on again, the wind
by now having become a hurricane, aggravated by the intensely hot
rays of a scorching sun. I have never experienced such a
miserable drive, and I almost began to understand the feelings of
people who commit suicide. However, the long day wore to a close,
and at length we reached Setlagoli store and hotel, kept by a
nice old Scotch couple, Mr. and Mrs. Fraser. The latter was most
kind, and showed us two nice clean rooms. Here, anyway, I trusted
to find a haven of rest. This hope was of short duration, for
Sergeant Matthews, in charge of the Mounted Police depôt,
soon came and told me natives reported several hundred Boers at
Kraipann, only ten miles away. He said they were lying in wait
for the second armoured train, which was expected to pass to
Mafeking that very night, carrying the howitzers so badly needed
there, and some lyddite shells. The sergeant opined the Boers
would probably come on here if victorious, and loot the store,
and he added that such marauding bands were more to be feared
than the disciplined ones under Cronje. He even suggested my
leaving by moonlight that very night. The driver, however, was
unwilling to move, and we were all so exhausted that I decided to
risk it and remain, the faithful sergeant promising to send
scouts out and warn us should the enemy be approaching. I was
fully determined that, having left Mafeking, where I might have
been of use, I would run no risks of capture or impertinence from
the burghers, who would also certainly commandeer our cart, pony,
and mules.

Then followed another endless night; the moon set at 1 a.m.,
and occasionally I was roused by the loud and continuous barking
of the farm dogs. At four o’clock Vellum’s dusky countenance
peered into the room, which opened on to the stoep, as do nearly
all the apartments of these hotels, to ask if the mules should be
inspanned, for these natives were all in wholesale dread of the
Boers. Hearing all was quiet, I told him to wait till the
sergeant appeared. About an hour later I opened my door to have a
look at the weather: the wind had dropped completely, the sky was
cloudless, and a faint tinge of pink on the distant horizon
denoted where the east lay. I was about to shut it again and
dress, when a dull booming noise arrested my attention, then
almost froze the blood in my veins. There was no mistaking the
firing of big guns at no very great distance.

We are accustomed to such a sound when salutes are fired or on
a field-day, but I assure those who have not had a like
experience, that to hear the same in actual warfare, and to know
that each detonation is dealing death and destruction to human
beings and property, sends a shiver down the back akin to that
produced by icy cold water. I counted four or five; then there it
was again and again and again, till altogether I reckoned twenty
shots, followed by impressive silence once more, so intense in
the quiet peace of the morning landscape. On the farm, however,
there was stir and bustle enough: alarmed natives gathered in a
group, weird figures with blankets round their
shoulders—for the air was exceedingly cold—all
looking with straining eyes in the direction of Kraipann, from
where the firing evidently came. I soon joined the people, white
and back, in front of the store, and before long a mounted Kaffir
rode wildly up, and proceeded, with many gesticulations, to
impart information in his own tongue. His story took some time,
but at last a farmer turned round and told me the engagement had
been with the armoured train, as we anticipated, and that the
latter had “fallen down” (as the Kaffir expressed it) owing to
the rails being pulled up. What had been the fate of its
occupants he did not know, as he had left in terror when the big
gun opened fire. Curiously enough, as I afterwards learnt, these
shots were the first fired during the war.

Remembering the sergeant’s warning, I decided to start at once
for Mosita, twenty-five miles farther away from the border,
leaving Vellum to bring on any further intelligence when the
sergeant, who had been away all night watching the Boers,
returned. We now traversed a fine open grassy country, very
desolate, with no human habitation. The only signs of life were
various fine “pows”^[24] stalking sedately along, or
“korans,” starting up with their curious chuckle rather like the
note of a pheasant, or a covey of guinea-fowl scurrying across
the road and losing themselves in the waving grass. Meanwhile the
driver kept up an incessant conversation with the mules, and I
found myself listening to his varying epithets with stupefied
curiosity. During that four hours’ drive we only met two natives
and one huge herd of cattle, which were being driven by mounted
Kaffirs, armed with rifles, to Mosita, our destination, where it
was hoped they would be out of the way of marauding Boers. At
last we reached the native stadt of Mosita, where our appearance
created great excitement. Crowds of swarthy men and youths rushed
out to question our driver as to news. The latter waxed eloquent
in words and gestures, imitating even the noise of the big gun,
which seemed to produce great enthusiasm among these simple folk.
Their ruling passion, I afterwards found, was hatred and fear of
the Boers, and their dearest wish to possess guns and ammunition
to join the English in driving them back and to defend their
cattle. In the distance we could see the glimmering blue waters
of a huge dam, beyond which was the farm and homestead of a loyal
colonial farmer named Keeley, whose hospitality I had been told
to seek. Close by were the barracks, with seven or eight
occupants, the same sort of depôt as at Setlagoli. I asked
to see Mrs. Keeley, and boldly announced we had come to beg for a
few nights’ lodging. We were most warmly received and made
welcome. The kindness of the Keeleys is a bright spot in my
recollections of those dark weeks. Mrs. Keeley herself was in a
dreadful state of anxiety, as she had that very day received a
letter from her husband in Mafeking, whither he had proceeded on
business, to say he found he must remain and help defend the
town; his assistance was urgently needed there in obtaining
information respecting the Boers from the natives, whose language
he talked like his own. She had five small children, and was
shortly expecting an addition to her family, so at last I had
found someone who was more to be pitied than myself. She, on the
other hand, told me our arrival was a godsend to her, as it took
her thoughts off her troubles.

Affairs in the neighbourhood seemed in a strange confusion.
Mr. Keeley was actually the Veldtcornet of the district,
an office which in times of peace corresponded to that of a
magistrate. In reality he was shut up in Mafeking, siding against
the Dutch. The surrounding country was peopled entirely, if
sparsely, by Dutch farmers and natives, the former of whom at
first and before our reverses professed sympathy with the
English; but no wonder the poor wife looked to the future with
dread, fearful lest British disasters would be followed by Boer
reprisals.

Towards sunset Vellum appeared with a note from Sergeant
Matthews. It ran as follows:

“The armoured train captured; its fifteen occupants all
killed.^[25] Boers opened fire on the
train with field artillery.”

In our isolation these words sank into our souls like lead,
and were intensified by the fact that we had that very morning
been so near the scene of the tragedy—”reverse” I would not
allow it to be called, for fifteen men had tried conclusions with
400 Boers, and had been merely hopelessly outnumbered. The latter
had, however, scored an initial success, and the intelligence
cast a gloom, even where all was blackest night. Vellum brought a
few more verbal details, to the effect that Sergeant Matthews had
actually succeeded in stopping the armoured train after pursuing
it on horseback for some way, expecting every moment to be taken
for a Boer and fired on. He asked to speak to the officer in
charge, and a young man put his head over the truck. Matthews
then told him that several hundred Boers were awaiting the train,
strongly entrenched, and that the metals were up for about
three-quarters of a mile. “Is that all?” was the answer; then,
turning to the engine-driver, “Go straight ahead.” Here was a
conspicuous instance of English foolhardy pluck.

The evening was a lovely one. I took a walk along the road by
which we had come in the morning, and was soothed by the peaceful
serenity of the surrounding country.

It seemed to be impossible that men were killing each other
only a few short miles away. The herd of cattle we had passed
came into view, and caught sight of the water in the dam. It was
curious to see the whole herd, some five or six hundred beasts,
break into a clumsy canter, and, with a bellowing noise, dash
helter-skelter to the water—big oxen with huge branching
horns, meek-eyed cows, young bullocks, and tiny calves, all
joining in the rush for a welcome drink after a long hot day on
the veldt.

The last news that came in that evening was that all the wires
were cut north and south of Mafeking, and the telegraphists fled,
as their lives had been threatened.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER VII

During the weeks I remained at Mosita, the only book I had to
read was “Trilby,” which I perused many times, and the lament of
the heroine in the line quoted above seemed to re-echo my
sentiments. For days and days we were absolutely without news. It
is impossible after a lapse of time to realize exactly what that
short sentence really means. I must ask my readers to remember
that we talked and thought of one topic only; we looked
incessantly in the one direction by which messengers might come.
Our nerves were so strained that, did we but see one of the
natives running across the yard, or hear them conversing in
louder tones than usual, we at once thought there must be news,
and jumped up from any occupation with which we were trying to
beguile the time, only to sink back on our chairs again
disappointed. As for knowing what was passing in the world, one
might as well have been in another planet. We saw no papers, and
there was not much prospect of obtaining any. Before the war we
had all talked lightly of wires being cut and railway-lines
pulled up, but, in truth, I do not think anyone realized what
these two calamities really meant. My only comfort was the
reflection that, no matter how hard they were fighting in
Mafeking, they could not be suffering the terrible boredom that
we were enduring. To such an extent in this monotony did I lose
the count of time, that I had to look in the almanack to be able
to say, in Biblical language, “The evening and the morning were
the sixth day.”

At length one evening, when we were sitting on the stoep after
supper, we descried a rider approaching on a very tired horse.
Rushing to the gate, we were handed letters from Mafeking. It can
be imagined how we devoured them. They told of three determined
attacks on the town on the third day after I had left, all
successfully repulsed, and of a bombardment on the following
Monday. The latter had been somewhat of a farce, and had done no
damage, except to one or two buildings which, by an irony of
fate, included the Dutch church and hotel and the convent. The
shells were of such poor quality that they were incapable of any
explosive force whatever.^[26] After nine hours’
bombardment, although some narrow escapes were recorded, the only
casualties were one chicken killed and one dog wounded. An
emissary from Commandant Snyman had then come solemnly into the
town under a flag of truce, to demand an unconditional surrender
“to avoid further bloodshed.” Colonel Baden-Powell politely
replied that, as far as he was concerned, operations had not
begun. The messenger was given refreshment at Dixon’s Hotel,
where lunch was laid out as usual. This had astonished him
considerably, as presumably he had expected to find but few
survivors. He was then sent about his business. Gordon, who
imagined me at Setlagoli, concluded his letter by saying the
Colonel had informed General Cronje of my presence at Mrs.
Fraser’s, and begged him to leave me unmolested. This news, which
had come by a Daily Mail correspondent, on his way South
to send off cables, was satisfactory as far as it went, and we at
once despatched a trusty old nigger called Boaz with a tiny note,
folded microscopically in an old cartridge-case, to give the
garrison news of the surrounding country. This old man proved a
reliable and successful messenger. On many occasions he
penetrated the cordon into the beleaguered town, and during the
first two months he was practically the sole means they had of
receiving news. His task was of course a risky one, and we used
to pay him £3 each way, but he never failed us.

Now commenced a fresh period of anxious waiting, and during
this time I had leisure and opportunity to study the
characteristics of these Boer farmers and their wives, and to
learn what a curious race they are. Mrs. Keeley told me a great
deal of their ideas, habits, and ways, in which low cunning is
combined with extreme curiosity and naïve simplicity. Many
of the fathers and sons in the neighbourhood had slunk off to
fight across the border, sending meanwhile their wives and
daughters to call on Mrs. Keeley and condole with her in what
they termed “her trouble,” and to ascertain at the same time all
the circumstances of the farm and domestic circle. A curious
thing happened one day. Directly after breakfast an old
shandrydan drove up with a typical Dutch family as occupants.
Mrs. Keeley, busy with household matters, pulled a long face,
knowing what was before her. No questions as to being at home,
disengaged, or follies of that sort, were asked; the horses were
solemnly outspanned and allowed to roam; the family party had
come to spend the day. Seated gravely in the dining-room, they
were refreshed by coffee and cold meat. Mrs. Keeley remarked to
me privately that the best thing to do was to put quantities of
food before them and then leave them; and, beyond a few passing
words as she went in and out of the room, I did not make out that
they went in for entertaining each other. So they sat for hours,
saying nothing, doing nothing. When Mrs. Keeley wanted me to have
lunch, she asked them to remove to the stoep, and in this request
they seemed to find nothing strange. Finally, about five o’clock
they went away, much to the relief of their hostess; not,
however, before the latter had shrewdly guessed the real object
of their visit, which was to find out about myself. Report had
reached them that Mafeking was in the hands of the Dutch, that
the only survivor of the garrison had escaped in woman’s clothes,
had been wandering on the veldt for days, and had finally been
taken in here. “Ach!” said the old vrow, “I would be
afraid to meet him. Is he really here?” This remark she made to
Mrs. Keeley’s brother, who could hardly conceal his amusement,
but, to reassure her, displayed the cart and mules by which I had
come. If in England we had heard of the arrival of a “unicorn” in
an aeroplane, we should not have shown more anxiety or taken more
trouble to hear about the strange creature than did they
concerning myself. Their curiosity did not end here. What was Mr.
Keeley doing in Mafeking? Was he fighting for the English? How
many head of cattle had they on the farm? And so on ad
libitum. Mrs. Keeley, however, knew her friends well, and was
quite capable of dealing with them, so they probably spent an
unprofitable day.

On another occasion an English farmer named Leipner looked in,
and gave us some information about Vryburg. This town was
absolutely undefended, and was occupied by the Boers without a
shot being fired. The ceremony of the hoisting of the
Vierkleur^[27] had been attended by the
whole countryside, and had taken place with much psalm-singing
and praying, interlarded with bragging and boasting. He told me
also that some of the rumours current in the town, and firmly
credited, reported that Oom Paul had annexed Bechuanaland, that
he was then about to take Cape Colony, after which he would allow
no troops to land, and the “Roineks” would have been pushed into
the sea. His next step would be to take England. Mr. Leipner
assured me the more ignorant Boers had not an idea where England
was situated, nor did they know that a great ocean rolled between
it and this continent. In fact, they gloried in their want of
knowledge, and were insulted if they received a letter in any
tongue but their own. He related one tale to illustrate their
ignorance: An old burgher and his vrow were sitting at
home one Sunday afternoon. Seeing the “predicant”^[28] coming, the old man hastily
opened his Bible and began to read at random. The clergyman came
in, and, looking over his shoulder, said: “Ah! I see you are
reading in the Holy Book—the death of Christ.” “Alle
machter!” said the old lady. “Is He dead indeed? You see, Jan”
(to her husband) “you never will buy a newspaper, so we never
know what goes on in the world.” Mr. Leipner said this story
loses in being told in English instead of in the original Dutch.
He reiterated they did not wish for education for themselves or
for their children. If the young people can read and write, they
are considered very good scholars. This gentleman also expressed
great satisfaction at Sir Alfred Milner and Mr. Chamberlain being
at the head of affairs, which he said was the only thing that
gave the colonials confidence. Even now, so many feared England
would give way again in the end. I assured him of this there was
no possibility, and then he said: “The Transvaal has been a bad
place for Englishmen to live these many years; but if Great
Britain fails us again, we must be off, for then it will be
impossible.” I was given to understand that the Boers exhibited
great curiosity as to who Mr. Chamberlain was, and that they
firmly believed he had made money in Rand mining shares and gold
companies; others fancied he was identical with the maker of
Chamberlain’s Cough Syrup, which is advertised everywhere in the
colony.

Early in November we had a great surprise. Mr. Keeley himself
turned up from Mafeking, having been given leave from the town
guard to look after his wife and farm. He had to ride for his
life to escape the Boers, who were drawing much closer to the
town, and the news he brought was not altogether reassuring.
True, he stated that the garrison were in splendid spirits, and
that they no longer troubled themselves about the daily
bombardments, as dug-out shelters had been constructed. The young
men, he said, vied with each other in begging for permission to
join scouting-parties at night, to pepper the Boers, often, as a
result, having a brush with the enemy and several casualties. All
the same, they would return at a gallop, laughing and joking.
There had been, however, several very severe fights, notably one
on Canon Kopje, where two very able officers and many men had
been killed. In such a small garrison this loss was a serious
one, and the death-roll was growing apace, for, besides the
frequent attacks, the rifle fire in the streets was becoming very
unpleasant. Intelligence was also to hand of the Boers bringing
up one of the Pretoria siege guns, capable of firing a 94-pound
shell. This was to be dragged across the Transvaal at a snail’s
pace by a team of twenty oxen, so secure were they against any
interruption from the South. Against these depressing items, he
gave intelligence of an incident that had greatly alarmed the
Boers. It seemed that, to get rid of two trucks of dynamite
standing in the railway-station, which were considered a danger,
the same had been sent off to a siding some eight miles north.
The engine-driver unhitched them and made good his escape. The
Boers, thinking the trucks full of soldiers, immediately
commenced bombarding them, till they exploded with terrific
force. This chance affair gave the Boers the idea that Mafeking
was full of dynamite, and later, when I was in the laager, they
told me one of the reasons why they had never pressed an attack
home was that they knew the whole town was mined. Mr. Keeley also
told us of a tragedy that had greatly disturbed the little circle
of defenders. The very evening that the victims of the Canon
Kopje fight were laid to rest, Lieutenant Murchison,^[29] of the Protectorate
Regiment, had, in consequence of a dispute, shot dead with his
revolver at Dixon’s Hotel the war-correspondent of the London
Daily Chronicle, a Mr. Parslow. I afterwards learnt that
the court-martial which sat on the former had fourteen sessions
in consequence of its only being able to deliberate for half an
hour at a time in the evening, when the firing was practically
over. The prisoner was ably defended by a Dutch lawyer named De
Koch, and, owing to his having done good service during the
siege, was strongly recommended to mercy, although sentenced to
be shot. The most satisfactory points we gleaned were the
splendid behaviour of the townspeople, and the fine stand made by
the natives when the Boers attacked their stadt, adjacent to the
town. The number of Boer field-guns Mr. Keeley stated to be nine,
of the newest type, besides the monster expected from Pretoria.
He also said more expert gunners and better ammunition had
arrived. As to his own position, Mr. Keeley was by no means sure
that either his life or his property were safe, but he relied on
his influence with his neighbours, which was considerable, and he
thought he would be able to keep them quiet and on their
farms.

One night, just as my maid was going to bed, she suddenly saw,
in the bright moonlight, a tall figure step out of the shadow of
the fir-trees. For an instant a marauding Boer—a daily
bugbear for weeks—flashed across her mind, but the next
moment she recognized Sergeant Matthews from Setlagoli. He had
ridden over post-haste to tell us the Boers were swarming there,
and that he and his men had evacuated the barracks. He also
warned us the same commando was coming here on the morrow, and
advised that all the cattle on the farm should be driven to a
place of safety. This information did not conduce to a peaceful
night, but, anyway, it gave one something to think of besides
Mafeking. I buried a small jewel-case and my despatch-box in the
garden, and then we went calmly to bed to await these unwelcome
visitors. Mr. Keeley had fortunately left the day before on a
business visit to a neighbouring farmer, for his presence would
rather have contributed to our danger than to our safety. When we
awoke all was peaceful, and there was every indication of a
piping hot day. Mrs. Keeley was very calm and sensible, and did
not anticipate any rudeness. We decided to receive the burghers
civilly and offer them coffee, trusting that the exodus of all
the cattle would not rouse their ire. Our elaborate preparations
were wasted, for the Boers did not come. The weary hours dragged
on, the sun crawled across the steely blue heavens, and finally
sank, almost grudgingly, it seemed, into the west, leaving the
coast clear for the glorious full moon; the stars came out one by
one; the goats and kids came wandering back to the homestead with
loud bleatings; and presently everything seemed to
sleep—everything except our strained nerves and aching
eyes, which had looked all day for Boers, and above all for news,
and had looked in vain.

We still continued to have alarms. One day we saw a horseman
wrapped in a long cloak up to his chin, surmounted by a huge
slouch hat, ride into the yard. Mrs. Keeley exclaimed it was
certainly a Boer, and that he had no doubt come to arrest Mr.
Keeley. I was positive the unknown was an Englishman, but she was
so shrewd that I really believed her, and kept out of sight as
she directed, while she sent her brother to question him. It
turned out that the rider was the same Daily Mail
correspondent who had cut his way out of Mafeking in order to
send his cables, and that he was now on his way back to the
besieged town. The growth of a two weeks’ beard had given him
such an unkempt appearance as to make even sharp Mrs. Keeley
mistake him for a Boer. He had had an interesting if risky ride,
which he appeared to have accomplished with energy and dash, if
perhaps with some imprudence.^[30]

It was the continued dearth of news, not only concerning
Mafeking, but also of what was going on in the rest of South
Africa, that made me at length endeavour to get news from
Vryburg. As a first step I lent Dop to a young Dutchman named
Brevel, who was anxious to go to that township to sell some fat
cattle. This youth, who belonged to a respectable Boer
family—of course heart and soul against the
English—was overwhelmed with gratitude for the loan of the
horse, and in consequence I stood high in their good graces. They
little knew it was for my sake, not theirs, that they had my
pony. By this messenger we sent letters for the English mail, and
a note to the magistrate, begging him to forward us newspapers
and any reliable intelligence. I also enclosed a cheque to be
cashed, for I was running short of English gold wherewith to pay
our nigger letter-carriers. I must confess I hardly expected to
find anyone confiding enough to part with bullion, but Mr. Brevel
duly returned in a few days with the money, and said they were
very pleased to get rid of gold in exchange for a cheque on a
London bank.

He also, however, brought back our letters, which had been
refused at the post-office, as they would take no letters except
with Transvaal stamps, and for ours, of course, we had used those
of Cape Colony.

The magistrate wrote me a miserable letter, saying his office
had been seized by the Boers, who held a daily Kriegsraad there,
and that he had received a safe-conduct to depart. The striking
part of the communication was that a line had been put through
“On H.M. Service” on the top of the official envelope. I was
really glad to find the young man had done no good with his own
business, having failed to dispose of any of his cattle. He, a
Dutchman, had returned with the feeling that no property was safe
for the moment, and much alarmed by the irresponsible talk of
those burghers who had nothing to lose and everything to gain by
this period of confusion and upheaval. He also greatly disturbed
Mr. Keeley by saying they meant to wreak vengeance on any who had
fought for the English, and by warning him that a commando would
surely pass his way. Further news which this young man proceeded
to relate in his awful jargon was that Oom Paul and all his
grandchildren and nephews had gone to Bulawayo; from there he
meant to commence a triumphal march southward; that Kimberley had
capitulated; and that Joubert and his army had taken possession
of Ladysmith. To all this Mrs. Keeley had to listen with polite
attention. Luckily, I did not understand the import of what he
said till he had taken himself off, with an unusually deep bow of
thanks to myself. The only comfort we derived was the reflection
that these lies were too audacious to be aught but inventions
made up to clinch the wavering and timid spirits.

No matter how miserable people in England were then, they will
never realize fully what it meant to pass those black months in
the midst of a Dutch population; one felt oneself indeed alone
amongst foes. Smarting under irritation and annoyance, I decided
to go myself to Vryburg—Dutch town though it had
become—and see if I could not ascertain the truth of these
various reports, which I feared might filter into Mafeking and
depress the garrison. Mr. Keeley did not disapprove of my trip,
as he was as anxious as myself to know how the land lay, and he
arranged that Mrs. Keeley’s brother, Mr. Coleman, should drive me
there in a trap and pair of ponies. For the benefit of the
gossips, I stated as an ostensible reason for my visit that I had
toothache. I was much excited at the prospect of visiting the
Boer headquarters in that part of the country, and seeing with my
own eyes the Transvaal flag flying in the town of a British
colony. Therefore I thought nothing of undertaking a sixty miles’
drive in broiling heat and along a villainous road. The drive
itself was utterly uneventful. We passed several Dutch
farmhouses, many of them untenanted, owing to the so-called loyal
colonial owners having flocked to the Transvaal flag at Vryburg.
All these houses, distinguished by their slovenly and miserable
appearance, were built of rough brick or mud, with tiny windows
apparently added as an afterthought, in any position, regardless
of symmetry. Towards sundown we arrived at a roadside store,
where we were kindly entertained for the night by the
proprietors, a respectable Jewish couple.

About five miles from Vryburg a party of thirty horsemen
appeared on the brow of the hill; these were the first Boers I
had seen mounted, in fighting array, and I made sure they would
ride up and ask our business; but apparently we were not
interesting enough in appearance, for they circled away in
another direction. The road now descended into a sort of basin or
hollow, wherein lay the snug little town of Vryburg, with its
neat houses and waving trees, and beyond it we could see the
white tents of the Boer laager. A young Dutchman had recently
described Vryburg to me as a town which looked as if it had gone
for a walk and got lost, and as we drove up to it I remembered
his words, and saw that his simile was rather an apt one. There
seemed no reason, beyond its site in a sheltered basin, why
Vryburg should have been chosen for the capital of British
Bechuanaland. The railway was at least a mile away on the east,
and so hidden was the town that, till you were close on it, you
could barely see the roofs of the houses. Then suddenly the
carriage drove into the main street, which boasted of some quite
respectable shops. The first thing that attracted our notice was
the Court House, almost hidden in trees, through which glimmered
the folds of the gaudy Dutch standard. Before the court were
armed Boers, apparently sentries, whilst others were passing in
and out or lounging outside. Another group were busy poring over
a notice affixed on a tree, which we were told was the latest war
news:

We drove down the street, and pulled up at the Central Hotel,
where I got capital rooms and was most civilly received by the
manager, an Englishman. The latter, however, could hardly conceal
his surprise at my visit at this moment. He at once advised me
not to mention my name, or show myself too much, as that very day
a new Landrost had arrived to take charge of the town, and strict
regulations respecting the coming and going of the inhabitants
and visitors were being made. He then gave me some splendid news
of the Natal border, the first intelligence of the victories of
Dundee, Elandslaagte, and Glencoe. To hear of those alone was
worth the long drive, and he also showed me the Dutch reports of
these same engagements, which really made one smile. On every
occasion victory had remained with the burghers, while the
English dead and prisoners varied in numbers from 500 to 1,300,
according to the mood of the composer of the despatch. The
greatest losses the burghers had sustained up to then in any one
engagement were two killed and three wounded. The spoils of war
taken by the Dutch were of extraordinary value, and apparently
they had but to show themselves for every camp to be evacuated.
They were kind enough to translate these wonderful despatches
into a sort of primitive English, of which printed slips could be
bought for threepence. The hotel manager said if they did not
invent these lies and cook the real account the burghers would
desert en masse. So afraid were their leaders of news
filtering in from English sources that all messengers were
closely watched and searched. In the afternoon I drove up to the
little hospital to see three of the occupants of the ill-fated
armoured train. They were all convalescent, and said they were
being very kindly treated in every way, but that the Boer
doctoring was of the roughest description, the surgeon’s only
assistant being a chemist-boy, and trained nurses were replaced
by a few well-meaning but clumsy Dutch girls, while chloroform or
sedatives were quite unknown.

It was grievous to hear of all the Government military
provisions, police and private properties, being carted off by
the “powers that be,” and not a little annoying for the
inhabitants to have to put all their stores at the disposal of
the burghers, who had been literally clothed from head to foot
since their arrival. The owners only received a “brief” or note
of credit on the Transvaal Government at Pretoria, to be paid
after the war. For fear of exciting curiosity, I did not walk
about much, but observed from the windows of my sitting-room the
mounted burghers patrolling the town, sometimes at a foot’s pace,
more often at a smart canter. I felt I never wished to see
another Boer. I admitted to myself they sat their horses well and
that their rifle seemed a familiar friend, but when you have seen
one you have seen them all. I never could have imagined so many
men absolutely alike: all had long straggling beards, old felt
hats, shabby clothes, and some evil-looking countenances. Most of
those I saw were men of from forty to fifty years of age, but
there were also a few sickly-looking youths, who certainly did
not look bold warriors. These had not arrived at the dignity of a
beard, but, instead, cultivated feeble whiskers.

After I had seen and heard all I could, came the question of
getting away. The manager told me the Landrost had now forbidden
any of the residents to leave the town, and that he did not think
I could get a pass. However, my Dutch friend was equal to the
occasion; he applied for leave to return to his farm with his
sister, having only come in for provisions. After a long
hesitation it was given him, and we decided to set out at
daybreak, fearful lest the permission might be retracted, as it
certainly would have been had my identity and his deception been
discovered, and we should both have been ignominiously lodged in
a Boer gaol. As the sun was rising we left Vryburg. On the
outskirts of the town we were made to halt by eight or ten Boers
whose duty it was to examine the passes of travellers. It can be
imagined how my heart beat as I was made to descend from the
cart. I was wearing a shabby old ulster which had been lent me at
the hotel for this purpose; round a battered sailor hat I had
wound a woollen shawl, which with the help of a veil almost
completely concealed my identity. It had been arranged that Mr.
Coleman should tell them I was suffering from toothache and
swollen face. The ordeal of questioning my supposed brother and
examining our passports took some minutes—the longest I
have ever experienced. He contrived to satisfy these inquisitors,
and with a feeling of relief we bundled into the cart again and
started on our long drive to Mosita. On that occasion we
accomplished the sixty miles in one day, so afraid were we of
being pursued.

On my return to Mosita I at once despatched old Boaz to
Mafeking, giving them the intelligence of the victories in Natal.
This proved to be the first news that reached them from the more
important theatre of the war. Our life now became uneventful once
more. One day an old Irish lady, wife of a neighbouring farmer,
dropped in for a chat. She was a nice old woman, as true as
steel, and terribly worried by these dreadful times. She had a
married daughter in the Transvaal, and a brother also, whose
sons, as well as daughters’ husbands, would, she sorely feared,
be commandeered to fight, in which case they might unknowingly be
shooting their own relations over the border. It was the same
tale of misery, anxiety, and wretchedness, everywhere, and the
war was but a few weeks old. The population in that colony,
whether Dutch or English, were so closely mixed
together—their real interests so parallel—that it
resolved itself locally into a veritable civil war. It was all
the more dreadful that these poor farmers, after having lost all
their cattle by rinderpest, had just succeeded in getting
together fresh herds, and were hoping for renewed prosperity.
Then came the almost certain chance of their beasts being raided,
of their stores being looted, and of their women and children
having to seek shelter to avoid rough treatment and incivility.
Often during the long evenings, especially when I was suffering
from depression of spirits, I used to argue with Mr. Keeley about
the war and whether it was necessary. It seemed to me then we
were not justified in letting loose such a millstream of
wretchedness and of destruction, and that the alleged wrongs of a
large white population—who, in spite of everything, seemed
to prosper and grow rich apace—scarcely justified the
sufferings of thousands of innocent individuals. Mr. Keeley was a
typical old colonist, one who knew the Boers and their character
well, and I merely quote what he said, as no doubt it was, and
is, the opinion of many other such men. He opined that this
struggle was bound to come, declaring that all the thinking men
of the country had foreseen it. The intolerance of the Boers,
their arrogance, their ignorance, on which they prided
themselves, all proclaimed them as unfit to rule over white or
black people. Of late years had crept in an element of treachery
and disloyalty, emanating from their jealousy of the English,
which by degrees was bound to permeate the whole country,
spreading southward to Cape Colony itself, till the idea of
“Africa for the Dutch, and the English in the sea,” would have
been a war-cry that might have dazzled hundreds of to-day’s
so-called loyal colonists. He even asserted that those at the
head of affairs in England had shown great perspicacity and a
clear insight into the future. If at the Bloemfontein Conference,
or after, Kruger had given the five years’ franchise, and the
dispute had been patched up for the moment, it would have been
the greatest misfortune that could have happened. The intriguing
in the colony, the reckless expenditure of the Transvaal Secret
Service money, the bribery and corruption of the most corrupt
Government of modern times, would have gone on as before, and
things would soon have been as bad as ever. Mr. Keeley was
positive that it was jealousy that had engendered this race
hatred one heard so much about; even the well-to-do Dutch knew
the English were superior to them in knowledge and enterprise. At
the same time any English invention was looked upon with awe and
interest; they were wont to copy us in many respects, and if a
Dutch girl had the chance of marrying an Englishman, old or
young, poor or rich, she did not wait to be asked a second time.
There is no doubt the women were a powerful factor in Boerland.
Even a Britisher married to a Dutchwoman seemed at once to
consider her people as his people, and the Transvaal as his
fatherland. These women were certainly the most bitter against
the English; they urged their husbands in the district to go and
join the commandoes, and their language was cruel and
bloodthirsty.

Towards the middle of November I decided that I could not
remain in my present quarters much longer. My presence was
attracting unwelcome attention to my kind host and hostess,
albeit they would not admit it. From the report that I was a man
dressed as a woman, the rumour had now changed to the effect that
I was a granddaughter of Queen Victoria, sent specially out by
Her Majesty to inform her of the proceedings of her rebellious
subjects. Another person had heard I was the wife of the General
who was giving the Boers so much trouble at Mafeking. I
determined, therefore, to return to Mrs. Fraser’s hotel, which
was always a stage nearer Mafeking, whither I was anxious to
return eventually. As a matter of fact, there was no alternative
resting-place. It was impossible to pass south to Kimberley, to
the west lay the Kalahari Desert, and to the east the Transvaal.
With many grateful thanks to the Keeleys, I rode off one morning,
with Vellum in attendance, to Setlagoli, which I had left a month
before. We thought it prudent to make sure there were no Boers
about before bringing the Government mules and cart. Therefore I
arranged for my maid to follow in this vehicle if she heard
nothing to the contrary within twenty-four hours. Mrs. Fraser was
delighted to see me, and reported the Boers all departed after a
temporary occupation, so there I settled down for another period
of weary waiting.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER VIII

The day after my arrival at Setlagoli some natives came in
with apparently well-authenticated news of an English victory
near Vryburg. They also asserted that the line was already being
relaid to Maribogo, and that the railway servants had returned to
that station. I drove over at once to prove the truth of their
statements; of course, I found they were all false, except the
fact of the station-master having returned to the barricaded and
desolate station. I discovered him sitting disconsolately at the
door of his ruined house, gloomily perusing “Nicholas Nickleby.”
On returning home, I was delighted to find interesting letters
from Mr. and Mrs. Rochfort Maguire, who were shut up in
Kimberley, as was also Mr. Rhodes. The latter had despatched them
by a boy, ordered to continue his journey to Mafeking with other
missives and also with some colonial newspapers. These latter,
only about a fortnight old, we fairly spelled through before
sending them on. They were already so mutilated by constant
unfolding that in parts they were scarcely decipherable, but none
the less very precious. Two days later arrived a representative
of Reuter’s Agency, whom I shall call Mr. P. He had come by rail
and horseback straight from Cape Town and he was also under
orders to proceed to Mafeking; but his horses were so done up
that he decided to give them a few days’ rest. I took advantage
of his escort to carry out a long-cherished desire to see the
wreck of the armoured train at Kraipann. Accompanied by a boy to
show us the way, we started after an early lunch. As it was a
Sunday, there was not much fear of our meeting any Boers, as the
latter were always engaged that day in psalm-singing and
devotions. We cantered gaily along, passing many Kaffir huts,
outside of which were grouped wondering natives, in their Sunday
best. These kept up a lively conversation with our guide as long
as we remained within earshot. I was always impressed with the
freemasonry that existed in that country among the blacks.
Everywhere they found acquaintances, and very often relations.
They used to tell me that such and such a man was their wife’s
cousin or their aunt’s brother. Moreover, as long as you were
accompanied by a native, you were always sure of certain
information concerning the whereabouts of the Boers; but to these
latter they would lie with stupid, solemn faces. When we neared
Kraipann, we came to a region of rocks and kopjes, truly a
God-forsaken country. Leaving our horses in the native stadt, we
proceeded on foot to the scene of the disaster. There was not
much to see, after all—merely a pilot armoured engine,
firmly embedded its whole length in the gravel. Next to this, an
ordinary locomotive, still on the rails, riddled on one side with
bullets, and on the other displaying a gaping aperture into the
boiler, which told its own tale. Then came an armoured
truck—H.M.’s Mosquito—that I had seen leaving
Mafeking so trim and smart, but now battered with shot; and
lastly another truck, which had been carrying the guns. This had
been pushed back into a culvert, and presented a dilapidated
appearance, with its front wheels in the air. The whole spectacle
was forlorn and eerie. All the time I gave cursory glances right
and left, to make sure no Boers were prowling about, and I should
not have been surprised to have seen an unkempt head bob up and
ask us our business. But all remained as silent as the grave.
Swarms of locusts were alone in possession, and under the engine
and carriages the earth was a dark brown moving mass, with the
stream of these jumping, creeping things. I had soon gratified my
curiosity, and persuaded my companion, who was busy
photographing, also to leave this desolate spot.

The Boers continued to ride roughshod over the land,
commandeering oxen and cattle, putting up to public auction such
Government properties as they had seized at the different
railway-stations, and employing hundreds of Kaffirs to tear up
the railway-line. Our enemies were perfectly secure in the
knowledge that no help could come for months, and the greater
number believed it would never come at all, and that the
“Roineks” were being cut to pieces in the South. They openly
stated there would be no more railway traffic, but that in future
trade and transit would be carried on by transport
riding—i.e., by ox-waggon, their favourite amusement
and occupation. In the meantime the cry of the loyal colonists
went up from all sides: “How much longer can it last?”

After a few days Mr. P. duly returned from Mafeking, having
had a risky but successful trip in and out of the town. He
reported it all well, and that the inhabitants were leading a
mole existence, owing to the constant shelling. The Boers
evidently preferred dropping in shells at a safe distance to
risking their lives by a storming attack. With great pride Mr. P.
showed me a basket of carrier pigeons, by which he assured me I
could now communicate swiftly and safely with the garrison. He
was even kind enough to send off one at once on a trial trip,
with a short note signed with his name, informing Colonel
Baden-Powell that I was at Setlagoli, and that I would be able to
forward any letters or information they might wish to send. I had
never had any experience of such birds, and was delighted to
think how much quicker they would travel than old Boaz. When the
pigeon was released, however, I must confess it was rather
disturbing to note that it did not seem at all sure of the
direction it should take, circling round at least twenty times in
the air. However, Mr. P. assured me this was their usual habit,
and that this particular bird knew its business, having taken
several prizes; so, as it eventually disappeared, I thought no
more about it. The next day Mr. P. left for Cape Town, and passed
out of our ken, but we were soon to be reminded of him in an
unpleasant fashion.

On going into the dining-room to lunch one day, I saw little
Mr.——, a kinsman of Mrs. Fraser’s, and particularly
short of stature, with an axe in hand, in the act of taking up
the boards in a corner of the room, revealing as he did so a sort
of shallow cellar, with no light or ventilation. Watching the
operation was another man, an Englishman, the dispossessed
manager of a local store, who had sought a temporary lodging at
the hotel, and was a big, strong individual, over 6 feet in
height. I inquired in amazement, of this strangely assorted pair,
what they were trying to do. “We are going to hide, Lady Sarah,”
chirped the former. “The Boers are on the premises.” So saying,
he was about to descend into the cavity, and evidently expected
the companionship of his tall friend. When I pointed out to them
that they would probably suffocate in this modern Black Hole of
Calcutta, the little man proceeded to dance round the room, still
shouldering his axe, jibbering the while: “I will not go to
fight; I am an American. I will not be put in the front rank to
be shot by the English, or made to dig trenches.” The whole scene
was so comic that I sat down and laughed, and the climax was
reached when the cock-sparrow, who had always talked so big of
what he was going to do and to say to the Boers, crawled under
the old grand piano in the farther corner of the big room. I was
forced to tell him that no American or Englishman could be found
in such an ignominious position, should the house be searched,
and I even assured the little gentleman that I did not think it
was the least likely his services would be wanted. The other man,
whose position was more risky, I advised to lie down on the sofa
and feign illness; and I really believe anxiety and worry had so
preyed on him that he was as ill as he looked. When calm had been
restored, I sat down to lunch, Mrs. Fraser coming in at intervals
to report what our visitors were doing at the store. They had
demanded coffee and many tins of salmon and sardines. Of these
delicacies they seemed particularly fond, eating the latter with
their fingers, after which they drank the oil, mixed for choice
with golden syrup. After their repast they fitted themselves out
in clothes and luxuries, such as silver watches and chains, white
silk pocket-handkerchiefs, cigarettes, saddles, and even harness,
taking altogether goods to the amount of about £50. This
amusement finished, they proceeded to practise shooting, setting
up bottles at a distance of about 50 yards. We followed all their
doings from behind the green Venetian blinds, kept down on
account of the heat. Up to this time none of them had come up to
the house, for which we had reason to be grateful, as the “dop”
they had found, and quickly finished, was beginning to affect
their demeanour and spirits, particularly of the one named
Dietrich, who appeared to be the boss of the party. At last the
immediate reason for their visit filtered out. This slightly
intoxicated gentleman inquired of Mr. Fraser where they could
find a man named Mr. P. and the English lady of whom he had
written. The old gentleman, who could be more than common deaf
when he chose, affected utter vacancy at the mention of these
individuals, merely stating that he knew a man of the name of P.
fifteen years ago. Then the whole story was told. They had
captured our pigeon, with its tell-tale note. This confiding bird
had flown straight to the laager, had perched on the General’s
house, where it had been shot by this same Dietrich, and we owed
the present visit to the information supplied therein by Mr. P.,
Dietrich informing us he attributed this occurrence to the
Almighty working for the Boers. They stated they were now
awaiting the arrival of the Veldtcornet and of Mr. Lamb, a
neighbouring farmer, whom they had sent for, and they proceeded
to make their preparations to spend the night. After supper we
were relieved to hear Mr. Lamb’s cheerful voice, as he rode up in
the dark with the jovial Dietrich, who had ridden out to meet
him, and who, it appeared, was an old friend of his. I must say
the pleasure of meeting was more on the Dutchman’s side than on
the Englishman’s. By this time the former was quite intoxicated,
and Mr. Lamb cleverly managed to get him to his room, and after
having, as he thought, disposed of him, he came and joined us on
the stoep. There we freely discussed our visitors, and were
having a cheery conversation, when I suddenly looked up, and
round the corner of the verandah saw the unsteady form of a
typical Boer—slouch hat, bandolier, and rifle,
complete—staggering towards us, truly a weird apparition.
The rising moon shining on the rifle-barrel made it glitter like
silver. I confess I disappeared round the corner to my room with
more haste than dignity. To Boers by daytime, when sober, I had
by now become accustomed, but at night, after liberal doses of
“dop,” armed with a loaded rifle, I preferred their room to their
company. Luckily, Mr. Lamb was equal to the occasion, and
persuaded Dietrich to return to his quarters, in spite of his
assurance that he (Dietrich) “was the man who watched, and who
did not sleep.” With the morning arrived nine or ten more,
including the newly-appointed Veldtcornet, by name De
Koker, who had been lately convicted of sheep-stealing. After a
long idle morning and more refreshments, they all adjourned to
the living-room, where, with much difficulty, one of them
stumbled through the reading of a printed proclamation, which
enacted that “This country now being part of the Transvaal, the
residents must within seven days leave their homes or enrol
themselves as burghers.” Nothing was mentioned about fighting, so
all there complied with what was required—namely, to sign
their names on a blank sheet of paper. By evening all had left
for Mosita, as Mr. P. had also mentioned Mr. Keeley’s name in his
unlucky note. Three, however, remained to keep a watch on myself,
and one of these, I regretted to observe, was the
jovially-inclined Dietrich. It can be imagined that our
irritation with Mr. P. was great for having so foolishly
mentioned names and places, and still more with the idiotic bird,
the real origin of a very unpleasant two days. I reflected that,
if these were the tricks carrier-pigeons were wont to play, I
greatly preferred the old nigger as a letter-carrier in
wartime.

We were not to wait long for more developments. Next day at
dusk arrived a large cavalcade, which included Mr. Keeley, a
prisoner. He went on with his escort at daybreak, leaving us full
of sympathy for his poor wife. I sent by his bodyguard, under the
command of another Dietrich, brother to the drunkard, who seemed
a decent sort of man, a letter to General Snyman, begging for a
pass into Mafeking to rejoin my husband. Mr. Keeley told me their
Intelligence Department was very perfect, as they had been aware
of every one of my movements since I left Mafeking, and even of
my rides during the last fortnight. He also told me General
Cronje and a great number of Boers had left Mafeking and trekked
South. This encouraged me in my belief that it would be better
for me to be in that beleaguered town than to submit to the
possible insults of Boer sentinels at Setlagoli.

The next day was Sunday, and in the morning returned the
energetic Veldtcornet De Koker. He had heard of my letter to
Snyman, and, wishing to be important, had come to offer me a pass
to the laager for a personal interview with the General, assuring
me the latter was always very polite to ladies. He even wished to
escort me there that very day. However, I had no mind to act
hastily, so I made an excuse of the mules being away—also
that I did not like to travel on a Sunday. This latter reason he
fully appreciated, and arranged with me to come to his house the
following day, for which purpose he left me a permit, vilely
scrawled in Dutch. I mentally reserved to myself the decision as
to keeping the rendezvous. We sat down to breakfast together,
although, as he could speak no English and I could speak no
Dutch, the conversation was nil. He was pleased with the
cigarette I offered him, and observed me with some curiosity,
probably never having seen anything approaching an English lady
previously. Before he left, I complained, through an interpreter,
of the insobriety of my self-constituted sentinel Dietrich,
remarking it was quite impossible I could stand such a man
dogging my footsteps much longer. He promised to report the
matter, and insisted on shaking hands with great cordiality.

It was fortunate I had not accompanied De Koker, for that very
evening back came Mr. Keeley, who had luckily succeeded in
satisfying the suspicions of General Snyman, and who had received
a permit to reside on his farm during the war. He brought me a
letter in Dutch from the same authority, refusing, “owing to the
disturbed state of the country,” to give me a pass to Mafeking,
and requesting me to remain where I was, under the “surveillance
of his burghers.” It was exactly the surveillance of one of his
said burghers I wished to avoid; but there seemed no possibility
of getting rid of Dietrich, who evidently preferred his
comfortable quarters at the hotel to roughing it in the laager. I
was exceedingly disappointed, and also somewhat indignant with
Mr. Keeley, who firmly believed, and was much cast down by, some
telegrams he had read out in the laager, relating the utter
defeat of 15,000 English at the Modder River;^[31] 1,500 Boers, he stated, had
surrounded this force, of which they had killed 2,000. I stoutly
refused to credit it till I had seen it in an English despatch.
But all this was enough to subdue the bravest spirit; we had
received practically nothing but Dutch information during the
last six weeks, telling of their successes and English disasters;
we had seen nobody but our enemies. Even if one did not allow
oneself to believe their tales, there was always a sort of
uncomfortable feeling that these must contain some element of
truth. Fortunately, however, I was reading an account of the
Franco-German War in 1870, and there I found that the same system
of inventing successes was carried on by the French press right
up to, and even after, the Emperor’s capitulation at Sedan. So it
was comforting to think that, if it had been necessary to keep up
the spirits of paid and regular soldiers, it must be a thousand
times more essential for the Transvaal authorities to do so, as
regards their unpaid mixed army, who had no encouragement to
fight but knowledge of successes and hopes of future loot. All
the same, it was a great trial of patience.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER IX

Provisions at Setlagoli and in the surrounding districts were
now fast running out, and Mrs. Fraser announced to me one morning
she had only full allowance of meal for another week. In that
colony no meal meant no bread, and it was, in fact, the most
important factor in the housewife’s mind when thinking of
supplies. While on this subject, I must remark what very
excellent bread is that made by the Dutch; no matter how poor or
dilapidated the farmhouses, large loaves of beautiful, slightly
browned bread are always in evidence, baked by the mother or
daughters. The non-existence of the railway was beginning to
cause much distress, Dutch and English suffering alike. In fact,
if it had not been for the locusts, unusually numerous that year,
and always a favourite food with the natives, these latter would
also have been starving. As every mouth to feed was a
consideration, I determined to see if I could personally induce
the Boer General to pass me into Mafeking. Under Mrs. Fraser’s
charge I left my maid, as I did not wish to expose her to any
hardships in the laager; and to her I gave the custody of my pony
Dop, to whom I had become much attached. After detaining me a
prisoner, the Boers returned to Setlagoli specially to secure
this animal; they had heard the natives speak of her in terms of
high appreciation, and describe her as “not a horse, but
lightning.” Metelka, with much spirit, declared the pony to be
her property, having been given her, she said, in lieu of wages.
She further stated she was a German subject, and that if her
horse were not returned in three days she should write to the
Kaiser. All this was repeated to General Snyman by the awestruck
Veldtcornet. After a week spent with the Boers, Dop
arrived back at Setlagoli, carefully led, as if she were a sacred
beast, and bringing a humble letter of apology from the
Commandant.

But I am anticipating, and must return to my solitary drive to
the laager, accompanied only by Vellum and another black boy. I
took the precaution of despatching a nigger with a note to
Mafeking, telling Colonel Baden-Powell of my plan, and that,
having heard a Dutch woman called Mrs. Delpoort, in Mafeking,
wished to join her friends in the Transvaal, I intended asking
General Snyman to exchange me for her. The distance we had to
drive was forty-five miles, along villainous sandy roads and
under a burning African sun. We outspanned for the second time at
the house of De Koker, who had been the first to advise me to
visit the laager. His dwelling was situated close to the
railway-line, or, rather, to where the railway-line had been.
Here there was a great stir and bustle; men were hurrying in and
out, nearly all armed; horses were tethered before the door; and,
on hearing my cart drive up, the Veldtcornet himself came
out to meet me, and gravely invited me to descend. I now saw the
interior of a typical Dutch house, with the family at home. The
vrow came forward with hand outstretched in the awkward
Boer fashion. The Dutch do not shake hands; they simply extend a
wooden member, which you clasp, and the greeting is over. I had
to go through this performance in perfect silence with about
seven or eight children of various ages, a grown-up daughter, and
eight or ten men, most of whom followed us into the poky little
room which appeared to serve as a living-room for the whole
family. Although past ten o’clock, the remains of breakfast were
still on the table, and were not appetizing to look at. We sat
down on chairs placed in a circle, the whole party commencing to
chatter volubly, and scarcely a word being intelligible to me.
Presently the vrow brought me a cup of coffee in a cracked
cup and saucer. Not wishing to give offence, I tried to swallow
it; the coffee was not bad, if one could only have dissociated it
from that dreadful breakfast-table. I then produced some
cigarettes, and offered them to the male element. They were
enchanted, laid aside their pipes, and conversed with more
animation than ever; but it was only occasionally that I caught a
word I could understand; the sentence “twee tozen Engelman
dood”^[32] recurred with distressing
frequency, and enabled me to grasp their conversation was
entirely about the war. I meanwhile studied the room and its
furniture, which was of the poorest description; the chairs
mostly lacked legs or backs, and the floor was of mud, which
perhaps was just as well, as they all spat on it in the intervals
of talk, and emptied on to it the remains of whatever they were
drinking. After a short time a black girl came in with a basin of
water, with which she proceeded to plentifully sprinkle the
floor, utterly disregarding our dresses and feet. Seeing all the
women tuck their feet under their knees, I followed their
example, until this improvised water-cart had finished its work.
The grown-up daughter had a baby in her arms, as uncared for as
the other children, all of whom looked as if soap and water never
came their way. The men were fine, strong-looking individuals,
and all were very affable to me, or meant to be so, if I could
but have understood them. Finally four or five more women came
into this tiny overcrowded room, evidently visitors. This was the
finishing stroke, and I decided that, rested or not, the mules
must be inspanned, that I might leave this depressing house. One
of the young burghers brought me the pass to General Snyman, the
caligraphy of which he was evidently very proud of; and having
taken leave of all the ladies and men in the same peculiar stiff
manner as that in which I had greeted them, I drove off, devoutly
thankful to be so far on my journey. About four in the afternoon
we came to a rise, and, looking over it, saw the white roofs of
Mafeking lying about five miles away in the glaring sunlight.
Then we arrived at the spot where General Cronje’s laager had
been before he trekked South, marked by the grass being worn away
for nearly a square mile, by broken-down waggons, and by sundry
aas-vogels (the scavengers of South Africa) hovering over
carcasses of horses or cattle. Mafeking was now only three miles
distant, and, seeing not a solitary soul on the flat grass
plains, I felt very much tempted to drive in to the native stadt;
but the black boys resolutely declined to attempt it, as they
feared being shot, and they assured me that many Boer
sharpshooters lay hidden in the scrub. Thinking discretion the
better part of valour, I regretfully turned away from Mafeking by
the road leading up an incline to the laager, still several miles
distant. The cart was suddenly brought to a standstill by almost
driving into a Boer outpost, crouched under a ruined wall, from
which point of vantage they were firing with their rifles at the
advance trenches of the town. The officer in charge of this party
told me I must stay here till sundown, when he and his men would
accompany me to headquarters, as he averred the road I was now
pursuing was not safe from the Mafeking gun-range. I therefore
waited their good pleasure for an hour, during which time the
firing from all round the town went on in a desultory sort of
way, occasionally followed by a boom from a large Boer gun, and
the short, sharp, hammering noise from the enemy’s one-pounder
Maxim. The sun was almost down when the burgher in charge gave
the signal to bring up their horses, and in a few minutes we were
under way. This time I was attended by a bodyguard of about
eighteen or twenty burghers, and we went along, much to my
annoyance, at a funereal pace. On our way we met the relieving
guard coming out to take the place just evacuated by my escort.
When seen riding thus more or less in ranks, a Boer squadron,
composed of picked men for outpost duty, presented really a
formidable appearance. The men were mostly of middle age, all
with the inevitable grizzly beard, and their rifles, gripped
familiarly, were resting on the saddle-bow; nearly all had two
bandoliers apiece, which gave them the appearance of being armed
to the teeth—a more determined-looking band cannot be
imagined. The horses of these burghers were well bred and in good
condition, and, although their clothes were threadbare, they
seemed cheerful enough, smoking their pipes and cracking their
jokes.

When we at last drew up at headquarters, I was fairly startled
to find what an excitement my appearance created, about two or
three hundred Boers swarming up from all over the laager, and
surrounding the cart. The General was then accommodated in a
deserted farmhouse, and from this building at last issued his
secretary, a gentleman who spoke English perfectly, and to whom I
handed my letter requesting an interview. After an interminable
wait among the gaping crowd, the aforementioned gentleman
returned, and informed me I could see the General at once. He
literally had to make a way for me from the cart to the house,
but I must admit the burghers were very civil, nearly all of them
taking off their hats as I passed through them. Once inside the
house, I found myself in a low, dark room, and in the farthest
corner, seated on a bench, were two old gentlemen, with extra
long beards, who were introduced to me as General Snyman and
Commandant Botha.^[33] I was at once struck by the
anything but affable expression of their countenances. They
motioned to me to take a chair; someone handed me a bowl with a
brown mixture—presumably coffee—which I found very
embarrassing to hold during our conversation. This was carried on
through the secretary, and the General got more and more out of
temper as he discovered what my request was. I informed him I had
come at the suggestion of his Veldtcornet; that all my
relations were in England, except my husband, who was in
Mafeking; that there was no meal in the colony where I had been
living; and that I was prepared to ask Colonel Baden-Powell to
exchange me for a Dutch lady whom I heard wished to leave, if he
(General Snyman) would accept the exchange. He promptly and with
much decision refused. Then it occurred to me this old gentleman
meant to keep me as a prisoner of war, and my heart sank into my
shoes. The only concession I could obtain was that he would
consider my case, and in the meantime he ordered that I should be
accommodated in the field hospital. Accompanied by the secretary,
and leaving the staring crowd behind, I drove off to a little
house, about half a mile away, where we found our destination. I
was shown into a tiny room, smelling strongly of disinfectants,
which from the large centre-table I at once recognized as the
operating-room, and here I was told I could sleep. I was too
tired to care much. There was no bed, only a broken-down sofa,
and in the corner a dilapidated washstand; the walls and windows
were riddled with bullets, denoting where the young burghers had
been amusing themselves with rifle practice. The secretary then
informed me that they had to search my luggage, which operation
lasted fully half an hour, although I had but one small
portmanteau and a dressing-case. The latter two Dutch nurses were
told off to look through, which, I am bound to say, they did most
unwillingly, remarking to me they had not contemplated searching
people’s luggage as part of their already onerous duties. I had
even to undress, in order that they might reassure the officials
I had no documents on my person. Meanwhile the men examined my
correspondence and papers almost microscopically. Needless to
say, they found nothing. They had barely finished their
researches, when a messenger came from the General to say, if
Colonel Baden-Powell would exchange me for a Dutchman imprisoned
in Mafeking, a certain Petrus Viljoen, he would consent to my
going in. I found, on inquiry, that this man had been imprisoned
for theft several months before the war, and I told them plainly
it was manifestly unfair to exchange a man and a criminal for a
woman; further, that I could not even ask Colonel Baden-Powell
officially to do such a thing, and could only mention it, as an
impossible condition, in a letter to my husband, if they chose to
send it in. To this they agreed, so I indited the following
letter, couched in terms which the secretary might peruse:

I then went to sleep in my strange surroundings, with small
hope of any success from my application to Mafeking. The next
day, Sunday, was observed by both parties as a day of rest. About
seven one of the nurses brought me a cup of coffee, and then I
proceeded to dress as best I might. So clearly did that horrid
little room imprint itself on my memory that I seem to see it as
I write. The dusty bare boards, cracked and loose in places, had
no pretence to any acquaintance with a scrubbing-brush, and very
little with a broom. A rickety old chest of drawers stood in one
corner, presumably filled with hospital necessaries, from the
very strong smell of drugs emanating from it, and from the fact
that the nurses would bustle in and rummage for some desired
article, giving glimpses of the confusion inside. On the top of
the drawers were arranged a multitude of medicine-bottles, half
full and half empty, cracked and whole. The broken old washstand
had been of valuable service during the night, as with it I
barricaded the door, innocent of any lock or key. When I was
dressed, I walked out on to the tiny stoep, surrounded by a high
paling. My attention was at once attracted to a woman in a flood
of tears, and presently the cause of her weeping was explained,
as an elderly man came round the corner of the house with both
his hands roughly tied up with bandages covered with
blood—a sight which caused the young woman to sob with
renewed vigour. After a little talk with the man, who, in spite
of his injuries, seemed perfectly well, the latter went away, and
I entered into conversation with the weeping female, whom I found
to speak good English, and to be the daughter of the wounded
warrior, Hoffman by name and German by birth. They were Transvaal
subjects, and her father had been among the first of the burghers
to turn out when hostilities threatened. She then proceeded to
tell me that she and her mother and a numerous collection of
young brothers and sisters had trekked in from their home in the
Transvaal to spend the Sunday in the laager with their father. On
their arrival early that morning, they learnt, to their horror,
that he had been wounded, or, rather, injured, late the night
before, as the mutilated state of his hands arose from a shell
exploding in the high-velocity Krupp gun just as he was loading
it. She told me her father was one of the most valued
artillerymen on the Boer side, and that he was also an adept in
the art of making fireworks, his last triumph in this line having
been at Mafeking on the occasion of the celebration of Queen
Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Fully appreciating the value of his
services, the Transvaal authorities had from the commencement
given him the most arduous tasks, and always, she indignantly
added, in the forefront of the battle. As regarded the present
accident, she said her father had repeatedly told the authorities
these particular shells were not safe to handle. Apparently the
safety-bolt was missing from all of them, making them when loaded
as brittle as an eggshell. This young lady and her mother were
certainly very anti-Boer in their sympathies, though terribly
afraid of allowing their feelings to be known. All that day and
the next they spent in the laager, looking after the injured
père de famille, whom, by the way, I got quite
friendly with, but who, I think, was rather relieved to see his
family depart. I rather regretted them, as Miss Hoffman used to
bring me a lot of gossip overheard in the laager, where she
assured me public opinion was running very strongly against me,
and that all were of opinion the General should certainly not
allow me to join my friends in Mafeking.

The morning dragged on. It was a hot, gusty day, and I found
the shelter of my poky little room the most comfortable
resting-place, although instead of a chair I had but a wooden
case to sit on. About eleven I saw a clerical gentleman arriving,
who I rightly concluded was the parson coming to conduct the
service. Presently the strangest of noises I have ever heard
arose from the back-premises of the tiny house. It is difficult
to conceive anything so grotesque as some Dutch singing is.
Imagine a doleful wail of many voices, shrill treble and deep
bass, all on one note, now swelling in volume, now almost dying
away, sung with a certain metre, and presumably with
soul-stirring words, but with no attempt to keep together or any
pretensions to an air of any kind, and you will have an idea of a
Dutch chant or hymn. This noise—for it cannot be called a
harmony—might equally well be produced by a howling party
of dogs and cats. Then followed long prayers—for only the
parson’s voice could be heard—then more dirges, after which
it was over, and all trooped away, apparently much edified. One
of the nurses brought me some lunch and spread it on the rickety
table, with a dirty napkin as a tablecloth. As regards the food,
which these young ladies told me they took it in turn to cook, it
was very fair; only one day we got no meat and no meal; the other
days they gave me eggs, very good beef, splendid potatoes, and
bread in any quantity. Besides this, I was able to buy delicious
fruit, both figs and apricots. As beverages there were tea and
coffee, the latter, of course, being the Transvaal national
drink—that is to say, when “dop” cannot be had. Beer is
almost unknown, except the imported kinds of Bass and Schlitz,
for what is known as “Kaffir beer” is a filthy decoction. About
midday I received a formal reply from Gordon, as follows:

Of course I was grievously disappointed, but at the same time
I had really expected no other answer, as I informed Mr. Brink
(the General’s second secretary), who had brought me the letter.
He was gravely apologetic, and informed me the General and
Commandant were holding a Kriegsraad early on the following
morning, when my case would receive their full consideration. In
the afternoon we had the excitement of seeing the Pretoria coach
drive up to the laager with much horn-blowing and whip-cracking.
Later some newspapers were brought across, and I was able
actually to peruse a Transvaal paper only two days old. The
General’s other secretary, who presented them to me, made some
astounding statements, which he said had just come up on official
wires—namely, that England and Russia would be at war
before that very week was out, in what locality he did not know;
and that Germany had suddenly increased her fleet by many ships,
spending thereon £10,000,000. To this I ventured to remark
that the building of those ships would take four or five years,
which would make it almost too late to assist the Transvaal in
the present war. I also reminded him casually that Germany’s
Emperor and Empress were, according to their own papers, then
paying a visit to Queen Victoria, which did not look as if that
country was exactly unfriendly to England. To this he had nothing
to reply, and I saw that this imperial visit was a sore subject
with my entertainers. For this reason I made a point of referring
to it on every possible occasion. As I was eating my solitary
supper, Mr. Brink appeared with a letter from Colonel
Baden-Powell as follows:

I then learnt from another letter that Mrs. Delpoort, who had
originally expressed the wish to leave Mafeking, where she was
residing with many other friends in the women’s laager, had
changed her mind, or her relatives did not encourage her to leave
the shelter of the town; for the Staff had experienced some
difficulty in persuading her to agree to the exchange, even if
General Snyman allowed the same. I asked if an answer had been
returned to the Colonel’s letter, and Mr. Brink replied in the
negative. Very indignant, I said that I did not mean to be kept
in my present wretched quarters indefinitely, and that, if no
exchange could be effected, I would request a pass to return to
Setlagoli, and risk the scarcity of food. He looked rather
confused, and said somewhat timidly that no doubt the General
would allow me to go to Pretoria, where I should find “pleasant
ladies’ society.” Seeing my look of angry surprise, he hastily
added that he only wished he had a house of his own to place at
my disposal. I saw it was no use venting my annoyance on this
young man, who was civility itself, so I merely remarked I had no
intention of visiting their capital, and that the present was
certainly not a time for an English lady to travel alone in the
Transvaal. To this he gushingly agreed, but added that, of
course, the General would give me a proper escort. These words
were quite enough to denote which way the wind was blowing. I
would not for an instant admit they had a right to detain me or
to send me to any place against my will, having come there
voluntarily, merely to ask the General a favour. I was therefore
conveniently blind and deaf, and, begging my amiable young friend
to submit Colonel Baden-Powell’s suggestion to the Kriegsraad on
the following morning, and to apprise me of the result, I wished
him good-night, and went to bed once more on the wretched sofa,
in anything but a hopeful frame of mind. However, as is so often
the case, my spirits revived in the morning, and, on considering
the situation, I could not see what object the Transvaal
authorities could have in detaining me a prisoner. I was
certainly very much in the way of the hospital arrangements, and
I fully made up my mind to refuse absolutely to go to Pretoria,
unless they took me by force. I also determined to leave them no
peace at the headquarters till they gave me a definite reply. The
day dragged on; the flies simply swarmed in my poky little room.
Never have I seen anything like the plague of these insects, but
the nurses assured me that at the laager itself they were far
worse, attracted, doubtless, by the cattle, horses, and
food-stuffs. At length I received a letter in an enormous
official envelope, saying General Snyman had wired to Pretoria
about me, and expected an answer every minute, which reply should
be immediately communicated to me. By my own free will I had put
myself completely in their power. This did not prevent me,
however, from speaking my mind freely on what I termed “the
extraordinary treatment I was receiving,” to both of the
secretaries, to the nurses, and to the patients. The latter,
being men, were very sympathizing; the nurses, though kind and
attentive, were not quite so friendly, and seemed somewhat
suspicious of my business. Neither of these, I ascertained, had
gone through any previous training, but had volunteered their
services, as they thought it “would be a lark.” Whether their
expectations were realized was doubtful, as they told me they
were worked off their legs; that they had to cook, wash their
clothes, and clean out the wretched little rooms, besides looking
after the patients. In addition to these two girls there was a
“lady doctor,” the first of her species I had ever come across,
and with whom I was not favourably impressed. Very untidy in her
appearance, her head covered with curls, her costume composed of
the remnants of showy finery, this lady had been a handsome
woman, but her personality, combined with a very discontented
expression of countenance, did not exactly form one’s idea of a
substitute for the skilful, kind, and cheerful hospital doctor
that we know at home. In fact, she looked singularly out of
place, which I remarked to several people, partly from the
irritation I felt on hearing her addressed as “Doctor.” No doubt
these remarks were repeated to her, and this accounted for her
black looks.

I must not omit a few words about the patients and visitors of
the hospital, with all of whom I was most friendly. One and all
were exceedingly civil, and I never encountered any rudeness
whatever. Even the burghers of no importance, poorly clad, out at
elbow, and of starved appearance, who came to the hospital for
advice and medicines, all alike made me a rough salutation,
evidently the best they were acquainted with. Those of more
standing nearly always commenced to chat in very good English; in
fact, I think a great many came up with the purpose of observing
the captured rara avis, an Englishwoman. We did not
actually discuss the progress of the war and what led to it,
sticking more to generalities. One hope was universally
expressed, that it would soon be over, and this I heartily
re-echoed. I told one of them I thought they had been foolish to
destroy all the railway-line, as it had left their own people so
terribly short of food; to this he replied that such minor
matters could not be helped, that they must all suffer alike and
help each other; also that they were well aware that they were
taking on a very great Power, and that every nerve must be
strained if they could hope for success. So another day and night
passed. I continued to send down letters without end to
headquarters; but it was always the same answer: they were
waiting for the reply from Pretoria. One afternoon we had a very
heavy thunderstorm and deluges of rain, the heaviest I had seen
in South Africa; the water trickled into my room, and dripped
drearily on the floor for hours; outside, the stream between the
hospital and laager became a roaring torrent. No one came near us
that afternoon, and I really think communication was not
possible. Later it cleared and the flood abated; a lively
bombardment was then commenced, on the assumption, probably, that
the Mafeking trenches were filled with water and uninhabitable.
It was trying to the nerves to sit and listen to the six or seven
guns all belching forth their missiles of death on the gallant
little town, which was so plainly seen from my windows, and which
seemed to lie so unprotected on the veldt. Just as I had
barricaded my door and gone to rest on my sofa about nine
o’clock, the big siege gun suddenly boomed out its tremendous
discharge, causing the whole house to shake and everything in the
room to jingle. It seemed a cruel proceeding, to fire on a
partially sleeping town, but I did not know then how accustomed
the inhabitants were to this evening gun, and how they took their
precautions accordingly.

I must say I disliked the nights at the hospital exceedingly.
It was insufferably hot and stuffy in the little room, and the
window, only about 2 feet above the ground, had to be left open.
The sentries, about six in number—doubled, as I understood,
on my account—lay and lounged on the stoep outside. Instead
of feeling them anything of a protection, I should have been much
happier without them. It must be recollected that these burghers
were very undisciplined and independent of authority, only a
semblance of which appeared to be exercised over them. They
included some of a very low type, and it appeared to be left to
themselves to choose which post they would patronize. It was
remarked to me they preferred the hospital, as it was sheltered,
and that the same men had latterly come there every night. Their
behaviour during their watch was very unconventional. They came
on duty about 6 p.m., and made themselves thoroughly comfortable
on the stoep with mackintoshes and blankets. Their rifles were
propped up in one corner, and the bandoliers thrown on the
ground. There were a couple of hammocks for the patients’ use,
and in these two of them passed the night. Before retiring to
rest, they produced their pipes and foul-smelling Boer tobacco,
proceeding to light up just under my windows, meanwhile talking
their unmusical language with great volubility. At length, about
ten, they appeared to slumber, and a chorus of snoring arose,
which generally sent me to sleep, to be awakened two or three
hours later by renewed conversations, which now and then died
away into hoarse whispers. I always imagined they were discussing
myself, and devising some scheme to step over the low sill into
my room on the chance of finding any loot. I complained one day
to the nurses of the fact that their extreme loquacity really
prevented my sleeping, and, as she told me that the patients
suffered in the same way, I advised her to speak to the sentinels
and ask them to be more quiet. She told me afterwards she had
done so, and that they said they had been insulted, and would
probably not come again. We both laughed, and agreed it would not
matter much if this calamity occurred.

The next day I was still put off, when I requested to know
what had been decided about my fate. I was getting desperate, and
had serious thoughts of taking “French leave,” risking Boer
sentries and outposts, and walking into Mafeking at night; but it
was the fear of being fired on from our own trenches that
deterred me. Fortunately, however, assistance was at hand. On the
afternoon of the fifth day that I had spent at the laager, a
fine-looking burgher rode up to the hospital, and I heard him
conversing in very good English. Presently, after staring at me
for some time, he came up and said he had known Randolph
Churchill, who, he heard, was my brother, and that he should so
like to have a little talk. He then informed me his name was
Spencer Drake, to which I said: “Your name and your conversation
would make me think you are an Englishman, Mr. Drake.” “So I am,”
was his reply. “I was born in Norfolk. My father and grandfather
before me were in Her Majesty’s Navy, and we are descended from
the old commander of Queen Elizabeth’s time.” To this I observed
that I was sorry to see him in the Boer camp amongst the Queen’s
enemies. He looked rather sheepish, but replied: “Our family
settled in Natal many years ago, and I have ever since been a
Transvaal burgher. I owe everything I possess to the South
African Republic, and of course I fight for its cause; besides
which, we colonials were very badly treated and thrown over by
the English Government in 1881, and since then I have ceased to
think of England as my country.” As he seemed well disposed
toward me, I did not annoy him by continuing the discussion, and
he went on to inform me that he was the General’s Adjutant, and
had been away on business, therefore had only just heard that I
was in the laager, and he had come at once to see if he could be
of any service. I took the opportunity of telling him what I
thought of the way in which they were treating me, pointing out
the wretched accommodation I had, and the fact that they had not
even supplied me with a bed. He was very sympathetic, and
expressed much sorrow at my discomforts, promising to speak to
the General immediately, though without holding out much hope of
success, as he told me the latter was sometimes very difficult to
manage. After a little more talk, during which I made friends
with his horse, described by him as a wonderful beast, he rode
off, and I was full of renewed hope. A little later the young
secretary came up again to see me. To supplement my messages
through Mr. Drake, I requested this young man to tell the General
that I could see they were taking a cowardly advantage of me
because I was a woman, and that they would never have detained a
man under similar circumstances. In fact, I was on every occasion
so importunate that I am quite sure the General’s Staff only
prayed for the moment that I should depart. That afternoon I had
a long talk to two old German soldiers, then burghers, who were
both characters in their way. Hoffman, before alluded to, had
been a gunner in the Franco-German War, and was full of
information about the artillery of that day and this; while the
other had been through the Crimea, and had taken part in the
charge of the Light Brigade, then going on to India to assist in
repressing the Mutiny. He had evidently never liked the service
into which he had been decoyed by the press-gang, and had
probably been somewhat of a mauvais sujet, for he told me
the authorities were glad enough to give him his discharge when
the regiment returned to England. He had married and settled in
the Transvaal, making a moderate fortune, only to be ruined by a
lawsuit being given against him, entirely, he naively admitted,
because the Judge was a friend of the other side. In spite of
this he remained a most warm partisan of the corrupt Boer
Government, and at sixty-seven he had gladly turned out to fight
the country whose uniform he had once worn. Whenever I found we
were approaching dangerous ground, I used quickly to change the
conversation, which perhaps was wise, as I was but one in a
mighty host.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER X

Next morning I was awakened at 6 a.m. by Mr. Drake knocking at
my door, and telling me I was to be ready in half an hour, as
Colonel Baden-Powell had consented to exchange me for Petrus
Viljoen. This exchange had placed our Commanding Officer in an
awkward position. The prisoner was, as I stated before, a
criminal, and under the jurisdiction of the civil authorities,
who would not take upon themselves the responsibility of giving
him up. Under these circumstances Lord Edward Cecil had come
forward and represented to Colonel Baden-Powell that it was
unseemly for an Englishwoman to be left in the hands of the
Boers, and transported to Pretoria by the rough coach, exposed to
possible insults and to certain discomforts. He even declared
himself prepared to take any consequent blame on his shoulders,
and, being the Prime Minister’s son, his words had great weight.
As a matter of fact, Petrus Viljoen was anything but a fighting
man, and could be of very little service to our enemies. The
burghers had told me his presence was so persistently desired
from the fact of the republic having private scores to settle
with him. In any case, he was very reluctant to leave Mafeking
and the safety of the prison, which fact had influenced Colonel
Baden-Powell in finally agreeing to the exchange.

As may be imagined, I could hardly believe my good fortune,
and I lost no time in scrambling into my clothes while the cart
was being inspanned. A vexatious delay occurred from the
intractability of the mules, which persistently refused to allow
themselves to be caught. The exchange of prisoners had to be
effected before 8 a.m., when the truce would be over, and I shall
never forget how I execrated those stubborn animals, as the
precious minutes slipped by, fearful lest my captors would change
their minds and impose fresh conditions. However, at length all
was ready, and, escorted by some artillery officers, I drove to
headquarters, where I was requested to descend in order to have
another interview with the General. Again an inquisitive crowd
watched my movements, but civilly made way for me to pass into
the little room where General Snyman was holding a sort of levee.
The latter asked me a few purposeless questions. I gravely
expressed a hope that his eyes were better (he had been suffering
from inflamed sight); then he rose and held out his hand, which I
could not ignore, and without further delay we were off. About
2,000 yards from Mafeking I noticed the enemy’s advanced
trenches, with some surprise at their proximity to the town; and
here we met the other party with a white flag escorting Mr.
Viljoen, who looked foolish, dejected, and anything but pleased
to see his friends. He was forthwith given over to their care,
the mules were whipped up, and at a gallop we rattled into the
main street. From the first redoubt Colonel Baden-Powell and Lord
Edward Cecil ran out to greet me, and the men in the trench gave
three ringing English cheers, which were good to hear; but no
time had to be lost in getting under cover, and I drove straight
to Mr. Wiel’s house, and had hardly reached it when “Creechy” (a
Dutch pet-name which had been given to the big siege gun) sent a
parting salute, and her shell whizzed defiantly over our
heads.

Then commenced a more or less underground existence, which
continued for five and a half months; but, surrounded by friends,
it was to me a perfect heaven after so many weeks passed amidst
foes. I had much to hear, and it took some time to realize all
the changes in the little town since I had left. First and
foremost, the town guard were coming splendidly out of their
long-protracted ordeal. Divided into three watches, they passed
the night at the different redoubts, behind each of which was a
bomb-proof shelter. Those of the second watch were ready to
reinforce the men on duty, while the third were only to turn out
if summoned by the alarm-bell. All the defences had, indeed, been
brought to a wonderful pitch of perfection by the C.O. First
there was a network of rifle-pits, which gave the Boers no peace
day or night, and from which on one side or the other an almost
incessant sniping went on. These were supplemented by dynamite
mines, the fame of which had frightened the Boers more than
anything else, all connected with Headquarter Staff Office by
electric wires. In addition there was barbed-wire fencing round
the larger earthworks, and massive barricades of waggons and
sandbags across the principal streets. All this looked very
simple once erected and in working order, but it was the outcome
of infinite thought and ever-working vigilance. Then there was a
complete system of telephones, connecting all the redoubts and
the hospital with the Staff Office, thereby saving the lives of
galloping orderlies, besides gaining their services as defenders
in a garrison so small that each unit was an important factor.
Last, but certainly not least, were the bomb-proof shelters,
which black labour had constructed under clever supervision all
over the town, till at that time, in case of heavy shelling,
nearly every inhabitant could be out of harm’s way. What struck
me most forcibly was that, in carrying out these achievements,
Colonel Baden-Powell had been lucky enough to find instruments,
in the way of experienced men, ready to his hand. One officer was
proficient in bomb-proofs, the postmaster thoroughly understood
telephones, while another official had proved himself an expert
in laying mines. The area to be defended had a perimeter of six
miles; but, in view of the smallness of the garrison and the
overwhelming number of the Boers, it was fortunate the
authorities had been bold and adventurous enough to extend the
trenches over this wide space, instead of following the old South
African idea of going into laager in the market-square, which had
been the first suggestion. The town was probably saved by being
able to present so wide a target for the Boer artillery, and
although we were then, and for the next few weeks, cut off from
all communication with the outer world, even by nigger
letter-carriers, and in spite of bullets rattling and whizzing
through the market-square and down the side-streets, the Boer
outposts were gradually being pushed away by our riflemen in
their invisible pits. While on this subject, I must mention that
a day spent in those trenches was anything but an agreeable one.
Parties of six men and an officer occupied them daily before
dawn, and remained there eighteen hours, as any attempt to leave
would have meant a hail of bullets from the enemy, distant only
about 600 yards. They were dug deep enough to require very little
earthwork for protection; hence they were more or less invisible
by the enemy in their larger trenches. These latter were
constantly subjected to the annoyance of bullets coming,
apparently, from the ground, and, though other foes might have
acted differently in like circumstances, the Boers did not care
for the job of advancing across the open to dislodge the hidden
enemy.

In a very few days a new bomb-proof shelter had been
constructed for me, and to inaugurate it I gave an underground
dinner with six guests. This bomb-proof was indeed a triumph in
its line, and I must describe it. About 18 by 15 feet, and 8 feet
high, it was reached by a flight of twelve wooden steps, at the
top of which was a door that gave it the privacy of a room. It
was lighted besides by three horizontal apertures, which
resembled the very large portholes of a sailing-ship, and this
illusion was increased by the wooden flaps that could be closed
at will. The roof was composed of two lots of steel rails placed
one above the other, and on these were sheets of corrugated iron
and a huge tarpaulin to keep out the rain. Above, again, were 9
feet of solid earth, while rows upon rows of sandbags were piled
outside the entrance to guard against splinters and stray
bullets. The weighty roof was supported, as an additional
precaution, on the inside by three stout wooden posts, which,
together with the rather dim light, most apparent when descending
from the brilliant sunshine outside, gave the bomb-proof the
appearance of a ship’s cabin; in fact, one of my visitors
remarked it much reminded him of the well-known print of the
Victory’s cockpit when Nelson lay a-dying. The interior
panelling was painted white. One wall was entirely covered with
an enormous Union Jack, and the other was decorated with native
weapons, crowned by a trophy of that very war—namely, the
only Mauser carbine then taken from the Boers. To complete the
up-to-date nature of this protected dwelling, a telephone was
installed, through the medium of which I could in a second
communicate with the Staff Headquarters, and have due notice
given me of “Creechy’s” movements. In this shelter it was
certainly no hardship to spend those hot days, and it was known
to be the coolest place in town at that hot season of the
year.

On Sundays we were able, thanks to the religious proclivities
of the Boers, to end our mole existence for twenty-four hours,
and walk and live like Christians. To almost the end of the siege
this truce was scrupulously observed on both sides, and from
early dawn to late at night the whole population thoroughly
enjoyed themselves. The relieved expression on the faces of all
could not fail to be apparent to even a casual observer. Pale
women and children emerged from their laager, put on their
finery, sunned themselves, and did their shopping. The black
ladies went in a body to the veldt to collect firewood with all
their natural gaiety and light-heartedness, which not even
shell-fire and numerous casualties amongst themselves seemed
seriously to disturb. Those of us who had horses and carriages at
our disposal rode and drove anywhere within our lines in perfect
safety. The first Sunday I was in Mafeking I was up and on my
pony by 6 a.m., unwilling to lose a moment of the precious day.
We rode all round our defences, and inspected Canon Kopje, the
scene of the most determined attack the Boers had made, the
repulse of which, at the beginning of the siege, undoubtedly
saved the town. From there we looked through the telescope at
“Creechy,” whose every movement could be watched from this point
of vantage, and whose wickedly shining barrel was on the “day of
rest” modestly pointed to the ground. Returning, we rode through
the native stadt, quite the most picturesque part of Mafeking,
where the trim, thatched, beaver-shaped huts, surrounded by mud
walls, enclosing the little gardens and some really good-sized
trees, appeared to have suffered but little damage from the
bombardment, in spite of the Boers having specially directed
their fire against the inhabitants (the Baralongs), who were old
opponents of theirs. These natives were only armed by the
authorities when the invaders specially selected them for their
artillery fire and made raids on their cattle. The variety and
sizes of these arms were really laughable. Some niggers had
old-fashioned Sniders, others elephant guns, and the remainder
weapons with enormously long barrels, which looked as if they
dated back to Waterloo. To their owners, however, the maker or
the epoch of the weapon mattered little. They were proud men, and
stalked gravely along the streets with their precious rifles,
evidently feeling such a sense of security as they had never
experienced before.

On the Sunday I alluded to, after our ride we attended morning
service, held as usual in the neat little church, which, with the
exception of a few gashes in the ceiling rafters, caused by
fragments of shell, had up to date escaped serious injury. The
Dutch Church, on the other hand, curiously enough, was almost
demolished by shell-fire at the beginning of the siege. We then
drove up to the hospital, where Miss Hill, the plucky and
youthful-looking matron, received us and showed us round. This
girl—for she was little more—had been the life and
prop of the place for the past two months, during which time the
resources of the little hospital had been taxed almost past
belief. Where twenty was the usual number of patients, there were
actually sixty-four on the occasion of my first visit. The staff
was composed of only a matron and three trained nurses. In
addition to their anxieties for the patients, who were being so
frequently brought in with the most terrible injuries, these
nurses underwent considerable risks from the bombardment, which,
no doubt from accident, had been all along directed to the
vicinity of the hospital and convent, which lay close together.
The latter had temporarily been abandoned by the nuns, who were
living in an adjacent bomb-proof, and the former had not escaped
without having a shell through one of the wards, at the very time
a serious operation was taking place. By a miraculous
dispensation no patient was injured, but a woman, who had been
previously wounded by a Mauser bullet while in the laager, died
of fright.

The afternoon was taken up by a sort of gymkhana, when a happy
holiday crowd assembled to see the tilting at the ring, the
lemon-cutting, and the tug-of-war. At this entertainment Colonel
Baden-Powell was thoroughly in his element, chatting to everyone
and dispensing tea from a travelling waggon. In the evening I
dined at Dixon’s with our old party, and, really, the two months
that had elapsed since I was at that same table had effected but
little change in the surroundings and in the fare, which at that
early stage of the siege was as plentiful as ever, even the stock
of Schweppes’ soda-water appearing inexhaustible. Besides this
luxury, we had beautiful fresh tomatoes and young cabbages. The
meat had resolved itself into beef, and beef only, but eggs
helped out the menu, and the only non-existent delicacy was
“fresh butter.” This commodity existed in tins, but I must
confess the sultry weather had anticipated the kitchen, in that
it usually appeared in a melted state.

The most formidable weapon of the Boers was, naturally, the
big siege Creusot gun. The very first day I arrived in Mafeking
“Creechy” discharged a shell that killed a trooper of the
Protectorate Regiment, who happened to be standing up in the
stables singing a song, whilst four or five others were seated on
the ground. The latter were uninjured, but the dead man was
absolutely blown to bits, and one of his legs was found in the
roof. A few days after two more shells landed in the
market-square, one going through the right window of the
chemist’s shop, the other demolishing the left-hand one. Some of
the staff were actually in the shop when the second shell came
through the window, and were covered with dust, broken bits of
glass, and shattered wood, but all providentially escaped unhurt.
Others were not so fortunate, for a nigger in the market-square
was literally cut in half, and a white man 100 yards away had his
leg torn off. Again, in Mr. Wiel’s store a shell burst while the
building was full of people, without injuring anyone; but one of
the splinters carried an account-book from the counter and
deposited it in the roof on its outward passage. Indeed, not a
day passed but one heard of marvellously narrow escapes.

As the heat increased, the shelling grew certainly slacker,
and, after an hour or two spent in exchanging greetings in the
early morning, both besieged and besiegers seemed to slumber
during the sultry noonday hours. About four they appeared to
rouse themselves, and often my telephone would then ring up with
the message: “The gun is loaded, and pointed at the town.” Almost
simultaneously a panting little bell, not much louder than a
London muffin-bell, but heard distinctly all over the town in the
clear atmosphere, would give tongue, and luckless folk who were
promenading the streets had about three seconds to seek shelter,
the alarm being sounded as the flash was seen by the look-out.
One afternoon they gave us three shots in six minutes, but, of
course, this rapid firing was much safer for the inhabitants than
a stray shot after a long interval, as people remained
below-ground expecting a repetition of that never-to-be-forgotten
crashing explosion, followed by the sickening noise of the
splinters tearing through the air, sometimes just over one’s
head, like the crack of a very long whip, manipulated by a
master-hand. The smallest piece of one of these fragments was
sufficient to kill a man, and scarcely anyone wounded with a
shell ever seemed to survive, the wounds being nearly always
terribly severe, and their poison occasioning gangrene to set in.
There were many comic as well as tragic incidents connected with
the shells of the big gun. A monkey belonging to the post-office,
who generally spent the day on the top of a pole to which he was
chained, would, on hearing the alarm-bell, rapidly descend from
his perch, and, in imitation of the human beings whom he saw
taking shelter, quickly pop under a large empty biscuit-tin. Dogs
also played a great part in the siege. One, belonging to the
Base-Commandant, was wounded no less than three times; a rough
Irish terrier accompanied the Protectorate Regiment in all its
engagements; and a third amused itself by running after the small
Maxim shells, barking loudly, and trying to retrieve pieces. On
the other hand, the Resident Commissioner’s dog was a prudent
animal, and whenever she heard the alarm-bell, she would leave
even her dinner half eaten, and bolt down her master’s
bomb-proof. On one occasion I remember being amused at seeing a
nigger, working on the opposite side of the road, hold up a spade
over his head like an umbrella as the missile came flashing by,
while a fellow-workman crawled under a large tarpaulin that was
stretched on the ground. These natives always displayed the most
astonishing sang-froid. One day we saw a funny scene on the
occasion of a Kaffir wedding, when the bridegroom was most
correctly attired in morning-dress and an old top-hat. Over his
frock-coat he wore his bandolier, and carried a rifle on his
shoulder; the bride, swathed in a long white veil from head to
foot, walked by his side, and was followed by two young ladies in
festive array, while the procession was brought up by more
niggers, armed, like the bridegroom, to the teeth. The party
solemnly paraded the streets for fully half an hour, in no wise
disconcerted by a pretty lively shelling and the ring of the
Mausers on the corrugated iron roofs.

Quite as disagreeable as “Creechy,” although less noisy, was
the enemy’s 1-pound Maxim. A very loud hammering, quickly
repeated, and almost simultaneously a whirring in the air,
followed by four quick explosions, and then we knew this
poisonous devil was at work. The shells were little gems in their
way, and when they did not burst, which was often the case, were
tremendously in request as souvenirs. Not much larger than an
ordinary pepper-caster, when polished up and varnished they made
really charming ornaments, and the natives were quick to learn
that they commanded a good price, for after a shower had fallen
there was a helter-skelter amongst the black boys for any
unexploded specimens. One evening we had a consignment into the
road just outside my bomb-proof, attracted by a herd of mules
going to water. Immediately the small piccaninny driving these
animals scampered off, returning in triumph with one of these
prizes, which he brought me still so hot that I could not hold
it. It used often to strike me how comic these scenes at Mafeking
would have been to any aeronaut hovering over the town of an
evening, especially when the shelling had been heavy. Towards
sundown the occupants of the various bomb-proofs used to emerge
and sit on the steps or the sandbags of their shelters,
conversing with their neighbours and discussing the day’s damage.
All of a sudden the bell would tinkle, and down would go all the
heads, just as one has often seen rabbits on a summer evening
disappear into their holes at the report of a gun. In a few
minutes, when the explosion was over, they would bob up again, to
see if any harm had been done by the last missile. Then night
would gradually fall on the scene, sometimes made almost as light
as day by a glorious African moon, concerning which I shall
always maintain that in no other country is that orb of such
brightness, size, and splendour. The half-hour between sundown
and moonrise, or twilight and inky blackness, as the case
happened to be, according to the season or the weather, was about
the pleasantest time in the whole day. As a rule it was a
peaceful interval as regards shelling. Herds of mules were driven
along the dusty streets to be watered; cattle and goats returned
from the veldt, where they had been grazing in close proximity to
the town, as far as possible out of sight; foot-passengers,
amongst them many women, scurried along the side-walks closely
skirting the houses. Then, when daylight had completely faded,
all took shelter, to wait for the really vicious night-gun, which
was usually fired between eight and nine with varying regularity,
as our enemies, no doubt, wished to torment the inhabitants by
not allowing them to know when it was safe for them to seek their
homes and their beds. There was a general feeling of relief when
“Creechy” had boomed her bloodthirsty “Good-night.” Only once
during the whole siege was she fired in the small hours of the
morning, and that was on Dingaan’s Day (December 16), when she
terrified the sleeping town by beginning her day’s work at 2.30
a.m., followed by a regular bombardment from all the other guns
in chorus, to celebrate the anniversary of the great Boer victory
over the Zulus many years ago. Frequent, however, were the
volleys from the trenches that suddenly broke the tranquillity of
the early night, and startling were they in their apparent
nearness till one got accustomed to them. At first I thought the
enemy must be firing in the streets, so loud were the reports,
owing to the atmosphere and the wind setting in a particular
direction. The cause of these volleys was more difficult to
discover, and, as our men never replied, it seemed somewhat of a
waste of ammunition. Their original cause was a sortie early in
the siege, when Captain Fitzclarence made a night attack with the
bayonet on their trenches. Ever afterwards an animal moving on
the veldt, a tree or bush stirred by the wind, an unusual light
in the town, was sufficient for volley after volley to be poured
at imaginary foes. By nine o’clock these excitements were usually
over, and half an hour afterwards nearly every soul not on duty
was asleep, secure in the feeling that for every one who reposed
two were on watch; while, as regards Colonel Baden-Powell, he was
always prowling about, and the natives revived his old Matabele
nickname of “the man that walks by night.”

CHAPTER XI

We celebrated Christmas Day, 1899, by a festive luncheon-party
to which Colonel Baden-Powell and all his Staff were invited. By
a strange and fortunate coincidence, a turkey had been overlooked
by Mr. Weil when the Government commandeered all live-stock and
food-stuffs at the commencement of the siege, and, in spite of
the grilling heat, we completed our Christmas dinner by a real
English plum-pudding. In the afternoon a tea and Christmas-tree
for the Dutch and English children had been organized by some
officers of the Protectorate Regiment. Amongst those who
contributed to the amusement of these poor little white-faced
things, on whom the close quarters they were obliged to keep was
beginning to tell, none worked harder than Captain Ronald Vernon.
I remember returning to my quarters, after the festivity, with
this officer, and his telling me, in strict confidence, with
eager anticipation, of a sortie that was to be made on the
morrow, with the object of obtaining possession of the Boer gun
at Game Tree Fort, the fire from which had lately been very
disastrous to life and property in the town. He was fated in this
very action to meet his death, and afterwards I vividly recalled
our conversation, and reflected how bitterly disappointed he
would have been had anything occurred to prevent his taking part
in it. The next day, Boxing Day, I shall ever remember as being,
figuratively speaking, as black and dismal as night. I was roused
at 4.30 a.m. by loud cannonading. Remembering Captain Vernon’s
words, I telephoned to Headquarters to ask if the Colonel and
Staff were there. They had all left at 2.30 a.m., so I knew the
projected action was in progress. At five o’clock the firing was
continuous, and the boom of our wretched little guns was mingled
with the rattle of Boer musketry. Every moment it grew
lighter—a beautiful morning, cool and bright, with a gentle
breeze.

In Mr. Wiel’s service was a waiter named Mitchell, a Cockney
to the backbone, and a great character in his way. What had
brought him to South Africa, or how he came to be in Mafeking, I
never discovered; but he was a cheerful individual, absolutely
fearless of shells and bullets. That morning I began to get very
anxious, and Mitchell was also pessimistic. He mounted to the
roof to watch the progress of the fight, and ran down from time
to time with anything but reassuring pieces of intelligence,
asking me at intervals, when the firing was specially fierce:
“Are you scared, lady?” At length he reported that our men were
falling back, and that the ambulances could now be seen at work.
With marvellous courage and coolness, the soldiers had advanced
absolutely to under the walls of the Boer fort, and had found the
latter 8 feet high, with three tiers of loopholes. There it was
that three officers—Captains Vernon, Paton, and
Sandford—were shot down, Captain Fitzclarence having been
previously wounded in the leg, and left on the veldt calling to
his men not to mind him, but to go on, which order they carried
out, nothing daunted by the hail of bullets and the loss of their
officers. Thanks to the marvellous information the Boers
constantly received during the siege, no doubt from the numerous
Dutch spies which were known to be in the town, Game Tree Fort
had been mysteriously strengthened in the night; and, what was
still more significant, the gun had not only been removed, but
General Snyman and Commandment Botha were both on the scene with
reinforcements shortly after our attack commenced, although the
Boer Headquarter camp was fully three miles away. Without
scaling-ladders, it was impossible to mount the walls of the
fort. Our soldiers sullenly turned and walked slowly away, the
idea of running or getting under shelter never even occurring to
them. Had the Boers then had the determination required to come
out of their fort and pursue the retiring men, it is possible
very few would have returned alive; but, marvellous to relate,
and most providentially as we were concerned, no sooner did they
observe our men falling back than they ceased firing, as if
relief at their departure was coupled with the fear of
aggravating the foes and causing a fresh attack. The Boers were
exceedingly kind in picking up our dead and wounded, which were
immediately brought in by the armoured train, and which, alas!
mounted up to a disastrous total in the tiny community which
formed our garrison. No less than twenty-five men were killed,
including three officers; and some twenty or thirty were wounded,
most of them severely. The Boers told the ambulance officers they
were staggered at our men’s pluck, and the Commandant especially
appreciated the gallantry required for such an attack, knowing
full well how difficult it would have been to induce the burghers
to make a similar attempt. About 10 a.m. a rush of people to the
station denoted the arrival of the armoured train and its sad
burden, and then a melancholy procession of stretchers commenced
from the railway, which was just opposite my bomb-proof, to the
hospital. The rest of the day seemed to pass like a sad dream,
and I could hardly realize in particular the death of Captain
Vernon, who had been but a few short hours before so full of
health, spirits, and confidence.

Recognizing what a press of work there would be at the
hospital, I walked up there in the afternoon, and asked to be
made useful. No doubt out of good feeling, the Boers did not
shell at all that day till late evening, but at the hospital all
was sad perturbation. There had only been time to attend to the
worst cases, and the poor nurses were just sitting down to snatch
a hasty meal. The matron asked me if I would undertake the
management of a convalescent home that had to be organized to
make more room for the new patients. Of course I consented, and
by evening we were busy installing sixteen patients in the
railway servants’ institute, near the station. To look after the
inmates were myself, four other ladies, and one partly
professional nurse. We arranged that the latter should attend
every day, and the four ladies each take a day in turn, while I
undertook to be there constantly to order eatables and
superintend the housekeeping. On the first evening, when beds,
crockery, kitchen utensils, and food, all arrived in a medley
from the universal provider, Wiel, great confusion reigned; and
when it was at its height, just as the hospital waggon was
driving up with the patients, “Creechy” sent off one of her
projectiles, which burst with a deafening explosion about a
hundred yards beyond the improvised hospital, having absolutely
whizzed over the approaching ambulance vehicles. The patients
took it most calmly, and were in no way disconcerted. By
Herculean efforts the four ladies and myself got the place
shipshape, and all was finished when the daylight failed. As I
ran back to my quarters, the bugle-call of the “Last Post,”
several times repeated, sounded clear in the still atmosphere of
a calm and beautiful evening, and I knew the last farewells were
being said to the brave men who had gone to their long rest. Of
course Mafeking’s losses on that black Boxing Day were
infinitesimal compared to those attending the terrible struggles
going on in other parts of the country; but, then, it must be
remembered that not only was our garrison a very small one, but
also that, when people are shut up together for months in a
beleaguered town—a handful of English men and women
surrounded by enemies, with even spies in their midst—the
feeling of comradeship and friendship is tremendously
strengthened. Every individual was universally known, and
therefore all the town felt they had lost their own friends, and
mourned them as such.

From that date for three weeks I went daily to the
convalescent home. The short journey there was not totally
without risk, as the enemy, having heard of the foundry where
primitive shells were being manufactured, and which was situated
immediately on the road I had to take, persistently sent their
missiles in this direction, and I had some exciting walks to and
fro, very often alone, but sometimes accompanied by any chance
visitor. One morning Major Tracy and I had just got across the
railway-line, when we heard the loading bell, and immediately
there was a sauve qui pent among all the niggers round us,
who had been but a moment before lolling, sleeping, and joking,
in their usual fashion. Without losing our dignity by joining in
the stampede, we put our best foot forward, and scurried along
the line till we came to some large coal-sheds, where my
companion made me crawl under a very low arch, he mounting guard
outside. In this strange position I remained while the shell came
crashing over us, a bad shot, and continued its course away into
the veldt. Another evening the same officer was escorting me to
the institute, and, as all had been very quiet that afternoon, we
had not taken the precaution of keeping behind the railway
buildings, as was my usual custom. We were in the middle of an
open space, when suddenly an outburst of volleys from the Boer
trenches came as an unpleasant surprise, and the next moment
bullets were falling behind us and even in front of us, their
sharp ring echoing on the tin roofs. On this occasion, as the
volleys continued with unabated vigour, I took to my heels with a
view to seeking shelter; but Major Tracy could not be moved out
of a walk, calling out to me I should probably run into a bullet
whilst trying to avoid it. My one idea being to get through the
zone of fire, I paid no attention to his remonstrances, and soon
reached a safe place. The Boers only learnt these detestable
volleys from our troops, and carried them out indifferently well;
but the possibility of their occurrence, in addition to the
projectiles from “Creechy,” added greatly to the excitement of an
evening stroll, and we had many such episodes when walking abroad
after the heat of the day.

In January, Gordon was laid up by a very sharp attack of
peritonitis, and was in bed for over a week in my bomb-proof, no
other place being safe for an invalid, and the hospital full to
overflowing. When he began to mend, I unfortunately caught a
chill, and a very bad quinsy sore throat supervened. I managed,
however, to go about as usual, but one afternoon, when I was
feeling wretchedly ill, our hospital attendant came rushing in to
say that a shell had almost demolished the convalescent home, and
that, in fact, only the walls were standing. The patients
mercifully had escaped, owing to their all being in the
bomb-proof, but they had to be moved in a great hurry, and were
accommodated in the convent. For weeks past this building had not
been shot at, and it was therefore considered a safe place for
them, as it was hoped the Boer gunners had learned to respect the
hospital, its near neighbour. Owing to the rains having then
begun, and being occasionally very heavy, the bomb-proofs were
becoming unhealthy. My throat was daily getting worse, and the
doctor decided that Gordon and myself had better also be removed
to the convent, hoping that being above-ground might help
recovery in both our cases. There was heavy shelling going on
that afternoon, and the drive to our new quarters, on the most
exposed and extreme edge of the town, was attended with some
excitement. I could scarcely swallow, and Gordon was so weak he
could hardly walk even the short distance we had to compass on
foot. However, we arrived in safety, and were soon made
comfortable in this strange haven of rest.

As I have before written, the convent in Mafeking was from the
commencement of the bombardment picked out by the enemy as a
target, and during the first week it was hit by certainly ten or
twelve projectiles, and reduced more or less to a ruined state.
At no time can the building have laid claims to the picturesque
or the beautiful, but it had one peculiarity—namely, that
of being the only two-storied building in Mafeking, and of
standing out, a gaunt red structure, in front of the hospital,
and absolutely the last building on the north-east side of the
town. It was certainly a landmark for miles, and, but for its
sacred origin and the charitable calling of its occupants, would
have been a fair mark for the enemy’s cannon. Very melancholy was
the appearance it presented, with large gaping apertures in its
walls, with its shattered doors and broken windows; whilst
surrounding it was what had been a promising garden, but had then
become a mere jungle of weeds and thorns. The back of the edifice
comprised below several large living-rooms, over them a row of
tiny cubicles, and was practically undamaged. The eighteen
convalescent patients had been comfortably installed on the
ground-floor, and we had two tiny rooms above. This accommodation
was considered to be practically safe from shells, in spite of
the big gun having been shifted a few days previously, and it
being almost in a line with the convent. On the upper floor of
the eastern side a large room, absolutely riddled with shot and
shell, was formerly occupied as a dormitory by the children of
the convent school. It was now put to a novel use as a temporary
barracks, a watch being always on duty there, and a telescope
installed at the window. Since the nuns left to take up their
abode in a bomb-proof shelter, a Maxim had been placed at one of
the windows, which commanded all the surrounding country; but it
was discreetly covered over, and the window-blind kept closely
drawn to avert suspicion, as it was only to be used in case of
real emergency. To reach our cubicles there was but a single
staircase, which led past this room allotted to the
soldiers—a fact which left an unsatisfactory impression on
my mind, for it was apparent that, were the convent aimed at, to
reach terra-firma we should have to go straight in the direction
of shells or bullets. However, the authorities opined it was all
right; so, feeling very ill, I was only too glad to crawl to bed.
Just as the sun was setting, the soldiers on watch came tearing
down the wooden passage, making an awful clatter, and calling
out: “The gun is pointed on the convent!” As they spoke, the
shell went off, clean over our heads, burying itself in a cloud
of dust close to a herd of cattle half a mile distant. This did
not reassure me, but we hoped it was a chance shot, which might
not occur again, and that it had been provoked by the cattle
grazing so temptingly within range. I must say there was
something very weird and eerie in those long nights spent at the
convent. At first my throat was too painful to enable me to
sleep, and endless did those dreary hours seem. We had supper
usually before seven, in order to take advantage of the fading
daylight, for lights were on no account to be shown at any of the
windows, being almost certain to attract rifle-fire. By eight we
were in total darkness, except for the dim little paraffin
hand-lamp the Sisters kindly lent me, which, for precaution’s
sake, had to be placed on the floor. Extraordinary noises
emanated from those long uncarpeted passages, echoing backwards
and forwards, in the ceiling, till they seemed to pertain to the
world of spirits. The snoring of the men on the relief guard was
like the groans of a dying man, the tread of those on duty like
the march of a mighty army. Then would come intense stillness,
suddenly broken by a volley from the enemy sounding appallingly
near—in reality about a mile off—and provoked,
doubtless, by some very innocent cause. Many of these volleys
were often fired during the night, sometimes for ten minutes
together, at other times singly, at intervals; anon the boom of a
cannon would vary the entertainment. Occasionally, when unable to
sleep, I would creep down the pitch-dark corridor to a room
overlooking the sleeping town and the veldt, the latter so still
and mysterious in the moonlight, and, peeping through a large
jagged hole in the wall caused by a shell, I marvelled to think
of the proximity of our foes in this peaceful landscape. At
length would come the impatiently-longed-for dawn about 4 a.m.;
then the garrison would appear, as it were, to wake up, although
the greater part had probably spent the night faithfully
watching. Long lines of sentries in their drab khaki would pass
the convent on their homeward journey, walking single file in the
deep trench connecting the town with the outposts, and which
formed a practically safe passage from shell and rifle fire. Very
quickly did the day burst on the scene, and a very short time we
had to enjoy those cool, still morning hours or the more
delightful twilight; the sun seemed impatient to get under way
and burn up everything. Of course we had wet mornings and wet
days, but, perhaps fortunately, the rains that year were fairly
moderate, though plentiful enough to have turned the yellow veldt
of the previous autumn into really beautiful long green grass, on
which the half-starved cattle were then thriving and waxing fat.
The view from our tiny bedrooms was very pretty, and the coming
and going of every sort of person in connection with the
convalescent hospital downstairs made the days lively enough, and
compensated for the dreariness of the nights. The splendid air
blowing straight from the free north and from the Kalahari Desert
on the west worked wonders in the way of restoring us to health,
and I began to talk of moving back to my old quarters. I must
confess I was never quite comfortable about the shells, which
seemed so constantly to narrowly miss the building, although the
look-out men always maintained they were aiming at some other
object. One morning I was still in bed, when a stampede of many
feet down the passage warned me our sentinels had had a warning.
Quickly opening my door, I could not help laughing at seeing the
foremost man running down the corridor towards our rooms with the
precious Maxim gun, enveloped in its coat of canvas, in his arms
as if it were a baby. “They’re on us this time,” he called out;
then came a terrific explosion and a crash of some projectile
against the outer walls and doors. The shell had fallen about 40
feet short of the convent, on the edge of the deserted garden.
Many explanations were given to account for this shot, none of
which seemed to me to be very lucid, and I secretly determined to
clear out as soon as the doctor would permit. The very next day
we had the narrowest escape of our lives that it is possible to
imagine. There had been very little shelling, and I had taken my
first outing in the shape of a rickshaw drive during the
afternoon. The sun was setting, and our little supper-table was
already laid at the end of the corridor into which our rooms
opened, close to the window beside which we used to sit. Major
Gould Adams had just dropped in, as he often did, to pay a little
visit before going off to his night duties as Commandant of the
Town Guard, and our repast was in consequence delayed—a
circumstance which certainly helped to save our lives. We were
chatting peacefully, when suddenly I recollect hearing the big
gun’s well-known report, and was just going to remark, “How near
that sounds!” when a terrifying din immediately above our heads
stopped all power of conversation, or even of thought, and the
next instant I was aware that masses of falling brick and masonry
were pushing me out of my chair, and that heavy substances were
falling on my head; then all was darkness and suffocating dust. I
remember distinctly putting my hands clasped above my head to
shelter it, and then my feeling of relief when, in another
instant or two, the bricks ceased to fall. The intense stillness
of my companions next dawned upon me, and a sickening dread
supervened, that one of them must surely be killed. Major Gould
Adams was the first to call out that he was all right; the other
had been so suffocated by gravel and brickdust that it was
several moments before he could speak. In a few minutes dusty
forms and terrified faces appeared through the gloom, as dense as
the thickest London yellow fog, expecting to find three mutilated
corpses. Imagine their amazement at seeing three human beings, in
colour more like Red Indians than any other species, emerge from
the ruins and try to shake themselves free from the all-pervading
dust. The great thing was to get out of the place, as another
shell might follow, the enemy having seen, from the falling
masonry, how efficacious the last had been. So, feeling somewhat
dazed, but really not alarmed, as the whole thing had been too
quick for fear, I groped my way downstairs. Outside we were
surrounded by more frightened people, whom we quickly reassured.
The woman cook, who had been sitting in her bomb-proof, was quite
sure she had been struck, and was calling loudly for
brandy; while the rest of us got some soda-water to wash out our
throats—a necessary precaution as far as I was concerned,
as mine had only the day previously been lanced for quinsy. By
degrees the cloud of dust subsided, and then in the fading light
we saw what an extraordinary escape we had had. The shell had
entered the front wall of the convent, travelled between the iron
roof and the ceiling of the rooms, till it reached a wall about 4
feet from where we were sitting. Against this it had exploded,
making a huge hole in the outside wall and in the other which
separated our passage from a little private chapel. In this
chapel it had also demolished all the sacred images. It was not,
however, till next day, when we returned to examine the scene of
the explosion, that we realized how narrowly we had escaped death
or terrible injuries. Three people had been occupying an area of
not more than 5 feet square; between us was a tiny card-table
laid with our supper, and on this the principal quantity of the
masonry had fallen—certainly 2 tons of red brick and
mortar—shattering it to atoms. If our chairs had been drawn
up to the table, we should probably have been buried beneath this
mass. But our most sensational discovery was the fact that two
enormous pieces of shell, weighing certainly 15 pounds each, were
found touching the legs of my chair, and the smallest tap from
one of these would have prevented our ever seeing another
sunrise. Needless to say, we left our ruined quarters that
evening, and I reposed more peacefully in my bomb-proof than I
had done for many nights past. The air at the convent had
accomplished its healing work. We were both practically
recovered, and we had had a hairbreadth escape; but I was firmly
convinced that an underground chamber is preferable to a
two-storied mansion when a 6-inch 100-pound shell gun, at a
distance of two miles, is bombarding the town you happen to be
residing in.

CHAPTER XII

February came and went without producing very much change in
our circumstances, and yet, somehow, there was a difference
observable as the weeks passed. People looked graver; a tired
expression was to be noted on many hitherto jovial countenances;
the children were paler and more pinched. Apart from the constant
dangers of shells and stray bullets, and the knowledge that, when
we were taking leave of any friend for a few hours, it might be
the last farewell on earth—apart from these facts, which
constituted a constant wear and tear of mind, the impossibility
of making any adequate reply to our enemy’s bombardment gradually
preyed on the garrison. By degrees, also, our extreme isolation
seemed to come home to us, and not a few opined that relief would
probably never come, and that Mafeking would needs have to be
sacrificed for the greater cause of England’s final triumph.
Since Christmas black “runners” had contrived to pass out of the
town with cables, bringing us on their return scrappy news and
very ancient newspapers. For instance, I notice in my diary that
at the end of March we were enchanted to read a Weekly
Times of January 5. On another occasion the Boers vacated
some trenches, which were immediately occupied by our troops, who
there found some Transvaal papers of a fairly recent date, and
actually a copy of the Sketch. I shall never forget how
delighted we were with the latter, and the amusement derived
therefrom compensated us a little for the accounts in the Boer
papers of General Buller’s reverses on the Tugela. About the
middle of February I was enchanted to receive a letter from Mr.
Rhodes, in Kimberley, which I reproduce.

This characteristic epistle seemed a link with the outer
world, and to denote we were not forgotten, even by those in a
somewhat similar plight to ourselves.

The natives and their splendid loyalty were always a source of
interest. Formed into a “cattle guard,” under a white man named
Mackenzie, the young bloods did excellent service, and were a
great annoyance to the Boers by making daring sorties in order to
secure some of the latter’s fat cattle. This particular force
proudly styled itself “Mackenzie’s Black Watch.” There were many
different natives in Mafeking. Besides the Baralongs before
alluded to, we had also the Fingos, a very superior race, and 500
natives belonging to different tribes, who hailed from
Johannesburg, and who had been forcibly driven into the town by
Cronje before the siege commenced. These latter were the ones to
suffer most from hunger, in spite of Government relief and the
fact that they had plenty of money; for they had done most of the
trench-work, and had been well paid. The reason was that they
were strangers to the other natives, who had their own gardens to
supplement their food allowance, and blacks are strangely unkind
and hard to each other, and remain quite unmoved if a (to them)
unknown man dies of starvation, although he be of their own
colour.

The native stadt covered altogether an area of at least a
square mile, and was full of surprises in the shape of pretty
peeps and rural scenery. Little naked children used to play on
the grass, pausing to stare open-eyed at the passer-by, and men
and women sat contentedly gossiping in front of their huts. The
whole gave an impression of prosperity, of waving trees, green
herbage, and running water, and was totally different to the
usual African landscape. To ride or drive through it on a Sunday
was quite a rest, when there was no risk of one’s illusions being
dispelled by abominable shells, whose many visible traces on the
sward, in the shape of deep pear-shaped pits, were all the same
in evidence.

Standing in a commanding position among the thatched houses of
the picturesque native stadt was the Mission Church, of quaint
shape, and built of red brick, the foundation of which had been
laid by Sir Charles Warren in 1884. One Sunday afternoon we
attended service in this edifice, and were immensely struck with
the devotion of the enormous congregation of men and women, who
all followed the service attentively in their books. The singing
was most fervent, but the sermon a little tedious, as the
clergyman preached in English, and his discourse had to be
divided into short sentences, with a long pause between each, to
enable the black interpreter at his side to translate what he
said to his listeners, who simply hung on his words.

All the natives objected most strongly to partaking of horse
soup, supplied by the kitchens, started by the C.O., as they
declared it gave them the same sickness from which the horses in
Africa suffered, and also that it caused their heads to swell.
The authorities were therefore compelled to devise some new food,
and the resourceful genius of a Scotchman introduced a porridge
called “sowens” to the Colonel’s notice. This nutriment, said to
be well known in the North of Scotland, was composed of the meal
which still remained in the oat-husks after they had been ground
for bread and discarded as useless. It was slightly sour, but
very wholesome, and enormously popular with the white and the
black population, especially with the latter, who preferred it to
any other food.

I must now mention the important item of supplies and how they
were eked out. The provisions sent to Mafeking by the Cape
Government before the war were only sufficient to feed 400 men
for a little over a fortnight. At that time a statement was made,
to reassure the inhabitants, that the Cape Ministry held
themselves personally responsible for the security of the railway
in the colony. Providentially, the firm of Weil and Company had
sent vast stores to their depôt in the town on their own
initiative. This firm certainly did not lose financially by their
foresight, but it is a fact that Mafeking without this supply
could have made no resistance whatever. There were 9,000 human
beings to feed, of which 7,000 were natives and 2,000 white
people. It can therefore be imagined that the task of the
D.A.A.G. was not a light one. Up to April the town consumed 4,099
tons of food-stuffs; 12,256 tons of oats, fodder, meal, and
flour; and 930 tons of fuel; making a total of 17,285 tons. Of
matches, the supply of which was soon exhausted, 35,400 boxes
were used, and to take their place tiny paraffin lamps were
supplied to all, which burnt night and day. Fortunately, the
supply of liquid fuel was very large, and it would have taken the
place of coal if the siege had been indefinitely prolonged. Among
miscellaneous articles which were luckily to be obtained at
Weil’s stores were 2 tons of gunpowder and other ammunition, 132
rifles, insulated fuses, and electric dynamos for discharging
mines, etc.

About a month after the siege started, the C.O. placed an
embargo on all food-stuffs, and the distribution of rations
commenced. From then onward special days were allowed for the
sale of luxuries, but always in strictly limited quantities. At
first the rations consisted of 1-1/4 pounds of meat and 1-1/4
pounds of bread, besides tea, coffee, sugar, and rice. As time
went on these were reduced, and towards the end of March we only
had 6 ounces of what was called bread and 1 pound of fresh meat,
when any was killed; otherwise we had to be content with bully
beef. As to the “staff of life,” it became by degrees abominable
and full of foreign substances, which were apt to bring on fits
of choking. In spite of this drawback, there was never a crumb
left, and it was remarkable how little the 6 ounces seemed to
represent, especially to a hungry man in that keen
atmosphere.

One day it was discovered there was little, if any, gold left
of the £8,000 in specie that was lodged at the Standard
Bank at the beginning of the siege. This sum the Boers had at one
time considered was as good as in their pockets. It was believed
the greater portion had since been absorbed by the natives, who
were in the habit of burying the money they received as wages. In
this quandary, Colonel Baden-Powell designed a paper one-pound
note, which was photographed on to thick paper of a bluish tint,
and made such an attractive picture that the Government must have
scored by many of them never being redeemed.

It was not till Ash Wednesday, which fell that year on the
last day of February, that we got our first good news from a
London cable, dated ten days earlier. It told us Kimberley was
relieved, that Colesberg was in our hands, and many other
satisfactory items besides. What was even of greater importance
was a message from Her Majesty Queen Victoria to Colonel
Baden-Powell and his garrison, applauding what they had done, and
bidding them to hope on and wait patiently for relief, which
would surely come. This message gave especial pleasure from its
being couched in the first person, when, as was universally
remarked, the task of sending such congratulations might so
easily have been relegated to one of Her Majesty’s Ministers. I
really think that no one except a shipwrecked mariner, cast away
on a desert island, and suddenly perceiving a friendly sail,
could have followed our feelings of delight on that occasion. We
walked about thinking we must be dreaming, and finding it
difficult to believe that we were in such close contact with home
and friends. In less than ten minutes posters were out, and eager
groups were busy at the street-corners, discussing the news,
scrappy indeed, and terribly deficient in all details, but how
welcome, after all the vague native rumours we had had to
distract us during the past weeks! We were content then to wait
any length of time, and our lives varied very little as the weeks
slipped by. The bombardment was resumed with vigour, and the old
monster gun cruised right round the town and boomed destruction
at us from no less than five different points of vantage. When
the shelling was very heavy, we used to say to ourselves, “What a
good thing they are using up their ammunition!” when again for a
few days it was slack, we were convinced our foes had had bad
news. What matter if our next information was that the Boers had
been seen throwing up their hats and giving vent to other visible
expressions of delight: we had passed a few peaceful hours.

Many casualties continued to take place; some were fatal and
tragic, but many and providential were the escapes recorded.
Among the former, one poor man was blown to bits while sitting
eating his breakfast; but the same day, when a shell landed in or
near a house adjacent to my bomb-proof, it merely took a cage
containing a canary with it through the window, while another
fragment went into a dwelling across the street, and made
mince-meat of a sewing-machine and a new dress on which a young
lady had been busily engaged. She had risen from her pleasant
occupation but three minutes before. The coolness of the
inhabitants, of both sexes, was a source of constant surprise and
admiration to me, and women must always be proud to think that
the wives and daughters of the garrison were just as conspicuous
by their pluck as the defenders themselves. Often of a hot
afternoon, when I was sitting in my bomb-proof, from inclination
as well as from prudence—for it was a far cooler resort
than the stuffy iron-roofed houses—while women and children
were walking about quite unconcernedly outside, I used to hear
the warning bell ring, followed by so much scuffling, screaming,
and giggling, in which were mingled jokes and loud laughter from
the men, that it made me smile as I listened; then, after the
explosion, they would emerge from any improvised shelter and go
gaily on their way, and the clang of the blacksmith’s anvil,
close at hand, would be resumed almost before the noise had
ceased and the dust had subsided. One day a lady was wheeling her
two babies in a mail-cart up and down the wide road, while the
Boers were busily shelling a distant part of the defences. The
children clapped their hands when they heard the peculiar siren
and whistle of the quick-firing Krupp shells, followed by dull
thuds, as they buried themselves in the ground. On my suggesting
to her that it was not a very favourable time to air the
children, she agreed, and said that her husband had just told her
to go home, which she proceeded leisurely to do. Another morning
the cattle near the convent were being energetically shelled, and
later I happened to see the Mother Superior, and commiserated
with her in having been in such a hot corner. “Ah, shure!” said
the plucky Irish lady, “the shells were dhroppin’ all round here;
but they were only nine-pounders, and we don’t take any notice of
them at all.” No words can describe the cheerful, patient
behaviour of those devoted Sisters through the siege. They bore
uncomplainingly all the hardships and discomforts of a flooded
bomb-proof shelter, finally returning to their ruined home with
any temporary makeshifts to keep out the rain; and whereas, from
overwork and depression of spirits, some folks were at times a
little difficult to please, not a word of complaint during all
those months ever came from the ladies of the convent. They
certainly gave an example of practical religion, pluck, charity,
and devotion.

And so the moons waxed and waned, and Mafeking patiently
waited, and, luckily, had every confidence in the resource and
ability of Colonel Baden-Powell. An old cannon had been
discovered, half buried in the native stadt, which was polished
up and named “The Lord Nelson,” from the fact of its antiquity.
For this gun solid cannon-balls were manufactured, and finally
fired off at the nearest Boer trenches; and the first of these to
go bounding along the ground certainly surprised and startled our
foes, which was proved by their quickly moving a part of their
laager. In addition a rough gun, called “The Wolf,” was actually
constructed in Mafeking, which fired an 18-pound shell 4,000
yards. To this feat our men were incited by hearing of the
magnificent weapon which had been cast by the talented workmen of
Kimberley in the De Beers workshops. In spite of there being
nothing but the roughest materials to work with, shells were also
made, and some Boer projectiles which arrived in the town without
exploding were collected, melted down, and hurled once more at
our enemy. Truly, there is no such schoolmaster as necessity.

On Sundays we continued to put away from us the cares and
worries of the week, and the Church services of the various
denominations were crowded, after an hour devoted to very
necessary shopping. During the whole siege the Sunday afternoon
sports on the parade-ground were a most popular institution; when
it was wet, amusing concerts were given instead at the Masonic
Hall. On these occasions Colonel Baden-Powell was the leading
spirit, as well as one of the principal artistes, anon appearing
in an impromptu sketch as “Signor Paderewski,” or, again, as a
coster, and holding the hall entranced or convulsed with
laughter. He was able to assume very various rôles with
“Fregoli-like” rapidity; for one evening, soon after the audience
had dispersed, suddenly there was an alarm of a night attack.
Firing commenced all round the town, which was a most unusual
occurrence for a Sunday night. In an instant the man who had been
masquerading as a buffoon was again the commanding officer, stern
and alert. The tramp of many feet was heard in the streets, which
proved to be the reserve squadron of the Protectorate Regiment,
summoned in haste to headquarters. A Maxim arrived, as by magic,
from somewhere else, the town guard were ordered to their places,
and an A.D.C. was sent to the hall, where a little dance for the
poor overworked hospital nurses was in full swing, abruptly to
break up this pleasant gathering. It only remained for our
defenders to wish the Boers would come on, instead of which the
attack ended in smoke, after two hours’ furious volleying, and by
midnight all was quiet again.

During the latter part of this tedious time Colonel Plumer and
his gallant men were but thirty miles away, having encompassed a
vast stretch of dreary desert from distant Bulawayo. This force
had been “under the stars” since the previous August, and had
braved hardships of heat, fever districts, and flooded rivers,
added to many a brush with the enemy. These trusty friends were
only too anxious to come to our assistance, but a river rolled
between—a river composed of deep fortified trenches, of
modern artillery, and of first-rate marksmen with many Mausers.
One day Colonel Plumer sent in an intrepid scout to consult with
Colonel Baden-Powell. This gentleman had a supreme contempt for
bullets, and certainly did not know the meaning of the word
“fear,” but the bursting shells produced a disagreeable
impression on him. “Does it always go on like that?” he asked,
when he heard the vicious hammer of the enemy’s Maxim. “Yes,”
somebody gloomily answered, “it always goes on like that, till at
length we pretend to like it, and that we should feel dull if it
were silent.”

Although the soldiers in Mafeking were disposed to grumble at
the small part they seemed to be playing in the great tussle in
which England was engaged, the authorities were satisfied that
for so small a town to have kept occupied during the first
critical month of the war 10,000—and at later stages never
less than 2,000—Boers, was in itself no small achievement.
We women always had lots to do. When the hospital work was slack
there were many Union Jacks to be made—a most intricate and
tiresome occupation—and these were distributed among the
various forts. We even had a competition in trimming hats, and a
prize was given to the best specimen as selected by a competent
committee. In the evenings we never failed to receive the
Mafeking evening paper, and were able to puzzle our heads over
its excellent acrostics, besides frequently indulging in a
pleasant game of cards.

In the meantime food was certainly becoming very short, and on
April 3 I cabled to my sister in London as follows: “Breakfast
to-day, horse sausages; lunch, minced mule, curried locusts. All
well.” Occasionally I used to be allowed a tiny white roll for
breakfast, but it had to last for dinner too. Mr. Weil bought the
last remaining turkey for £5, with the intention of giving
a feast on Her Majesty’s birthday, and the precious bird had to
be kept under a Chubb’s lock and key till it was killed. No dogs
or cats were safe, as the Basutos stole them all for food. But
all the while we were well aware our situation might have been
far worse. The rains were over, the climate was glorious, fever
was fast diminishing, and, in spite of experiencing extreme
boredom, we knew that the end of the long lane was surely
coming.

CHAPTER XIII

“The Boers are in the stadt!” Such was the ominous message
that was quickly passed round from mouth to mouth on Saturday
morning, May 12, 1900, as day was breaking. One had to be well
acquainted with the labyrinth of rocks, trees, huts, and cover
generally, of the locality aforementioned, all within a
stone’s-throw of our dwelling, to realize the dread import of
these words.

All the previous week things had been much as usual: inferior
food, and very little of it; divine weather; “bridge” in the
afternoons; and one day exactly like another. Since the departure
of the big gun during the previous month, we had left our
bomb-proofs and lived above-ground. In the early hours of the
morning alluded to came the real event we had been expecting ever
since the beginning of the siege—namely, a Boer attack
under cover of darkness. The moon had just set, and it was
pitch-dark. A fierce fusillade first began from the east, and
when I opened the door on to the stoep the din was terrific,
while swish, swish, came the bullets just beyond the canvas
blinds, nailed to the edge of the verandah to keep off the sun.
Now and then the boom of a small gun varied the noise, but the
rifles never ceased for an instant. To this awe-inspiring tune I
dressed, by the light of a carefully shaded candle, to avoid
giving any mark for our foes. The firing never abated, and I had
a sort of idea that any moment a Dutchman would look in at the
door, for one could not tell from what side the real attack might
be. In various stages of deshabille people were running round the
house seeking for rifles, fowling-pieces, and even sticks, as
weapons of defence. Meanwhile the gloom was still unbroken, but
for the starlight, and it was very cold. The Cockney waiter, who
was such a fund of amusement to me, had dashed off with his rifle
to his redoubt, taking the keys of the house in his pocket, so no
one could get into the dining-room to have coffee, except through
the kitchen window. The two hours of darkness that had to elapse
were the longest I have ever spent. Hurried footsteps passed to
and fro, dark lanterns flashed for an instant, intensifying the
blackness, and all of a sudden the sound I had been waiting for
added to the weird horror of the situation, an alarm bugle,
winding out its tale, clear and true to the farthest byways and
the most remote shanties, followed by our tocsin, the deep-toned
Roman Catholic Church bell, which was the signal that a general
attack was in progress. We caught dim glimpses of the town guard
going to their appointed places in the most orderly manner, and I
remember thinking that where there was no panic there could be
but little danger. An officer of this guard came down the road
and told us all his men had turned out without exception,
including an old fellow of seventy, and stone-deaf, who had been
roused by the rifle-fire, and one minus several fingers recently
blown off by a shell. I went out to the front of the house facing
the stadt, and therefore sheltered from the hail of bullets
coming from the east; and just as we were noticing that objects
could be discerned on the road, that before were invisible,
forked tongues of lurid light shot up into the sky in the
direction where, snug and low by the Malopo River, lay the
natives’ habitations. Even then one did not realize what was
burning, and someone said: “What a big grass fire! It must have
commenced yesterday.” At the same moment faint cries,
unmistakable for Kaffir ejaculations, were borne to us by the
breeze, along with the smell of burning thatch and wood, and the
dread sentence with which I commenced this chapter seemed to grow
in volume, till to one’s excited fancy it became a sort of chant,
to which the yells of the blacks, the unceasing rattle of
musketry, formed an unholy accompaniment. “Hark, what is that?”
was a universal exclamation from the few folk, mostly women,
standing in front of Mr. Weil’s house, as a curious hoarse cheer
arose—not in the stadt, half a mile away, but nearer, close
by, only the other side of the station, where was situated the
B.S.A.P. fort, the headquarters of the officer commanding the
Protectorate Regiment. This so-called fort was in reality an
obsolete old work of the time of Sir Charles Warren’s 1884
expedition, and was but slightly fortified.

The Boers, after setting fire to the stadt, had rushed it,
surprising the occupants; and the horrible noise of their
cheering arose again and again. Then a terrific fusillade broke
out from this new direction, rendering the roadway a place of the
greatest danger. My quarters were evidently getting too hot, and
I knew that Weil’s house and store would be the first objective
of the Boers. I bethought me even novices might be useful in the
hospital, so I decided to proceed there in one way or another.
Although the rifle-fire was slackening towards the east, from the
fort, on the west it was continuing unabated; and the way to the
hospital lay through the most open part of the town. Calling to
our soldier servant of the Royal Horse Guards to accompany me, I
snatched up a few things of value and started off. “You will be
shot, to a certainty,” said Mr. Weil. But it was no use waiting,
as one could not tell what would happen next. The bullets were
fortunately flying high; all the same, we had twice to stop under
a wall and wait for a lull before proceeding. Then I saw a native
boy fall in front of me, and at the same moment I stumbled and
fell heavily, the servant thinking I was hit; and all the while
we could hear frightened cries continuing to emanate from the
flaming stadt.

The day had fully broken, and never had the roads appeared so
white and wide, the sheltering houses so few and far between. At
length we reached the hospital trench, and the last 500 yards of
the journey were accomplished in perfect safety. My dangerous
experiences ended for the rest of that dreadful day, which I
spent in the haven of those walls, sheltering so much suffering,
and that were, alas! by evening crammed to their fullest
capacity. It was a gruesome sight seeing the wounded brought in,
and the blood-stained stretchers carried away empty, when the
occupants had been deposited in the operating-room. Sometimes an
ambulance waggon would arrive with four or five inmates; at
others we descried a stretcher-party moving cautiously across the
recreation-ground towards us with a melancholy load. It is easy
to imagine our feelings of dread and anxiety as we scanned the
features of the new arrivals, never knowing who might be the
next. During the morning three wounded Boers were brought
in—the first prisoners Mafeking could claim; then a native
with his arm shattered to the shoulder. All were skilfully and
carefully attended to by the army surgeon and his staff in a
marvellously short space of time, and comfortably installed in
bed. But the Boers begged not to have sheets, as they had never
seen such things before. Among the English casualties, one case
was a very sad one. A young man, named Hazelrigg, of an old
Leicestershire family, was badly shot in the region of the heart
when taking a message to the B.S.A.P. fort, not knowing the Boers
were in possession. Smart and good-looking, he had only just been
promoted to the post of orderly from being a private in the Cape
Police, into which corps he had previously enlisted, having
failed in his army examination. When brought to the hospital,
Hazelrigg had nearly bled to death, and was dreadfully weak, his
case being evidently hopeless. I sat with him several hours,
putting eau-de-Cologne on his head and brushing away the flies.
In the evening, just before he passed into unconsciousness, he
repeated more than once: “Tell the Colonel, Lady Sarah, I did my
best to give the message, but they got me first.” He died at
dawn.

All through the weary hours of that perfect summer’s day the
rifles never ceased firing. Sometimes a regular fusillade for ten
minutes or so; then, as if tired out, sinking down to a few
single shots, while the siren-like whistle and sharp explosion of
the shells from the high-velocity gun continued intermittently,
and added to the dangers of the streets. So the hours dragged on.
All the time the wildest rumours pervaded the air. Now the Boers
had possession of the whole stadt; again, as soon as night fell,
large reinforcements were to force their way in. Of course we
knew the Colonel was all the while maturing his plans to rid the
town of the unbidden guests, but what these were no one could
tell. About 8 p.m., when we were in the depth of despair, we got
an official message to say that the Boers in the stadt had been
surrounded and taken prisoners, and also that the fort had
surrendered to Colonel Hore, who, with some of his officers, had
been all day in the curious position of captives in their own
barracks. Of course our delight and thankfulness knew no bounds.
In spite of the dead and dying patients, those who were slightly
wounded or convalescent gave a feeble cheer, which was a pathetic
sound. We further heard that the prisoners, in number about a
hundred, including Commandant Eloff, their leader, were then
being marched through the town to the Masonic Hall, followed by a
large crowd of jeering and delighted natives. Two of the nurses
and myself ran over to look at them, and I never saw a more
motley crew. In the dim light of a few oil-lamps they represented
many nationalities, the greater part laughing, joking, and even
singing, the burghers holding themselves somewhat aloof, but the
whole community giving one the idea of a body of men who knew
they had got out of a tight place, and were devoutly thankful
still to have whole skins. Eloff and three principal officers
were accommodated at Mr. Weil’s house, having previously dined
with the Colonel and Staff. At 6 a.m. Sunday morning we were
awakened by three shells bursting close by, one after the other.
I believe no one was more frightened than Eloff; but he told us
that it was a preconcerted signal, and that, if they had been in
possession of the town, they were to have answered by rifle-fire,
when the Boers would have marched in. These proved to be the last
shells that were fired into Mafeking.

The same morning at breakfast I sat opposite to Commandant
Eloff, who was the President’s grandson, and had on my right a
most polite French officer, who could not speak a word of
English, Dutch, or German, so it was difficult to understand how
he made himself understood by his then companions-in-arms. In
strong contrast to this affable and courteous gentleman was
Eloff, of whom we had heard so much as a promising Transvaal
General. A typical Boer of the modern school, with curiously
unkempt hair literally standing on end, light sandy whiskers, and
a small moustache, he was wearing a sullen and dejected
expression on his by no means stupid, but discontented and
unprepossessing, face. This scion of the Kruger family did not
scruple to air his grievances or disclose his plans with regard
to the struggle of the previous day. That he was brilliantly
assisted by the French and German freelances was as surely
demonstrated as the fact of his having been left more or less in
the lurch by his countrymen when they saw that to get into
Mafeking was one thing, but to stay there or get out of it again
was quite a different matter. In a few words he told us, in
fairly good English, how it had been posted up in the laager, “We
leave for Mafeking to-night: we will breakfast at Dixon’s Hotel
to-morrow morning”; how he had sent back to instruct Reuter’s
agent to cable the news that Mafeking had been taken as soon as
the fort was in their hands; how he had left his camp with 400
volunteers, and how, when he had counted them by the light of the
blazing stadt, only 240 remained; moreover, that the 500
additional men who were to push in when the fort was taken
absolutely failed him.^[34] He was also betrayed in
that the arranged forward movement all round the town, which was
to have taken place simultaneously with his attack, was never
made. The burghers instead contented themselves by merely firing
senseless volleys from their trenches, which constituted all the
assistance he actually received. This, and much more, he told us
with bitter emphasis, while the French officer conversed
unconcernedly in the intervals of his discourse about the African
climate, the weather, and the Paris Exhibition; finally observing
with heartfelt emphasis that he wished himself back once more in
“La Belle France,” which he had only left two short months ago.
The Dutchman, not understanding what he was saying, kept on the
thread of his story, interrupting him without any compunction. It
was one of the most curious meals at which I have ever assisted.
That afternoon these officers were removed to safer quarters in
gaol while a house was being prepared for their reception.

As after-events proved, Eloff’s attack was the Boers’ last
card, which they had played when they heard of the approaching
relief column under Colonel Mahon,^[35] and of his intention to
join hands with Colonel Plumer, coming from the North. After
lunch, two days later, we saw clouds of dust to the south, and,
from information to hand, we knew it must be our relievers. The
whole of Mafeking spent hours on the roofs of the houses. In the
meantime the Boers were very uneasy, with many horsemen coming
and going, but the laagers were not being shifted. In the late
afternoon a desultory action commenced, which to us was
desperately exciting. We could see little but shells bursting and
columns of dust. One thing was certain: the Boers were not
running away, although the Colonel declared that our troops had
gained possession of the position the Boers had held, the latter
having fallen a little farther back. As the sun set came a
helio-message: “Diamond Fields Horse.—All well.
Good-night.” We went to dinner at seven, and just as we were
sitting down I heard some feeble cheers. Thinking something must
have happened, I ran to the market-square, and, seeing a dusty
khaki-clad figure whose appearance was unfamiliar to me, I
touched him on the shoulder, and said: “Has anyone come in?” “We
have come in,” he answered—”Major Karri-Davis and eight men
of the Imperial Light Horse.” Then I saw that officer himself,
and he told us that, profiting by an hour’s dusk, they had ridden
straight in before the moon rose, and that they were now sending
back two troopers to tell the column the way was clear. Their
having thus pushed on at once was a lucky inspiration, for, had
they waited for daylight, they would probably have had a hard
fight, even if they had got in at all. This plucky column of
1,100 men had marched nearly 300 miles in twelve days, absolutely
confounding the Boers by their rapidity.

We heard weeks afterwards how that same day of the relief of
Mafeking was celebrated in London with jubilation past belief,
everyone going mad with delight. The original event in the town
itself was a very tame if impressive affair—merely a score
or so of people, singing “Rule, Britannia,” surrounding eight or
nine dust-begrimed figures, each holding a tired and jaded horse,
and a few women on the outskirts of the circle with tears of joy
in their eyes. Needless to say, no one thought of sleep that
night. At 3.30 a.m. someone came and fetched me in a pony-cart,
and we drove out to the polo-ground, where, by brilliant
moonlight, we saw the column come into camp. Strings and strings
of waggons were soon drawn up; next to them black masses, which
were the guns; and beyond these, men, lying down anywhere,
dead-tired, beside their horses. The rest of the night I spent at
the hospital, where they were bringing in those wounded in the
action of the previous afternoon. At eight o’clock we were having
breakfast with Colonel Mahon, Prince Alexander of Teck, Sir John
Willoughby, and Colonel Frank Rhodes, as additional guests. We
had not seen a strange face for eight months, and could do
nothing but stare at them, and I think each one of us felt as if
he or she were in a dream. Our friends told of their wonderful
march, and how they had encamped one night at Setlagoli, where
they had been taken care of by Mrs. Fraser and Metelka, who had
spent the night in cooking for the officers, which fact had
specially delighted Colonel Rhodes, who told me my maid was a
“charming creature.” But this pleasant conversation was
interrupted by a message, saying that, as the Boer laagers were
as intact as yesterday, the artillery were going to bombard them
at once. Those of us who had leisure repaired at once to the
convent, and from there the sight that followed was worth waiting
all these many months to see. First came the splendid batteries
of the Royal Horse Artillery trotting into action, all the
gunners bronzed and bearded. They were followed by the Canadian
Artillery, who had joined Colonel Plumer’s force, and who were
that day horsed with mules out of the Bulawayo coach. These were
galloping, and, considering the distance all had come, both
horses and mules looked wonderfully fit and well. Most of the
former, with the appearance of short-tailed English hunters, were
stepping gaily out. The Imperial Light Horse and the Diamond
Fields Horse, the latter distinguished by feathers in their felt
hats, brought up the procession. Everybody cheered, and not a few
were deeply affected. Personally, ever since, when I see
galloping artillery, that momentous morning is brought back to my
mind, and I feel a choking sensation in my throat.

About a quarter of a mile from town the guns unlimbered, and
we could not help feeling satisfaction at watching the shells
exploding in the laager—that laager we had watched for so
many months, and had never been able to touch. The Boers had
evidently never expected the column to be in the town, or they
would have cleared off. We had a last glimpse of the tarpaulined
waggons, and then the dust hid further developments from sight.
After about thirty minutes the artillery ceased firing, and as
the atmosphere cleared we saw the laager was a desert. Waggons,
horses, and cattle, all had vanished.

After their exertions of the past fortnight, Colonel Mahon did
not consider it wise to pursue the retreating Boers; but later in
the afternoon I went out with others in a cart to where the
laager had been—the first time since December that I had
driven beyond our lines. I had the new experience of seeing a
“loot” in progress. First we met two soldiers driving a cow; then
some more with bulged-out pockets full of live fowls; natives
were staggering under huge loads of food-stuffs, and eating even
as they walked. I was also interested in going into the very room
where General Snyman had treated me so scurvily, and where
everything was in terrible confusion: the floor was littered with
rifles, ammunition, food-stuffs of all sorts, clothes, and
letters. Among the latter some interesting telegrams were found,
including one from the President, of a date three days
previously, informing Snyman that things were most critical, and
that the enemy had occupied Kroonstadt. We were just going on to
the hospital, where I had spent those weary days of imprisonment,
when an officer galloped up and begged me to return to Mafeking,
as some skirmishing was going to commence. It turned out that 500
Boers had stopped just over the ridge to cover their retreating
waggons, but they made no stand, and by evening were miles
away.

On Friday, May 18, the whole garrison turned out to attend a
thanksgiving service in an open space close to the cemetery. They
were drawn up in a three-sided square, which looked pathetically
small. After the service Colonel Baden-Powell walked round and
said a few words to each corps; then three volleys were fired
over the graves of fallen comrades, and the “Last Post” was
played by the buglers, followed by the National Anthem, in which
all joined. It was a simple ceremony, but a very touching one.
The same afternoon Colonel Plumer’s force was inspected by the
Colonel, prior to their departure for the North to repair the
railway-line from Bulawayo. They were striking-looking men in
their campaigning kit, having been in the field since last
August. Some wore shabby khaki jackets and trousers, others
flannel shirts and long boots or putties. However attired, they
were eager once more for the fray, and, moreover, looked fit for
any emergency.

The next few days were a period of intense excitement, and we
were constantly stumbling against friends who had formed part of
the relief column, but of whose presence we were totally unaware.
Letters began to arrive in bulky batches, and one morning I
received no less than 100, some of which bore the date of
September of the year before. My time was divided between eagerly
devouring these missives from home, sending and answering cables
(a telegraph-line to the nearest telephone-office had been
installed), and helping to organize a new hospital in the
school-house, to accommodate the sick and wounded belonging to
Colonel Mahon’s force. All the while my thoughts were occupied by
my return to England and by the question of the surest route to
Cape Town. The railway to the South could not be relaid for
weeks, and, as an alternative, my eyes turned longingly towards
the Transvaal and Pretoria. It must be remembered that we shared
the general opinion that, once Lord Roberts had reached the
latter town, the war would be practically over. How wrong we all
were after-events were to prove, but at the end of May, 1900, it
appeared to many that to drive the 200 miles to Pretoria would be
very little longer, and much more interesting, than to trek to
Kimberley, with Cape Town as the destination. Mrs. Godley (to
whom I have before alluded) had arrived at Mafeking from
Bulawayo, and we agreed to make the attempt, especially as the
Boers in the intervening country were reported to be giving up
their arms and returning to their farms. In the meantime it had
been decided that Colonel Plumer should occupy Zeerust in the
Transvaal, twenty-eight miles from the border, while Colonel
Baden-Powell and his force pushed on to Rustenburg. On May 28
Colonel Mahon and the relief column all departed to rejoin
General Hunter in or near Lichtenburg, and Mafeking was left with
a small garrison to look after the sick and wounded. This town,
so long a theatre of excitement to itself and of interest to the
world at large, then resumed by degrees the sleepy, even tenor of
its ways, which had been so rudely disturbed eight months
before.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER XIV

On Sunday morning, June 4, we packed into a Cape cart, with
four siege horses in fair condition, and started to drive to
Zeerust. It was a glorious day of blue skies and bright sun, with
just enough breeze to prevent the noonday from being too hot. As
we left Mafeking and its outworks behind, I had a curious feeling
of regret and of gratitude to the gallant little town and its
stout citizens: to the former for having been a haven in the
midst of fierce storms during all these months; to the latter for
their stout arms and their brave hearts, which had warded off the
outbursts of the same tempests, whose clouds had hung dark and
lowering on our horizon since the previous October. We also
experienced a wonderful feeling of relief and freedom at being
able to drive at will over the very roads which we had seen
covered by Boer waggons, burghers, and guns, and, needless to
say, we marked with interest the lines of their forts, so
terribly near our little town. We noted the farmhouse lately the
headquarters of General Snyman, standing naked and alone.
Formerly surrounded by a flourishing orchard and a carefully
tended garden, it was now the picture of desolation. The ground
was trampled by many feet of men and horses; straw, forage,
packing-cases, and rubbish of all kinds, were strewn about, and
absolutely hid the soil from view. Away on the hill beyond I
spied the tiny house and hospital where I had spent six weary
nights and days; and between these two buildings a patch of bare
ground nearly half a mile square, indescribably filthy, had been
the site of the white-hooded waggons and ragged tents of the
laager itself. The road was of no interest, merely rolling veldt
with a very few scattered farmhouses, apparently deserted; but
one noticed that rough attempts had been made in the way of
irrigation, and that, as one approached the Transvaal, pools of
water were frequently to be seen.

A shallow ditch was pointed out to us by the driver, as the
boundary between Her Majesty’s colony and the South African
Republic, and after another eight or ten miles we saw a few white
roofs and trees, which proved to be Otto’s Hoep, in the Malmani
Gold District, from which locality great things had been hoped in
bygone days, before the Rand was ever thought of. At the tiny
hotel we found several officers and men of the Imperial Light
Horse, who, warned by a telephone message from Mafeking, had
ordered us an excellent hot lunch. The proprietor, of German
origin, could do nothing but stare at us while we were eating the
meal, apparently amazed at finding his house reopened after so
many months of inactivity, and that people were actually prepared
to pay for what they had. We soon pushed on again, and just after
leaving the hotel a sharp turn brought us to a really wide river,
close to where the Imperial Light Horse were encamped. Our driver
turned the horses’ heads towards it, and without any misgivings
we plunged in. The water grew deeper and deeper, and our thoughts
flew to our portmanteaus, tied on behind, which were practically
submerged. Just then the leaders took it into their heads they
preferred not to go any farther, and forthwith turned round and
faced us. The black coachman, however, did not lose his head, but
pulled the wheelers round also, and we soon found ourselves again
on the same bank from which we had started. Had it not been for a
kind trooper of the Imperial Light Horse, our chances of getting
across would have been nil. This friend in need mounted a loose
horse, and succeeded in coaxing and dragging our recalcitrant
leaders, and forcing them to face the rushing stream. Once again
our portmanteaus had a cold bath, but this time we made a
successful crossing, and went gaily on our way. The road was now
much improved and the country exceedingly pretty. Many snug
little houses, sheltered by rows of cypress, tall eucalyptus and
huge orange-trees laden with yellow fruit, their gardens
intersected by running brooks, appeared on all sides; while in
the distance rose a range of blue hills, at the foot of which we
could perceive the roofs of Zeerust.

As the sun was almost sinking, clouds of dust arose on the
road in front, denoting a large body of men or waggons moving. A
few weeks—nay, days—ago these would have been a
burgher commando; now we knew they were our friends, and
presently we met Major Weston Jarvis and his dust-begrimed
squadron of the Rhodesian Regiment, followed by a large number of
transport waggons, driven cattle, and donkeys. This living
testimony that war was still present in the land only disturbed
the peaceful evening landscape till the long line of dust had
disappeared; then all was stillness and beauty once more. The
young moon came out, the stars twinkled in the dark blue heavens,
and suddenly, below the dim range of hills, shone first one light
and then another; while away to the left, on higher ground,
camp-fires, softened by a halo of white smoke, came into view.
The scene was very picturesque. No cloud obscured the
star-bespangled sky or the crescent of the Queen of the Night.
Still far away, the lights of the little town were a beacon to
guide us. The noise and cries of the camp were carried to us on
the gentlest of night breezes, and, to complete the calm beauty
of the surroundings, the deep, slow chime of a church-bell struck
our ears.

We had reached our destination, and were in a few minutes
driving through the quiet little street, pulling up in front of
the Central Hotel, kept by a colonial Englishman and his wife.
The former had been commandeered twice during the war, but he
hastened to assure us that, though he had been at the laager, and
even in the trenches before Mafeking, he had never let off his
rifle, and had given it up with great pleasure to the English
only the day before. This old-fashioned hostelry was very
comfortable and commodious, with excellent cooking, but it was
not till the next day that we realized how pretty was the town of
Zeerust, and how charmingly situated. The houses, standing back
from the wide road, were surrounded by neat little gardens and
rows of cypresses. Looking down the main street, in either
direction, were purple, tree-covered hills. A stream wound its
way across one end of the highway, and teams of sleepy fat oxen
with bells completed the illusion that we had suddenly been
transported into a town of Northern Italy or of the Lower
Engadine. However, other circumstances contributed to give it an
air of depression and sadness. On the stoeps of the houses were
gathered groups of Dutch women and girls, many of them in deep
mourning, and all looking very miserable, gazing at us with
unfriendly eyes. Fine-looking but shabbily-clad men were to be
met carrying their rifles and bandoliers to the Landrost’s late
office, now occupied by Colonel Plumer and his Staff. Sometimes
they were leading a rough-coated, ill-fed pony, in many cases
their one ewe lamb, which might or might not be required for Her
Majesty’s troops. They walked slowly and dejectedly, though some
took off their hats and gave one a rough “Good-day.” Most of them
had their eyes on the ground and a look of mute despair. Others,
again, looked quite jolly and friendly, calling out a cheery
greeting, for all at that time thought the war was really over. I
was told that what caused them surprise and despair was the fact
of their animals being required by the English: “requisitioned”
was the term used when the owner was on his farm, which meant
that he would receive payment for the property, and was given a
receipt to that effect; “confiscated,” when the burgher was found
absent, which signified he was still on commando. Even in the
former case he gave up his property sadly and reluctantly, amid
the tears and groans of his wife and children, for, judging by
the ways of his own Government, they never expected the paper
receipt would produce any recognition. Many of the cases of these
poor burghers seemed indeed very hard, for it must be remembered
that during the past months of the war all their things had been
used by their own Government for the patriotic cause, and what
still remained to them was then being appropriated by the
English. All along they had been misled and misinformed, for none
of their leaders ever hinted there could be but one end to the
war—namely, the decisive success of the Transvaal Republic.
It made it easy to realize the enormous difficulties that were
connected with what was airily talked of as the “pacification of
the country,” and that those English officers who laboured then,
and for many months afterwards, at this task had just as colossal
and arduous an undertaking as the soldiers under Lord Roberts,
who had gloriously cut their way to Johannesburg and Pretoria.
Someone said to me in Zeerust: “When the English have reached
Pretoria their difficulties will only begin.” In the heyday of
our Relief, and with news of English victories constantly coming
to hand, I thought this gentleman a pessimist; but the subsequent
history of the war, and the many weary months following the
conclusion of peace, proved there was much truth in the above
statement.

Two days later we heard that Lord Roberts had made his formal
entry into Pretoria on June 5, but our journey thither did not
proceed as smoothly as we had hoped. We chartered a Cape cart and
an excellent pair of grey horses, and made our first attempt to
reach Pretoria via the lead-mines, the same route taken by Dr.
Jameson and the Raiders. Here we received a check in the shape of
a letter from General Baden-Powell requesting us not to proceed,
as he had received information that Lord Roberts’s line of
communication had been temporarily interrupted. The weather had
turned exceedingly wet and cold, like an English March or late
autumn, and after two days of inactivity in a damp and gloomy
Dutch farmhouse we were perforce obliged to return to our
original starting-point, Zeerust. A few days later we heard that
Colonel Baden-Powell had occupied Rustenburg, and that the
country between there and Pretoria was clear; so we decided to
make a fresh start, and this time to take the northern and more
mountainous route. We drove through a very pretty country, with
many trees and groves of splendid oranges, and we crossed highly
cultivated valleys, with numerous farms dotted about. All those
we met described themselves as delighted at what they termed the
close of the war, and gave us a rough salutation as we went on
our way, after a friendly chat. Presently we passed an open
trolley with a huge red-cross flag flying, but which appeared to
contain nothing but private luggage, and was followed by a man,
evidently a doctor, driving a one-horse buggy, and wearing an
enormous red-cross badge on his hat. At midday we outspanned to
rest the horses and eat our lunch, and in the afternoon we
crossed the great Marico River, where was situated a deserted and
ruined hotel and store. The road then became so bad that the pace
of our horses scarcely reached five miles an hour, and to obtain
shelter we had to reach Eland’s River before it became quite
dark. A very steep hill had to be climbed, which took us over the
shoulder of the chain of hills, and rumbling slowly down the
other side, with groaning brake and stumbling steeds, we met a
typical Dutch family, evidently trekking back from the laager in
a heavy ox waggon. The sad-looking mother, with three or four
children in ragged clothes, was sitting inside; the father and
the eldest boy were walking beside the oxen. Their apparent
misery was depressing, added to which the day, which all along
had been cold and dismal, now began to close in, and, what was
worse, rain began to fall, which soon grew to be a regular
downpour. At last we could hardly see our grey horses, and every
moment I expected we should drive into one of the many pitfalls
in the shape of big black holes with which the roads in this part
of the Transvaal abounded, and a near acquaintance with any one
of these would certainly have upset the cart. At last we saw
twinkling lights, but we first had to plunge down another
river-bed and ascend a precipitous incline up the opposite bank.
Our horses were by now very tired, and for one moment it seemed
to hang in the balance whether we should roll back into the water
or gain the top. The good animals, however, responded to the
whip, plunged forward, and finally pulled up at a house dimly
outlined in the gloom. In response to our call, a dripping sentry
peered out, and told us it was, as we hoped, Wolhuter’s store,
and that he would call the proprietor. Many minutes elapsed,
during which intense stillness prevailed, seeming to emphasize
how desolate a spot we had reached, and broken only by the splash
of the heavy rain. Then the door opened, and a man appeared to be
coming at last, only to disappear again in order to fetch coat
and umbrella. Eventually it turned out the owner of the house was
a miller, by birth a German, and this gentleman very kindly gave
us a night’s hospitality. He certainly had not expected visitors,
and it took some time to allay his suspicions as to who we were
and what was our business. Accustomed to the universal
hospitality in South Africa, I was somewhat surprised at the
hesitation he showed in asking us into his house, and when we
were admitted he claimed indulgence for any shortcomings by
saying his children were ill. We assured him we should give no
trouble, and we were so wet and cold that any roof and shelter
were a godsend. Just as I was going to bed, my maid came and told
me that, from a conversation she had had with the Kaffir girl,
who seemed to be the only domestic, she gathered that two
children were suffering from an infectious disease, which, in the
absence of any medical man, they had diagnosed as smallpox. To
proceed on our journey was out of the question, but it may be
imagined that we left next morning at the very earliest hour
possible.

This very district round Eland’s River was later the scene of
much fighting, and it was there a few months afterwards that De
la Rey surrounded an English force, who were only rescued in the
nick of time by the arrival of Lord Kitchener. At the date of our
visit, however, all was peaceful, and, but for a few burghers
riding in haste to surrender their arms, not a trace of the enemy
was to be seen.

The next day we reached Rustenburg, where we stayed the night,
and learnt that General Baden-Powell and his Staff had left there
for Pretoria, to confer with Lord Roberts. Our gallant grey
horses were standing the strain well, and the worst roads as well
as the most mountainous country were then behind us; so, without
delay, we continued on the morrow, spending the third night at a
storekeeper’s house at Sterkstrom. Towards the evening of the
fourth day after leaving Zeerust, we entered a long wide valley,
and by degrees overtook vehicles of many lands, wearied
pedestrians, and horsemen—in fact, the inevitable
stragglers denoting the vicinity of a vast army. The valley was
enclosed by moderately high hills, and from their summits we
watched helio messages passing to and fro during all that
beautiful afternoon, while we slowly accomplished the last, but
seemingly endless, miles of our tedious drive. At 5 p.m. we
crawled into the suburbs of the Boer capital, having driven 135
miles with the same horses. The description of Pretoria under
British occupation, and the friends we met there, I must leave to
another chapter.

CHAPTER XV

At Pretoria Mrs. Godley and I found accommodation, not without
some difficulty, at the Grand Hotel. Turned for the moment into a
sort of huge barrack, this was crowded to its utmost capacity.
The polite manager, in his endeavour to find us suitable rooms,
conducted us all over the spacious building, and at last, struck
by a bright thought, threw open the door of an apartment which he
said would be free in a few hours, as the gentleman occupying it
was packing up his belongings preparatory to his departure. Great
was my surprise at discovering in the khaki-clad figure, thus
unceremoniously disturbed in the occupation of stowing away
papers, clothes, and campaigning kit generally, no less a
personage than my nephew, Winston Churchill, who had experienced
such thrilling adventures during the war, the accounts of which
had reached us even in far-away Mafeking. The proprietor was
equally amazed to see me warmly greet the owner of the rooms he
proposed to allot us, and, although Winston postponed his
departure for another twenty-four hours, he gladly gave up part
of his suite for our use, and everything was satisfactorily
arranged.

Good-looking figures in khaki swarmed all over the hotel, and
friends turned up every minute—bearded pards, at whom one
had to look twice before recognizing old acquaintances. No less
than a hundred officers were dining that night in the large
restaurant. Between the newly liberated prisoners and those who
had taken part in the victorious march of Lord Roberts’s army one
heard surprised greetings such as these: “Hallo, old chap! where
were you caught?” or a late-comer would arrive with the remark:
“There has been firing along the outposts all day. I suppose the
beggars have come back.” (I was relieved to hear the outposts
were twelve miles out.) The whole scene was like an act in a
Drury Lane drama, and we strangers seemed to be the appreciative
audience. Accustomed as we were to a very limited circle, it
appeared to us as if all the inhabitants of England had been
transported to Pretoria.

Early next day we drove out to see the departure of General
Baden-Powell^[36] and his Staff, who had been
most warmly received by Lord Roberts, and who, after receiving
his orders, were leaving to rejoin their men at Rustenburg. As an
additional mark of favour, the Commander-in-Chief and his retinue
gave the defender of Mafeking a special send-off, riding with him
and his officers some distance out of the town. This procession
was quite an imposing sight, and was preceded by a company of
turbaned Indians. Presently, riding alongside of General
Baden-Powell, on a small, well-bred Arab, came the hero of a
thousand fights, the man who at an advanced age, and already
crowned with so many laurels, had, in spite of a crushing
bereavement, stepped forward to help his country in the hour of
need. We were delighted when this man of the moment stopped to
speak to us. He certainly seemed surprised at the apparition of
two ladies, and observed that we were very daring, and the first
of our sex to come in. I shall, however, never forget how kindly
he spoke nor the inexpressible sadness of his face. I told him
how quiet everything appeared to be along the road we had taken,
and how civil were all the Boers we had met. At this he turned to
the guest whose departure he was speeding, and said, with a grave
smile, “That is thanks to you, General.” And then the cortege
rode on. On reflection, I decided, rather from what Lord Roberts
had left unsaid than from his actual words, that if we had asked
leave to travel home via Pretoria, it would have been
refused.

The rest of that day and the next we spent in seeing the town
under its new auspices, and it certainly presented far more to
interest a visitor than on the occasion of my last visit in 1896.
In a suburb known as Sunny Side was situated Lord Roberts’s
headquarters, at a house known as the Residency. Close by was a
charming villa inhabited for the nonce by General Brabazon, Lord
Dudley, Mr. John Ward, and Captain W. Bagot. The surroundings of
these dwellings were exceedingly pretty, with shady trees, many
streams, and a background of high hills crowned by forts, which
latter were just visible to the naked eye. From Sunny Side we
were conducted over some of these fortifications: there was
Schantz’s Kop Fort, of very recent construction, and looking to
the uninitiated of tremendous strength, with roomy bomb-proof
shelters. Here a corner of one of the massive entrance pillars
had been sharply severed off by a British lyddite shell. Later we
inspected Kapper Kop Fort, the highest of all, where two British
howitzer guns, firing a 280-pound shell, had found a
resting-place. Surrounded by a moat with a drawbridge, the view
from this fort was magnificent. The Boers were in the act of
making a double-wire entanglement round it, and had evidently
meant to offer there a stubborn resistance, when more prudent
counsels prevailed, and they had left their work half finished,
and decamped, carrying off all their ammunition. In the town
itself General French and his Staff had established themselves at
the Netherlands Club, from which resort the members had been
politely ejected.

To outward appearances, civil as well as military business was
being transacted in Pretoria with perfect smoothness, in spite of
the proximity of the enemy. The yeomanry were acting as police
both there and in Johannesburg. The gaol, of which we had a
glimpse, was crowded with 240 prisoners, but was under the
competent direction of the usual English under-official, who had
been in the service of the Transvaal, and who had quietly stepped
into the shoes of his chief, a Dutchman, when the latter bolted
with Kruger. This prison was where the Raiders and the Reformers
had been in durance vile, and the gallows were pointed out to us
with the remark that, during the last ten years, they had only
been once used, their victim being an Englishman. A Dutchman, who
had been condemned to death during the same period for killing
his wife, had been reprieved.

In the same way the Natal Bank and the Transvaal National Bank
were being supervised by their permanent officials, men who had
been at their posts during the war, and who, although under some
suspicions, had not been removed. At the latter bank the manager
told us how President Kruger had sent his Attorney-General to
fetch the gold in coins and bar just before he left for Delagoa
Bay, and how it was taken away on a trolley. The astute President
actually cheated his people of this bullion, as he had already
forced them to accept paper tokens for the gold, which he then
acquired and removed. We also saw the Raad Saals—especially
interesting from being exactly as they were left after the last
session on May 7—Kruger’s private room, and the Council
Chamber. These latter were fine apartments, recently upholstered
by Maple, and littered with papers, showing every evidence of the
hurried departure of their occupants. Finally, specially
conducted by Winston, we inspected the so-called “Bird-cage,”
where all the English officers had been imprisoned, and the
“Staat Model” School, from where our cicerone had made his
escape. These quarters must have been a particularly disagreeable
and inadequate residence.

After a day in Pretoria we realized that, in spite of the
shops being open and the hotels doing a roaring trade,
notwithstanding the marvellous organization visible on all sides,
events were not altogether satisfactory; and one noted that the
faces of those behind the scenes were grave and serious. Louis
Botha, it was evident, was anything but a defeated foe. This
gentleman had actually been in the capital when the English
entered, and he was then only sixteen miles away. During the
previous week a severe action had been fought with him at Diamond
Hill, where the English casualties had been very heavy. The
accounts of this engagement, as then related, had a touch of
originality. The Commander-in-Chief and Staff went out in a
special train, sending their horses by road, which reminded one
forcibly of a day’s hunting; cab-drivers in the town asked
pedestrians if they would like to drive out and see the fight.
The real affair, however, was grim earnest, and many were the
gallant men who lost their lives on that occasion. All the while
De Wet was enjoying himself to the south by constantly
interrupting the traffic on the railway. No wonder the Generals
were careworn, and it was a relief to meet Lord Stanley,^[37] A.D.C. to Lord Roberts,
with a smiling face, who, with his unfailing spirits, must have
been an invaluable companion to his chief during those trying
weeks. One specially sad feature was the enormous number of sick
in addition to wounded soldiers.

Of the former, at that time, there were over 1,500, and the
recollection of the large numbers buried at Bloemfontein was
still green in everyone’s memory. The origin of all the sickness,
principally enteric, was undoubtedly due to the Paardeberg water
in the first instance, and then to that used at Bloemfontein; for
Pretoria was perfectly healthy—the climate cool, if rainy,
and the water-supply everything that could be desired. As
additional accommodation for these patients, the magnificent and
recently finished Law Courts had been arranged to hold seven or
eight hundred beds. Superintended by Sir William Thompson, this
improvised establishment was attended to by the personnel of the
Irish hospital, and Mr. Guinness was there himself, organizing
their work and doing excellent service.

One evening we were most hospitably entertained to dinner by
Lord Stanley, Captain Fortescue, the Duke of Westminster, and
Winston. As it may be imagined, we heard many interesting details
of the past stages of the war. Winston, even at that early stage
of his career, and although he had been but a short time,
comparatively, with Lord Roberts’s force, had contrived therein
to acquire influence and authority. The “bosses,” doubtless,
disapproved of his free utterances, but he was nevertheless most
amusing to listen to, and a general favourite. The next day we
saw him and the Duke of Westminster off on their way South, and
having fixed my own departure for the following Monday, and seen
most of the sights, I determined to avail myself of an invitation
Captain Laycock, A.D.C. to General French, had given me, and go
to the Netherlands Club in order to peruse the goodly supply of
newspapers and periodicals of which they were the proud
possessors. It was a cold, windy afternoon, and, finding the
front-door locked and no bell visible, I went to one of the long
French windows at the side of the house, through which I could
see a cozy fire glimmering. Perceiving a gentleman sitting in
front of the inviting blaze, I knocked sharply to gain
admittance. On nearer inspection this gentleman proved to be
asleep, and it was some minutes before he got up and revealed
himself as a middle-aged man, strongly built, with slightly grey
hair. For some unknown reason I imagined him to be a Major in a
cavalry regiment, no doubt attached to the Staff, and when, after
rubbing his eyes, he at length opened the window, I apologized
perfunctorily for having disturbed him, adding that I was acting
on Captain Laycock’s suggestion in coming there. In my heart I
hoped he would leave me to the undisturbed perusal of the
literature which I saw on a large centre table. He showed,
however, no signs of taking his departure, and made himself so
agreeable that I was perforce obliged to continue the
conversation he commenced. I told him of the Mafeking siege,
giving him my opinion of the Boers as opponents and of their
peculiarities as we had experienced them; also of how, in the
west and north, the enemy seemed to have practically disappeared.
Presently, by way of politeness, I asked him in what part of the
country, and under which General, he had been fighting. He
answered evasively that he had been knocking about, under several
commanders, pretty well all over the place, which reply left me
more mystified than ever. Soon Captain Laycock came in, and after
a little more talk, during which I could see that he and my new
acquaintance were on the best of terms, the latter went out,
expressing a hope I should stay to tea, which I thought
exceedingly kind of him, but scarcely necessary, as I was Captain
Laycock’s guest. When he had gone, I questioned the latter as to
the identity of his friend, and was horrified to learn that it
was General French himself whom I had so unceremoniously
disturbed, and to whom I had volunteered information. When the
General returned with some more of his Staff, including Lord
Brooke, Colonel Douglas Haig,^[38] Mr. Brinsley Fitzgerald,
and Mr. Brinton, 2nd Life Guards,^[39] I was profuse in my
apologies, which he promptly cut short by asking me to make the
tea, and we had a most cheery meal, interspersed with a good deal
of chaff, one of his friends remarking to me that it was probably
the only occasion during the last six months in South Africa that
General French had been caught asleep.

The following day, Sunday, we attended a very impressive
military service, at which Lord Roberts and his Staff, in full
uniform, were present, and at the conclusion the whole
congregation sang the National Anthem with the organ
accompaniment. The volume of sound, together with the well-loved
tune, was one not soon to be forgotten.

In the evening I had a visit from a stranger, who announced
himself to be Mr. Barnes, correspondent to the Daily Mail.
This gentleman handed me a letter from my sister, Lady Georgiana
Curzon, dated Christmas Day of the previous year, which had at
last reached me under peculiar circumstances. It appeared that,
when my resourceful sister heard I had been taken prisoner by the
Boers, she decided the best way of communicating with me would be
through the President of the South African Republic, via Delagoa
Bay. She had therefore written him a letter as follows:

In this letter was enclosed the one now handed to me by Mr.
Barnes. The President, in the novel experience of receiving a
letter from an English lady, had sent for the American Consul,
and had handed him both epistles without a remark of any kind,
beyond asking him to deal with them. Thus the missive finally
reached its destination. This visitor had hardly departed when
another was announced in the person of a Dr. Scholtz, whom, with
his wife, I had met at Groot Schuurr as Mr. Rhodes’s friends.
This gentleman, who is since dead, had always seemed to me
somewhat of an enigmatical personage. German by origin, he
combined strong sympathies with the Boers and fervent
Imperialism, and I was therefore always a little doubtful as to
his real sentiments. He came very kindly on this occasion to pay
a friendly call, but also to inform me that he was playing a
prominent part in the abortive peace negotiations which at that
stage of the war were being freely talked about. Whether he had
acted on his own initiative, or whether he had actually been
employed by the authorities, he did not state; but he seemed to
be full of importance, and proud of the fact that he had spent
two hours only a few days before on a kopje in conference with
Louis Botha, while the same kopje was being energetically shelled
by the English. He gave me, indeed, to understand that the
successful issue of the interview had depended entirely on the
amount the English Government was prepared to pay, and that
another £2,000,000 would have ended the war then and there.
He probably did not enjoy the full confidence of either side, and
I never verified the truth of his statements, which were as
strange and mysterious as the man himself, whom, as events turned
out, I never saw again.

It had been difficult to reach Pretoria, but the departure
therefrom was attended by many formalities, and I had to provide
myself, amongst other permits, with a railway pass, which ran as
follows:

Everything being then pronounced in order, I said good-bye to
Mrs. Godley, who was returning by road to Zeerust and Mafeking,
and, accompanied by Captain Seymour Fortescue, who had a few
days’ leave, and by Major Bobby White, I left on June 25 for
Johannesburg. The train was painfully slow, and rarely attained a
speed of more than five or six miles an hour. At Elandsfontein
the engine gave out entirely, and a long delay ensued while
another was being procured. At all the stations were small camps
and pickets of bronzed and bearded soldiers, and on the platforms
could be seen many officers newly arrived from England,
distinguished by their brand-new uniforms, nearly all carrying
the inevitable Kodak. At length we arrived at Johannesburg as the
daylight was fading, and found excellent accommodation at Heath’s
Hotel. In the “Golden City,” as at Pretoria, the shops were open,
and seemed wonderfully well supplied, butter and cigarettes being
the only items that were lacking. I remember lunching the next
day at a grill-room, called Frascati’s, underground, where the
cuisine was first-rate, and which was crowded with civilians of
many nationalities, soldiers not being in such prominence as at
Pretoria. The afternoon we devoted to seeing some of the
principal mines, including the Ferreira Deep, which had been
worked by the Transvaal Government for the last eight months. For
this purpose they had engaged capable managers from France and
Germany, and therefore the machinery was in no way damaged. At a
dinner-party the same evening, given by Mr. A. Goldmann, we met a
German gentleman who gave an amusing account of the way in which
some of the city financiers had dashed off to the small banks a
few days before Lord Roberts’s entry, when the report was rife
that Kruger was going to seize all the gold at Johannesburg as
well as that at Pretoria. They were soon seen emerging with bags
of sovereigns on their backs, which they first carried to the
National Bank, but which, on second thoughts, they reclaimed
again, finally confiding their treasure to the Banque de la
France.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER XVI

On June 27 I left Johannesburg under the escort of Major Bobby
White, who had kindly promised to see me safely as far as Cape
Town. We travelled in a shabby third-class carriage, the only one
on the train, which was merely composed of open trucks. Our first
long delay was at Elandsfontein, practically still in the Rand
District. There the officer in charge came up with the pleasing
intelligence that the train we were to join had broken down, and
would certainly be four hours late; so we had to get through a
very weary wait at this most unattractive little township, whose
only interesting features were the distant chimneys and unsightly
shafts of the Simmer and Jack and the Rose Deep Mines, and far
away, on the horizon, the little white house, amid a grove of
trees, which had been Lord Roberts’s headquarters barely a month
ago, and from which he had sent the summons to Johannesburg to
surrender. All around, indeed, was the scene of recent fighting,
and various polite transport officers tried to while away the
tedium of our enforced delay by pointing out various faint
ridges, and explaining that there the Gordons had made
their splendid charge, or, again, that farther back General
French had encountered such a stubborn resistance, and so on,
ad libitum. In response I gazed with enthusiastic
interest, but the flat, hideous country, which guards its deeply
buried treasure so closely, seemed so alike in every direction,
and the operations of the victorious army covered so wide an
area, that it was difficult to make a brain picture of that rapid
succession of feats of arms. At the station itself the “Tommys”
buzzed about like bees, and the officers were having tea or
dinner, or both combined, in the refreshment-room. One overheard
scraps of conversation, from a subaltern to his superior officer:
“A capital bag to-day, sir. Forty Mausers and ten thousand rounds
of ammunition.” Then someone else remarked that a railway-train
from the South passed yesterday, riddled with bullets, and
recounted the marvellous escape its occupants had had, which was
not encouraging in view of our intended journey over the same
route. A young man in uniform presently entered with a limp, and,
in answer to inquiries, said his wounded leg was doing famously,
adding that the bullet had taken exactly the same course as the
one did not six weeks ago—only then it had affected the
other knee; “so I knew how to treat it, and I am off to the
Yeomanry Hospital, if they will have me. I only left there a
fortnight ago, and, by Jove! it was like leaving Paradise!”
Another arrival came along saying the Boers had received a proper
punishing for their last depredations on the railway, when De Wet
had brought off his crowning coup by destroying the
mail-bags. But this gentleman had hardly finished his tale when a
decided stir was observable, and we heard a wire was to hand
saying the same De Wet was again on the move, and that a strong
force of men and guns were to leave for the scene of action by
our train to-night. At this juncture, seeing there was no
prospect of any immediate departure, I installed myself
comfortably with a book in the waiting-room, and was so absorbed
that I did not even notice the arrival of a train from
Heidelberg, till the door opened, and my nephew, the Duke of
Marlborough, looked in, and we exchanged a surprised greeting,
being totally unaware of each other’s whereabouts. Except for
meeting Winston in Pretoria, I had not seen the face of one of my
relations for more than a year, but so many surprising things
happen in wartime that we did not evince any great astonishment
at this strange and unexpected meeting. In answer to my inquiries
as to what brought him there, he told me he was returning to
Pretoria with his temporarily incapacitated chief, General Ian
Hamilton, who was suffering from a broken collar-bone, incurred
by a fall from his horse. Expecting to find the General in a
smart ambulance carriage, it was somewhat of a shock to be guided
to a very dilapidated old cattle-truck, with open sides and a
floor covered with hay. I peeped in, and extended on a rough
couch in the farther corner, I perceived the successful General,
whose name was in everybody’s mouth. In spite of his unlucky
accident, he was full of life and spirits, and we had quite a
long conversation. I have since often told him how interesting
was his appearance, and he, in reply, has assured me how much he
was impressed by a blue bird’s-eye cotton dress I was wearing,
the like of which he had not seen since he left England, many
months before. His train soon rumbled on, and then we had a snug
little dinner in the ladies’ waiting-room that the
Station-Commandant, a gallant and hospitable Major, had made gay
with trophies, photographs, and coloured pictures out of various
journals. From a deep recess under his bed he produced an
excellent bottle of claret, and the rest of the dinner was
supplied from the restaurant.

The short African winter’s day had faded into a blue and
luminous night, resplendent with stars, and still our belated
train tarried. However, the situation was improved, for later
advices stated that the Boers had cleared off from the vicinity
of the railway-line, and that we should surely leave before
midnight. All these rumours certainly added to the excitement of
a railway-journey, and it occurred to me how tame in comparison
would be the ordinary departure of the “Flying Scotsman,” or any
other of the same tribe that nightly leave the great London
termini.

At length, with many a puff and agonized groan from the poor
little undersized engine, we departed into the dim, mysterious
night, which hourly became more chill, and which promised a sharp
frost before morning. As we crawled out of the station, our kind
military friends saluted, and wished us, a little ironically, a
pleasant journey. When I was about to seek repose, Major White
looked in, and said: “Sleep with your head away from the window,
in case of a stray shot”; and then I turned down the light, and
was soon in the land of dreams.

The much-dreaded night passed quite quietly, and in the
morning the carriage windows were thickly coated with several
degrees of frost. The engines of the Netherlands Railway, always
small and weak, were at that time so dirty from neglect and
overpressure during the war, that their pace was but a slow
crawl, and uphill they almost died away to nothing. However,
fortunately, going south meant going downhill, and we made good
progress over the flat uninteresting country, which, in view of
recent events, proved worthy of careful attention. Already
melancholy landmarks of the march of the great army lay on each
side of the line in the shape of carcasses of horses, mules, and
oxen. Wolvehoek was the first stop. Here blue-nosed soldiers
descended from the railway-carriages in varied and weird
costumes, making a rush with their billies^[40] for hot water, wherewith to
cook their morning coffee, cheerily laughing and cracking their
jokes, while shivering natives in blankets and tattered overcoats
waited hungrily about for a job or scraps of food. After leaving
Wolvehoek, we entered on Commandant De Wet’s hunting-ground and
the scene of his recent exploits. There, at almost every culvert,
at every ganger’s house, were pickets of soldiers, all gathered
round a crackling fire at that chill morning hour; and at every
one of these posts freshly constructed works of sandbags and deep
trenches were in evidence to denote that their sentry work was no
play, but grim earnest.

We next crossed the Rhenoster Spruit, and passed the then
famous Rhenoster position, so formidable even to the unskilled
eye, and where my military friends told me the Boers would have
given much trouble, had it not been for the two outspread wings
of the Commander-in-Chief’s army. A little farther on, the
deviation line and the railway-bridge were pointed out as one of
the many triumphs of engineering skill to be seen and marvelled
at on that recently restored line. The achievements of these
lion-hearted engineers could not fail to impress themselves even
on a civilian. Many amongst them were volunteers, who had
previously occupied brilliant positions in the great mining
community in Johannesburg, and whose brains were the pride of a
circle where intellectual achievements and persevering resource
commanded at once the greatest respect and the highest
remuneration. Some of these latter had family ties besides their
considerable positions, but they gladly hastened to place their
valuable services at the disposal of their Queen, and, in
conjunction with the regular Royal Engineers, were destined to
find glory, and in many cases death, at their perilous work. The
task of the engineers is probably scarcely realized by people who
have not seen actual warfare. We do not read so frequently of
their doings as of those of their gallant colleagues on foot or
on horse; but soldiers know that neither the genius of the
Generals nor the intrepidity of the men could avail without them;
and as the scouts are called the eyes, so might the engineers,
both regular and volunteer, be termed the hands and feet, of an
advancing force. The host sweeps on, and the workers are left
with pickaxe and shovel, rifles close at hand, to work at their
laborious task loyally and patiently, while deeds of courage and
daring are being done and applauded not many miles away from
them. This particular Rhenoster bridge was destroyed and rebuilt
no less than three times up to the date of which I write, and the
third time was only ten days previously, when Christian De Wet
had also worked havoc among the mail-bags, the only cruel thing
attributed to that commander, respected both by friends and foes.
The sad, dumb testimony of this lamented misfortune was to be
seen in the shape of thousands of mutilated envelopes and torn
letters which covered the rails and the ground
beyond—letters which would have brought joy to many a
lonely heart at the front. It was really heartbreaking to behold
this melancholy remnant of 1,500 mail-bags, and, a little farther
on, to see three skeleton trucks charred by fire, which told how
the warm clothing destined for the troops perished when De Wet
and his burghers had taken all they needed. Many yarns were
related to me about the chivalry of this farmer-General,
especially respecting the mail-bags, and how he said that his
burghers should not make fun of the English officers’ letters,
and therefore that he burnt them with his own hands. Another
anecdote was remarkable—namely, that of an officer
searching sadly among the heap of debris for some eagerly
expected letter, and who came across an uninjured envelope
directed to himself, containing his bank-book from Messrs. Cox
and Sons, absolutely intact and untouched. It can only be
conjectured whether he would as soon have known it in ashes.

On arriving in the vicinity of Kroonstadt, the most risky part
of the journey was over, and then a wonderfully novel scene
unfolded itself as we crawled over a rise from the desolate,
barren country we had been traversing, and a tented city lay in
front of us. Anyway, such was its appearance at a first glance,
for white tents stretched far away east and west, and appeared to
swamp into insignificance the unpretentious houses, and even a
fairly imposing church-spire which lay in the background. I had
never seen anything like this vast army depôt, and examined
everything with the greatest attention and interest. Huge
mountains of forage covered by tarpaulin sheets were the first
things to catch my eye; then piles upon piles of wooden cases
were pointed out as “rations”—that mysterious term which
implies so much and may mean so little; again, there was a
hillock of wicker-covered bottles with handles which puzzled me,
and which were explained as “cordials” of some kind. Powerful
traction-engines, at rest and in motion, next came into sight,
and weird objects that looked like lifeboats mounted on trucks,
but which proved to be pontoons—strange articles to
perceive at a railway-station. Then we passed a vast concourse of
red-cross tents of every description, proclaiming a hospital. As
far as outward appearances went, it looked most beautifully
arranged in symmetrically laid-out streets, while many of the
marquees had their sides thrown back, and showed the patients
within, either in bed or sitting about and enjoying the breeze
and the rays of a sun never too hot at that time of year. “How
happy and comfortable they look!” was my remark as we left them
behind. Someone who knew Kroonstadt said: “Yes, they are all
right; but the Scotch Hospital is the one to see if you are
staying long enough—spring-beds, writing-tables, and every
luxury.” I was sorry time admitted of no visit to this
establishment or to the magnificent Yeomanry Hospital at
Deelfontein, farther south, to which I shall have occasion to
allude in a later chapter. This last establishment was, even at
that early stage of the war, a household word among the soldiers
at the front, a dearly longed-for Mecca amongst the sick and
wounded.

Our train had come to an abrupt standstill, and, on looking
out, the line appeared so hopelessly blocked that the only way of
reaching the station and lunch appeared to be on foot. We walked,
therefore, upwards of half a mile, undergoing many perils from
shunting engines, trains undecided whether to go on or to go
back, and general confusion. It certainly did not look as if our
train could be extricated for hours, but it proved there was
method in this apparent muddle, and we suffered no delay worth
speaking of. The station was densely packed with Staff officers
and soldiers. Presently someone elbowed a way through the crowd
to make way for the General, just arrived from Bloemfontein. A
momentary interest was roused as an elderly, soldierly gentleman,
with white hair and a slight figure, passed out of sight into one
of the officials’ rooms, and then we joined the throng trying to
get food in the overtaxed refreshment-room. We had some
interesting conversation with the officer in command of the
station, and learnt how the Kroonstadt garrison were even then
living in the midst of daily alarms from De Wet or his followers;
added to these excitements, there was a colossal amount of work
to be got through in the way of supplying Pretoria with food, by
a line liable to be interrupted, and in coping with the task of
receiving and unloading remounts, which were arriving from the
South in large numbers. I saw some of these poor animals packed
nine in a truck, marvellously quiet, and unmindful of strange
sights and sounds, and of being hurled against each other when
the locomotive jerked on or came to a stop. They were in good
condition, but their eyes were sad and their tails were woefully
rubbed. After seeing Kroonstadt Railway-station, I realized that
the work of a Staff officer on the lines of communication was no
sinecure.

Marvellous to relate, in the early afternoon we found our
train in the station, and, climbing into our carriage once more,
we proceeded on our road without delay, congratulating ourselves
on our good fortune in not being held up at Kroonstadt, as had
been the fate of many travellers going south. Immediately south
of Kroonstadt we crossed the Vaal River, with its fine high-level
bridge reduced to atoms by dynamite. This had given the engineers
another opportunity to display their skill by a clever deviation
of a couple of miles in length, winding down almost to the
water-level, and then serenely effecting the crossing by a little
wooden bridge, from which its ruined predecessor was visible
about a quarter of a mile up the stream. Darkness and approaching
night then hid the landscape. That evening we were told we need
have no fears, for we were practically out of the dangerous zone.
We dined comfortably in our compartment, and I heard many more
reminiscences of the advance from two travelling companions who
had taken part in it. Suddenly in the next compartment a party of
Canadian officers commenced singing part-songs with real musical
talent. We relapsed into silence as we heard the “Swanee River”
sung more effectively than I have ever heard it before or since,
and it reminded me that we, too, were going home. Presently we
found ourselves joining in the chorus of that most touching
melody, “Going back to Dixie,” greatly to the delight of our
sociable and talented neighbours. Daylight next morning brought
us to Bloemfontein and civilization, and what impressed me most
was the fact of daily newspapers being sold at a bookstall, which
sight I had not seen for many months. On arriving at Cape Town, I
was most hospitably entertained at Groot Schuurr by Colonel Frank
Rhodes, in the absence of his brother. This mansion had been a
convalescent home for many officers ever since the war began.
There I passed a busy ten days in seeing heaps of friends, and I
had several interviews with Sir Alfred Milner, to whom events of
the siege and relief of Mafeking were of specially deep interest.
I gave him as a memento a small Mauser bullet mounted as a
scarf-pin, and before leaving for England I received from him the
following letter:

“How very kind of you to think of giving me that interesting
relic of Mafeking! It will indeed revive memories of anxiety, as
well as of the intensest feeling of relief and thankfulness that
I have ever experienced.

“Hoping we shall meet again when ‘distress and strain are
over,’

Much of my time was also occupied in corresponding with
Mafeking about the distribution of the fund which was being
energetically collected in London by my sister, Lady Georgiana
Curzon. Many weeks before we were relieved I had written to Lady
Georgiana, then hard at work with the organization of the
Yeomanry Hospital, suggesting to her to start a relief fund for
the inhabitants of Mafeking. It had all along seemed to me that
these latter deserved some substantial recognition and
compensation beyond what they could expect from the Government,
for damage done to their homes and their shops, and for the utter
stagnation of the trade in the town during the siege. The nurses,
the nuns and their convent, were also worthy objects for charity.
This latter residence, but lately built, and including a nicely
decorated chapel with many sacred images, had been, as I have
said, practically destroyed; and the Sisters had borne their part
most nobly, in nursing the sick and wounded, while many were
suffering in health from the privations they had undergone. In
response to my appeal, Lady Georgiana inserted the following
letter in the Times just before the news of the Relief
reached England:

“I venture to address an appeal to the people of the United
Kingdom, through the columns of your paper, on behalf of the
inhabitants of Mafeking. Nothing but absolute knowledge of their
sufferings prompts me to thus inaugurate another fund, and one
which must come in addition to the numerous subscriptions already
started in connection with the South African War. I admit the
generous philanthropy of our country has been evinced to a degree
that is almost inconceivable, and I hesitate even now in making
this fresh appeal, but can only plead as an excuse the
heartrending accounts of the sufferings of Mafeking that I have
received from my sister, Lady Sarah Wilson.

“The last mail from South Africa brought me a letter from her,
dated March 3. In it she implores me to take active measures to
bring before the generous British public the destitute condition
of the nuns, refugees, and civilians generally, in Mafeking. She
writes with authority, having witnessed their sufferings herself,
and, indeed, having shared equally with them the anxieties and
privations of this prolonged siege. Her letter describes the
absolute ruin of all the small tradespeople, whose homes are in
many cases demolished. The compensation they will receive for
damaged goods will be totally inadequate to cover their loss.
Years must pass ere their trade can be restored to the
proportions of a livelihood. Meanwhile starvation in the
immediate future lies before them. The unfortunate Sisters in the
convent have for weeks hardly had a roof over their heads, the
Boer shells having more or less destroyed their home. In
consequence, their belongings left intact by shot or shell have
been ruined by rain. The destruction of their small and humble
properties, in addition to their discomfort, has added to their
misery; and yet no complaining word has passed their lips, but
they have throughout cheerfully and willingly assisted the
hospital nurses in their duties, always having smiles and
encouraging words for the sick and wounded.

“Sitting at home in our comfortable houses, it is hard to
realize the actual sufferings of these besieged inhabitants of
Mafeking. My letter tells me that for months they have not slept
in their beds, and although no opposition to the Boer forces in
the first instance would have saved their town, their properties,
and in many cases their lives, yet they one and all bravely and
nobly ‘buckled to,’ and stood by that gallant commander,
Baden-Powell. Loyalty was their cry, and freedom and justice
their household gods. Have not their courage and endurance
thrilled the whole world? I feel I need not ask forgiveness for
issuing yet this one more appeal. It comes last, but is it least?
A handful of soldiers, nearly all colonials, under a man who must
now rank as a great and tried commander, have for six months
repelled the Boer attacks. Could this small force have for one
moment been a match for the well-equipped besiegers if the
inhabitants had not fought for and with the garrison? Some worked
and fought in actual trenches; others demonstrated by patient
endurance their cool and courageous determination never to give
in. Would it not be a graceful recognition of their courage if,
on that glorious day, which we hope may not be far distant, when
the relief of Mafeking is flashed across thousands of miles to
the ‘heart of the Empire,’ we could cable back our
congratulations on their freedom, and inform Mafeking that a
large sum of money is ready to be placed by this country for the
relief of distress amongst the Sisters, refugees, and suffering
civilians of the town?

“I feel I shall not ask in vain, but that our congratulations
to Mafeking will take most material form by generous admirers in
the United Kingdom.

“Subscriptions will be received by Messrs. Hoare and Co.,
bankers, Fleet Street, E.C.

The fund had reached unhoped-for proportions. In our most
optimistic moments we did not expect to collect more than two or
three thousand pounds, but subscriptions had poured in from the
very commencement, and the grand amount of £29,267 was
finally the total contributed. This sum was ably administered by
Colonel Vyvyan of the Buffs, who had been Base-Commandant of
Mafeking during the siege. He was assisted by a committee, and
the principal items allocated by these gentlemen were as
follows:

Lady Georgiana Curzon’s eloquent appeal proved to be the
salvation of many a family in Mafeking.

The popularity of the fund was enormously helped by the
interest of the then Prince and Princess of Wales, now our King
and Queen, in the town and in the assistance of the same. This
interest was evinced by the following letters, given to me later
by my sister:

“The Princess and I thank you very much for sending your
sister’s letters for us to read. They are most interesting, and
admirably written. She has certainly gone through experiences
which ought to last her a lifetime! If the papers are correct in
stating that you start on Saturday for Madeira to meet her, let
me wish you bon voyage.

The Princess of Wales had already written as
follows:

“I saw in yesterday’s Times your touching appeal for
poor, unfortunate, forsaken Mafeking, in which I have taken the
liveliest interest during all these months of patient and brave
endurance. I have therefore great pleasure in enclosing
£100 for the benefit of the poor nuns and other
inhabitants. I hope very soon, however, they will be relieved,
and I trust poor sister Sarah will be none the worse for all she
has gone through during her forced captivity. Many thanks for
sending me that beautifully drawn-up report of your Yeomanry
Hospital. How well you have explained everything! Hoping to meet
soon,

Some fourteen months after my return home a Gazette
appeared with the awards gained during the early part of the war,
and great was my delight to find I had been selected for the
coveted distinction of the Royal Red Cross. The King had
previously nominated Lady Georgiana Curzon and myself to be
Ladies of Grace of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, which
entitles its members to wear a very effective enamel locket on a
black bow; but, next to the Red Cross, the medal which I prize
most highly is the same which the soldiers received for service
in South Africa, with the well-known blue and orange striped
ribbon. This medal was given to the professional nurses who were
in South Africa, but I think I was, with one other exception, the
only amateur to receive it, and very unworthy I felt myself when
I went to St. James’s Palace with all the gallant and skilful
sisterhood of army nurses to share with them the great honour of
receiving the same from His Majesty in person.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER XVII

On the pages of history is recorded in golden letters the name
and deeds of Florence Nightingale, who, as the pioneer of
scientific hospital nursing, did so much to mitigate the horrors
of war. Her example was nobly followed half a century later by
two other English ladies, who, although they had not to encounter
the desperate odds connected with ignorance and old-fashioned
ideas which Miss Nightingale successfully combated, did
marvellous service by displaying what private enterprise can do
in a national emergency—an emergency with which, in its
suddenness, gravity, and scope, no Government could have hoped to
deal successfully. I must go back to the winter of 1899 to call
their great work to mind. War had already been waging some weeks
in South Africa when the Government’s proclamation was issued
calling for volunteers from the yeomanry for active service at
the front, and the lightning response that came to this appeal
from all quarters and from all grades was the silver lining
shining brightly through the black clouds that hovered over the
British Empire during that dread winter. Thus the loyalty of the
men of Britain was proven, and among the women who yearned to be
up and doing were Lady Georgiana Curzon and Lady Chesham. Not
theirs was the sentiment that “men must work and women must
weep”; to them it seemed but right that they should take their
share of the nation’s burden, and, as they could not fight, they
could, and did, work.

Filled with pity for all who were so gallantly fighting at the
seat of war, it was the yeomen—called suddenly from
peaceful pursuits to serve their country in her day of
distress—who claimed their deepest sympathies, and, with
the object of establishing a hospital for this force at the
front, Lady Georgiana Curzon and Lady Chesham, on December 29,
1899, appealed to the British public for subscriptions. The
result far exceeded their expectations, and every post brought
generous donations in cash and in kind. Even the children
contributed eagerly to the Yeomen’s Fund, and one poor woman gave
a shilling towards the cost of providing a bed in the hospital,
“in case her son might have to lie on it.” The Queen—then
Princess of Wales—allowed herself to be nominated
President; the present Princess of Wales and the Duchess of
Connaught gave their names as Vice-Presidents of the Imperial
Yeomanry Hospitals. The working committee was composed of the
following: Adeline, Duchess of Bedford, the Duchess of
Marlborough, the Countesses of Essex and Dudley, the Ladies
Chesham and Tweedmouth, Mesdames S. Neumann, A.G. Lucas, Blencowe
Cookson, Julius Wernher (now Lady Wernher), and Madame von Andre.
Amongst the gentlemen who gave valuable assistance, the most
prominent were: Viscount Curzon, M.P. (now Lord Howe), Hon.
Secretary; Mr. Ludwig Neumann, Hon. Treasurer; General Eaton (now
Lord Cheylesmore); and Mr. Oliver Williams.

Lady Georgiana Curzon was a born leader, and it was but
natural that the capable ladies aforementioned appointed her as
their chairman. Passionately devoted to sport though she was, she
willingly forsook her beloved hunting-field, leaving a stable
full of hunters idle at Melton Mowbray, for the committee-room
and the writing-table. The scheme was one fraught with
difficulties great and numerous, and not the least amongst them
was the “red tape” that had to be cut; but Lady Georgiana Curzon
took up the good cause with enthusiasm and ability, and she and
her colleagues worked to such purpose that, on March 17, 1900, a
base hospital containing over 500 beds (which number was
subsequently increased to 1,000), fully equipped, left our
shores. So useful did these institutions prove themselves, that
as time went on, and the evils of war spread to other parts of
South Africa, the committee were asked to inaugurate other
hospitals, and, the funds at their disposal allowing of
acquiescence, they established branches at Mackenzie’s Farm,
Maitland Camp, Eastwood, Elandsfontein, and Pretoria, besides a
small convalescent home for officers at Johannesburg. Thus in a
few months a field-hospital and bearer company (the first ever
formed by civilians), several base hospitals, and a convalescent
home, were organized by the Imperial Yeomanry Hospitals
Committee, who frequently met, with Lady Georgiana Curzon
presiding, to discuss ways and means of satisfactorily working
those establishments so many thousands of miles away.

The Hospital Commissioners who visited Deelfontein in
November, 1900, said it was one of the best-managed hospitals in
Africa. A similar opinion was expressed by Colonel A.G. Lucas,
M.V.O., when he visited it in the autumn, and this gentleman also
reported most favourably on the section at Mackenzie’s Farm.
Through Colonel Kilkelly, Lord Kitchener sent a message to the
committee early in 1901, expressing his admiration of the
Pretoria Hospital. In this branch Lady Roberts showed much
interest, and, with her customary kindness, rendered it every
assistance in her power. At a time when military hospitals were
being weighed in the balance, and in some instances found
wanting, the praise bestowed on the Yeomanry Institutions was
worthy of note. From first to last the various staffs numbered
over 1,400 persons, and more than 20,000 patients were treated in
the Yeomanry Hospitals whilst they were under the management of
Lady Georgiana Curzon and her committee. Although sick and
wounded from every force under the British flag in South Africa
were taken in, and many Boers as well, a sufficient number of
beds was always available for the immediate admittance of
patients from the force for which the hospitals were originally
created. The subscriptions received for this great national work
totalled over £145,300, in addition to a subsidy of
£3,000 from the Government for prolonging the maintenance
of the field-hospital and bearer company from January 1 to March
31, 1901. The interest on deposits alone amounted to over
£1,635, and when, with the cessation of hostilities, there
was, happily, no further need for these institutions, the
buildings, etc., were sold for £24,051. The balance which
the committee ultimately had in hand from this splendid total of
over £174,000 was devoted to the maintenance of a school
which had since been established at Perivale Alperton, for the
benefit of the daughters of yeomen who were killed or disabled
during the war.

There has been ample testimony of the excellent way in which
this admirable scheme was created and carried out. Numerous
letters, touching in their expressions of gratitude, were
received from men of all ranks whose sufferings were alleviated
in the Yeomanry Hospitals; newspapers commented upon it at the
time, but it is only those who were behind the scenes that can
tell what arduous work it entailed, and of how unflinchingly it
was faced by the chairman of the committee. Constant interviews
with War Office officials, with doctors, with nurses; the
hundreds of letters that had to be written daily; the questions,
necessary and unnecessary, that had to be answered; the estimates
that had to be examined, would have proved a nightmare to anyone
not possessed of the keenest intellect combined with the
strongest will. It involved close and unremitting attention from
morning till night, and this not for one week, but for many
months; and yet no detail was ever momentarily shirked by one who
loved an outdoor life. Lady Georgiana realized to the full the
responsibilities of having this vast sum of money entrusted to
her by the British public, and not wisely, but too well, did she
devote herself to discharging it.

Her services to the country were as zealous as they were
invaluable. By her quick grasp of the details of administration,
by the marvellous tact and skill she exercised, and by the energy
she threw into her undertaking, every difficulty was mastered. At
this present time many hundreds of men, who were ten years ago
facing a desperate foe, can reflect gratefully, if sadly, that
they owe their lives to the generous and unselfish efforts of a
brave woman who is no longer with us; for, after all, Lady
Georgiana Curzon was human, and had to pay the price of all she
did. Her great exertions seriously told upon her health, as was
only to be expected, and long before the conclusion of her
strenuous labours she felt their effects, although she ignored
them. Lady Chesham was no less energetic a worker, and had as an
additional anxiety the fact of her husband and son^[42] being both at the front. It
was imperative that one of these two ladies, who were responsible
for starting the fund, should personally superintend the erection
and the opening of the large base hospital at Deelfontein, and as
Lady Georgiana Curzon had made herself almost indispensable in
London by her adroitness in managing already sorely harassed War
Office officials, and in keeping her committee unanimous and
contented, it was decided that Lady Chesham should proceed to the
scene of the war. My sister gladly gave up this stirring role for
the more prosaic, but equally important, work in London, and when
I returned home, in July, 1900, I found her still completely
absorbed by her self-imposed task. Already her health was
failing, and overtaxed nature was having its revenge. During the
next two years, in spite of repeated warnings and advice, she
gave herself no rest, but all the while she cherished the wish to
pay a visit to that continent which had been the theatre of her
great enterprise. At length, in August, 1902, in the week
following the coronation of Their Majesties, we sailed together
for Cape Town, a sea-voyage having been recommended to her in
view of her refusal to try any of the foreign health-resorts,
which might have effected a cure. By the death of her
father-in-law, my sister was then Lady Howe, but it will be with
her old name of Lady Georgiana Curzon or “Lady Georgie”—as
she was known to her intimates—that the task she achieved
will ever be associated.

More than seven years had elapsed since my first visit, and
nearly twenty-six months from the time I had left South Africa in
the July following the termination of the Mafeking siege, when I
found myself back in the old familiar haunts. Groot Schuurr had
never looked more lovely than on the sunny September morning when
we arrived there from the mail-steamer, after a tedious and
annoying delay in disembarking of several hours, connected with
permits under martial law. This delay was rendered more
aggravating by the fact that, on the very day of our
arrival,^[43] the same law ceased to
exist, and that our ship was the last to have to submit to the
ordeal. Many and sad were the changes that had come to pass in
the two years, and nowhere did they seem more evident than when
one crossed the threshold of Mr. Rhodes’s home. The central
figure, so often referred to in the foregoing pages, was no more,
and one soon perceived that the void left by that giant spirit,
so inseparably connected with vast enterprises, could never be
filled. This was not merely apparent in the silent, echoing
house, on the slopes of the mountain he loved so well, in the
circle of devoted friends and adherents, who seemed left like
sheep without a shepherd, but also in the political arena, in the
future prospects of that extensive Northern Territory which he
had practically discovered and opened up. It seemed as if
Providence had been very hard in allowing one individual to
acquire such vast influence, and to be possessed of so much
genius, and then not to permit the half-done task to be
accomplished.

That this must also have been Mr. Rhodes’s reflection was
proved by the pathetic words he so often repeated during his last
illness: “So little done, so much to do.”

Groot Schuurr was outwardly the same as in the old days, and
kept up in the way one knew that the great man would have wished.
We went for the same rides he used to take. The view was as
glorious as ever, the animals were flourishing and increasing in
numbers, the old lions gazed placidly down from their roomy cage
on a ledge of Table Mountain, the peacocks screamed and plumed
themselves, and the herd of zebras grazed in picturesque glades.
Nothing was changed there to outward appearances, and one had to
go farther afield to see evidences of the dismay caused by the
pillar being abruptly broken off. Cape Town itself, I soon noted,
was altered by the war almost beyond recognition. From the dull
and uninteresting seaport town I remembered it when we came there
in 1895, it seemed, seven years later, one of the busiest cities
imaginable, with the most enormous street traffic. The pavements
were thronged, the shops were crowded, and numerous were the
smart, khaki-clad figures, bronzed and bearded, that were to be
seen on all sides. The Mount Nelson Hotel, which had been opened
just before the war, was crowded with them—some very
youthful, who had early acquired manhood and selfreliance in a
foreign land; others grey-headed, with rows of medal ribbons,
dimmed in colour from exposure to all weathers, whose names were
strangely familiar as recording heroic achievements.

At that time Sir Gordon Sprigg, of the Progressive Party, was
in power and Prime Minister; but he was only kept in office by
the Bond, who made the Ministers more or less ridiculous in the
eyes of the country by causing them to dance like puppets at
their bidding. It was in the House of Assembly—where he was
a whale amongst minnows—that the void was so acutely felt
surrounding the vacant seat so long occupied by Mr. Rhodes, and
it was not an encouraging sight, for those of his supporters who
tried to carry on his traditions, to gaze on the sparsely filled
ranks of the Progressive Party, and then at the crowded seats of
the Bond on the other side.

We were told, by people who had met the Boer Generals on their
recent visit to the colony, that these latter were not in the
least cast down by the result of the war; that they simply meant
to bide their time and win in the Council Chamber what they had
lost on the battle-field; that the oft-reiterated sentence,
“South Africa for the Dutch,” was by no means an extinct volcano
or a parrot-cry of the past. It was evident that political
feeling was, in any case, running very high; it almost stopped
social intercourse, it divided families. To be a member of the
Loyal Women’s League was sufficient to be ostracized in any Dutch
village, the Boers pretending that the name outraged their
feelings, and that distinctions between loyal and disloyal were
invidious. Federation—Mr. Rhodes’s great ideal—which
has since come rapidly and triumphantly to be an accomplished
fact, was then temporarily relegated to the background; the Bond,
apparently, had not made up their minds to declare for it, but
they were hard at work in their old shrewd way, obtaining
influence by getting their own men appointed to vacancies at the
post-office and in the railway departments, while the Loyalists
appeared to be having almost as bad a time as in the old days
before the war. At the present moment, in spite of all the
good-will borne to the new Union of South Africa by great and
small in all lands where the British flag flies, it is well to
remember, without harbouring any grudge, certain incidents of the
past. A thorough knowledge of the people which are to be
assimilated with British colonists is absolutely necessary, that
all may in the end respect, as well as like, each other.

From Cape Town, where my sister transacted a great deal of
business connected with the winding-up of the Yeomanry Hospital,
we went to Bloemfontein, and were the guests at Government House
of my old Mafeking friend, Sir Hamilton Gould Adams, promoted to
the important post of Governor of the Orange River Colony. From
that town we drove across to Kimberley, taking two days to
accomplish this somewhat tedious journey. We stayed one night
with a German farmer, who had surrendered to the English when
Bloemfontein was occupied by Lord Roberts, and his case was
typical of many similar awkward predicaments which occurred
frequently during the ups and downs of the war. When Lord
Roberts’s army swept on from Bloemfontein, the Boers in a measure
swept back, and our host was for months persecuted by his own
people, finally made a prisoner, and was within an ace of being
shot; in fact, it was only the peace that saved his life.

Next day we made our noonday halt at Poplar Grove, the scene
of one of Lord Roberts’s fights, and farther on we passed Koodoos
Rand Drift, where General French had cut off Cronje and forced
him back on Paardeberg. All along these roads it was very
melancholy to see the ruined farms, some with the impoverished
owner in possession, others still standing empty. A Boer
farmhouse is not at any time the counterpart of the snug dwelling
we know in England, but it was heartbreaking to see these homes
as they were at the conclusion of the war, when, in nearly every
instance, the roof, window-frames, and doors, were things of the
past. When a waggon could be espied standing near the door, and a
few lean oxen grazing at hand, it was a sign that the owner had
returned home, and, on closer inspection, a whole family of
children would probably be discovered sheltered by a tin lean-to
fixed to the side of the house, or huddled in a tent pitched
close by. They all seemed wonderfully patient, but looked
despairing and miserable. At one of these houses we spoke to the
daughter of such a family who was able to converse in English.
She told us her father had died during the war, that two of her
brothers had fought for the English, and had returned with khaki
uniforms and nothing else, but that the third had thrown in his
lot with the Boers, and had come back the proud possessor of four
horses.

At Kimberley we had motors placed at our disposal by Mr.
Gardner Williams, manager of the De Beers Company, and were
amused to hear how excited the Kaffirs had been at the first
automobile to appear in the Diamond City, and how they had thrown
themselves down to peer underneath in order to discover the
horse. These motors, however, were not of much use on the veldt,
and we soon found Kimberley very dull, and decided to make a
flying tour through Rhodesia to Beira, taking a steamer at that
port for Delagoa Bay, on our road to Johannesburg. Our first
halting-place was at Mafeking, where we arrived one bitterly
cold, blowy morning at 6 a.m. I do not think I ever realized,
during all those months of the siege, what a glaring little spot
it was. When I returned there two years later: the dust was
flying in clouds, the sun was blinding, and accentuated the
absence of any shade.

Six hours spent there were more than sufficient, and it was
astounding to think of the many months that it had been our home.
It has often been said, I reflected, that it is the people you
consort with, not the place you live at, that constitute an
agreeable existence; and of the former all I could find to say
was, “Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?” Beyond the
Mayor of the town, who called to reiterate warm thanks for the
Mafeking Fund, and a nigger coachman who used to take me out for
Sunday drives, I failed to perceive one face I knew in the town
during the siege; but at the convent we received the warmest
welcome from the Mother Superior and the nuns. This community
appeared to be in quite affluent circumstances: the building was
restored, the chapel rebuilt and plentifully decorated with new
images; there was a full complement of day-boarders, who were
energetically practising on several pianos, and many new Sisters
had made their appearance; upstairs, the room where was located
the Maxim gun was filled by thirty snowwhite beds. It was quite
refreshing to find one circle who had recovered from their
hardships, and who, if anything, were rather more prosperous than
before the war. We paid a flying visit to the little cemetery,
which was beautifully kept, and where many fairly recent graves
were in evidence, chiefly due to enteric fever after the siege.
There we particularly noted a very fine marble cross, erected to
the memory of Captain Ronald Vernon; and as we were admiring this
monument we met an old Kimberley acquaintance in the person of
Mrs. Currey, who had been our hostess at the time of the Jameson
Raid. Her husband had since died, and this lady was travelling
round that part of Africa representing the Loyal Women’s League,
who did such splendid work in marking out and tending the
soldiers’ graves.

At Mafeking we picked up the Rhodesian train de luxe,
and travelled in the greatest comfort to Bulawayo, and on to
Salisbury. At that town we met a party, comprising, amongst
others, Dr. Jameson and the late Mr. Alfred Beit, who were making
a tour of inspection connected with satisfying the many wants of
the Rhodesian settlers. These pioneers were beginning to feel the
loss of the great man to whom they had turned for everything. His
faithful lieutenants were doing their best to replace him, and
the rôle of the first-named, apparently, was to make the
necessary speeches, that of the latter to write the equally
important cheques.

With these gentlemen we continued our journey to Beira,
stopping at a few places of interest on the way. The country
between Salisbury and Beira is flat and marshy, and was, till the
advent of the railway, a veritable Zoological Garden as regards
game of all sorts. The climate is deadly for man and beast, and
mortality was high during the construction of the Beira Railway,
which connected Rhodesia with an eastern outlet on the sea. Among
uninteresting towns, I think Beira should be placed high on the
list; the streets are so deep in sand that carriages are out of
the question, and the only means of transport is by small trucks
on narrow rails. As may be imagined, we did not linger there, but
went at once on board the German steamer, which duly landed us at
Lorenzo Marques forty-eight hours later, after an exceedingly
rough voyage.

The following day was Sunday, and having been told there was a
service at the English Church at 9.30 a.m., we duly went there at
that hour, only to find the church apparently deserted, and not a
movement or sound emanating therefrom. However, on peeping in at
one of the windows, we discovered a clergyman most gorgeously
apparelled in green and gold, preparing to discourse to a
congregation of two persons! Evidently the residents found the
climate too oppressively hot for church that Sunday morning.

In the afternoon we were able to see some portions of that
wonderful harbour, of worldwide reputation. Literally translated,
the local name for the same means the “English River,” and it is
virtually an arm of the sea, stretching inland like a deep bay,
in which three separate good-sized streams find an outlet. Some
few miles up these rivers, we were told, grand shooting was still
to be had, the game including hippopotami, rhinoceroses, and
buffalo, which roam through fever-stricken swamps of tropical
vegetation. The glories of the vast harbour of Delagoa Bay can
better be imagined than described. In the words of a resident,
“It would hold the navies of the world,” and some years back it
might have been purchased for £12,000. With the war just
over, people were beginning to realize how trade and development
would be facilitated if this great seaport belonged to the
British Empire. A “United Africa” was already looming in the
distance, and it required but little imagination on the part of
the traveller, calling to mind the short rail journey connecting
it with the mining centres of the Transvaal, to determine what a
thriving, busy place Lorenzo Marques would then become. During
the day the temperature was tropical, but by evening the
atmosphere freshened, and was almost invigorating as the fierce
sun sank to rest and its place was taken by a full moon. From our
hotel, standing high on the cliff above the bay, the view was
then like fairyland: an ugly old coal-hulk, a somewhat antiquated
Portuguese gunboat, and even the diminutive and unpleasant German
steamer which had brought us from Beira, all were tinged with
silver and enveloped in romance, to which they could certainly
lay no claim in reality.

Early in the morning of the next day we left for Johannesburg.
The line proved most interesting, especially after passing the
almost historical British frontier town, Koomati Poort. It winds
like a serpent round the mountains, skirting precipices, and
giving one occasional peeps of lovely fertile valleys. During a
greater part of the way the Crocodile River follows its sinuous
course in close proximity to the railway, while above tower rocky
boulders. To describe their height and character, I can only say
that the steepest Scotch mountains we are familiar with fade into
insignificance beside those barren, awe-inspiring ranges, and one
was forced to wonder how the English soldiers—not to speak
of heavy artillery—could have safely negotiated those
narrow and precipitous passes. For the best part of twelve hours
our train slowly traversed this wild and magnificent scenery, and
evening brought us to Waterfall Onder, where, at the station
restaurant, kept by a Frenchman, we had a most excellent dinner,
with a cup of coffee that had a flavour of the Paris boulevards.
This stopping-place was adjacent to Noitgedacht, whose name
recalled the unpleasant association of having been the home, for
many weary weeks, of English prisoners, and traces of high wire
palings which had been their enclosure were still to be seen.
From Waterfall Onder the train puffed up a stupendous hill, the
gradient being one foot in twenty, and to assist its progress a
cogwheel engine was attached behind. In this fashion a
two-thousand-feet rise was negotiated, the bright moonlight
enhancing the beauty of the sudden and rocky ascent by increasing
the mystery of the vast depths below. We then found ourselves at
Waterfall Boven, in a perfectly cool atmosphere, and also, as
regards the landscape, in a completely different country, which
latter fact we only fully appreciated with the morning light, as
we drew near to Pretoria. The stranger landing at Delagoa Bay,
and travelling through those bleak and barren mountains, might
well ask himself the reason of the late prolonged and costly war;
but as he approaches the Rand, and suddenly sees the rows and
rows of mining shafts and chimneys, which are the visible signs
of the hidden wealth, the veil is lifted and the recent events of
history are explained. At that time, owing to the war, there were
no signs of agriculture, and in many districts there appeared to
be absolute desolation.

At Johannesburg we stayed at Sunnyside, as the guests of Lord
Milner. This residence is small and unpretentious, but
exceedingly comfortable, and has the advantage of commanding wide
views over the surrounding country. Our host was then engrossed
in his difficult task of satisfying the wants and desires of many
communities and nationalities, whose countless differences of
opinion seemed wellnigh irreconcilable. During our stay the visit
of the Right Hon. J. Chamberlain was announced as likely to take
place during the next few months, and the advent of this
distinguished Colonial Minister was a subject of great
satisfaction to the harassed High Commissioner. As at Cape Town,
his staff was composed of charming men, but all young and with no
administrative experience. Among its members were included
Colonel W. Lambton, who was Military Secretary; Captain Henley
and Lord Brooke, A.D.C.’s; and Mr. Walrond.

The Golden City itself was, to all outward appearances, as
thriving as ever, with its busy population, its crowded and
excellent shops, and its general evidences of opulence, which
appeared to overbalance—or, in any case, wish to
conceal—any existing poverty or distress. Among many
friends we met was a French lady, formerly the Marquise
d’Hervé, but who had married, as her second husband, Comte
Jacque de Waru. This enterprising couple were busy developing
some mining claims which had been acquired on their behalf by
some relatives during the war. In spite of having been deserted
at Cape Town by all the servants they had brought from Paris,
this clever lady, nothing daunted, had replaced them by blacks,
and one night she and her husband offered us, at the small
tin-roofed house where they were residing, a sumptuous dinner
which was worthy of the best traditions of Parisian hospitality.
Notwithstanding the fact of her having no maid, and that she had
herself superintended most of the cooking of the dinner, our
hostess was charmingly attired in the latest Paris fashion, with
elaborately dressed hair, and the pleasant company she had
collected, combined with an excellent cuisine, helped to make the
entertainment quite one of the pleasantest we enjoyed during our
stay. Among the guests was General “Bully” Oliphant, who had just
been recalled to England to take up an important appointment,
much to the regret of his Johannesburg friends, with whom he had
made himself exceedingly popular; and the witty conversation of
this gentleman kept the whole dinner-table convulsed with
laughing, to such an extent that his colleague-in-arms, our
quondam Mafeking commander, General Baden-Powell, who was also of
the party, was reduced to mere silent appreciation. This
impromptu feast, given under difficulties which almost amounted
to siege conditions, was again an evidence of the versatility and
inherent hospitality of the French nation, and the memory of that
pleasant evening lingers vividly in my recollections.

The duration of our two months’ holiday was rapidly
approaching its close. My sister was recalled to England by
social and other duties, and was so much better in health that we
were deluded into thinking the wonderful air and bracing climate
had effected a complete cure. After a short but very interesting
visit to the Natal battle-fields, whither we were escorted by
General Burn-Murdoch and Captain Henry Guest, we journeyed to
Cape Town, and, regretfully turning our backs on warmth and
sunshine, we landed once more in England on a dreary December
day.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER XVIII

These words came to my mind as I sat under the verandah of one
of the newly thatched huts which formed the camp of the Native
Commissioner at Livingstone, Victoria Falls, on a glorious
morning early in July, 1903, gazing at one of the fairest
landscapes to be seen on God’s earth. I was ostensibly occupied
with my mail home, but the paper lay in all its virgin whiteness
before me, while my eyes feasted on the marvellous panorama
stretching away to the south, east, and west. My heart sank as I
realized how difficult—nay, impossible—it would be
for anyone with only a very limited vocabulary and very moderate
powers of description to convey to those far away even a limited
idea of this glorious vision—of these vivid colourings
intensified by the lonely grandeur of the whole scene and the
absence of human habitations.

“Constitution Hill,” as the aforesaid camp had been
christened, was situated on high ground, four miles to the north
of the then drift of the Zambesi River, which, again, was several
miles above the actual falls themselves. With the advent of the
railway and of the magnificent bridge now spanning the mighty
river, that drift has actually fallen into disuse, but at the
time of our visit it was the scene of much activity, and quite a
nest of stores, houses, and huts, had sprung up near the rough
landing-stage on the north side. As transport, not only for
individuals and for every ounce of food required by the vast
country stretching away to the north, but also for the huge and
valuable machinery, boilers, boats in sections, etc., destined
for the various mining companies, the only means of maintaining
communication with the struggling but promising new colony were
one very rickety steam-launch and one large rowing-boat, beside a
few canoes and native dug-outs. A fine steam-barge, which would
greatly have facilitated the passage of all kinds of merchandise,
had most disastrously slipped its moorings during one stormy
night of last wet season, and had not since been seen, the
presumption being that the relentless stream had carried it to
the mighty cataract, which, like a huge ogre, had engulfed it for
all time. But this disaster had not caused anything like
consternation among the small community to whom it meant so much,
and the thought occurred to one how remarkable are the qualities
of dogged perseverance, calm disregard of drawbacks and of any
difficult task before them, which makes Englishmen so
marvellously successful as pioneers or colonists. The precious
barge for which they had waited many weary months had
disappeared, and there was nothing more to be said. Such means as
remained were made the most of.

Owing to this calamity, however, the stores on the north bank
were wellnigh run out of their usual stock, but I was amazed to
find such luxuries of life as eau de Cologne, scented soaps,
ladies’ boots and shoes, and brightly coloured skirts. Leaving
the small river township—the embryo Livingstone—we
followed a very sandy road uphill till we reached the summit of
Constitution Hill, already mentioned. There our buggy and two
small, well-bred ponies swept into a smartly-kept compound
surrounded by a palisade, the feature of the square being a
flagstaff from which the Union Jack was proudly fluttering. As a
site for a residence Constitution Hill could not well be
surpassed, and many a millionaire would cheerfully have given his
thousands to obtain such a view as that which met our eyes from
the humble huts, and held me enthralled during the whole of my
stay. It must be remembered we had been travelling, since leaving
the rail-head, eighty miles north of Bulawayo, through a thickly
wooded and mountainous country where any extensive views were
rare. Even when nearing the Zambesi, with the roar of the Falls
in one’s ears, so little opening-up had hitherto been done that
only an occasional peep of coming glories was vouchsafed us;
hence the first glimpse of a vast stretch of country was all the
more striking. I must ask my readers to imagine the bluest of
blue skies; an expanse of waving grass of a golden hue,
resembling an English cornfield towards the harvest time,
stretching away till it is lost in far-distant tropical
vegetation of intense green, which green clearly marks the course
of the winding Zambesi; again, amid this emerald verdure, patches
of turquoise water, wide, smooth, unruffled, matching the heavens
in its hue, are to be seen—no touch of man’s hand in the
shape of houses or chimneys to mar the effect of Nature and
Nature’s colouring. If you follow with your eyes this calm,
reposeful river, now hiding itself beneath its protecting banks
with their wealth of branching trees, tall cocoanut palms, and
luxuriant undergrowth, now emerging like a huge blue serpent
encrusted with diamonds, so brightly does the clear water sparkle
in the sun, you note that it finally loses itself in a heavy,
impenetrable mass of green forest. And now for a few moments the
newcomer is puzzled to account for a dense white cloud, arisen
apparently from nowhere, which is resting where the forest is
thickest and most verdant, now larger, then smaller, anon denser
or more filmy, but never changing its place, never disappearing,
while the distant thunder, to which you had almost got
accustomed, strikes upon your ear and gives the explanation you
are seeking.

Yes, that white cloud has been there for centuries, and will
be there while the world lasts, in spite of trains, bridges, etc.
It marks the Victoria Falls, and is a landmark for many miles
round. How amazed must the great Livingstone and his intrepid
followers have been to see this first sign of their grand
discovery after their weary march through a country of dense
forests and sandy wastes, the natural features of which could not
in the least have suggested such marvels as exist in the
stupendous river and the water-power to which it gives birth!
When mentioning that great explorer—whose name in this
district, after a lapse of nearly fifty years, remains a
household word among the natives, handed down from father to
son—it is a curious fact, and one that should prove a
lesson to many travellers from the old world as well as from the
new, that only on one tree is he believed to have cut his
initials in Africa, and that tree stands on the island in the
centre of the Zambesi, the island that bears his name, and that
absolutely overhangs and stems the centre of the awe-inspiring
cataract.

I must now try in a few words to give a short account of what
we saw at the Victoria Falls in July, 1903, when the breath of
civilization had scarcely touched them. To-day they are easy of
access, and the changes that have been wrought have come so
swiftly that, no doubt, recent visitors will scarcely recognize
the localities of which I write. I must first ask such to be
lenient with me, and to follow me down the sandy road leading
from the Constitution Hill Compound to the Controller’s Camp on
the bank of the river, about two miles nearer the Falls. There
were to be seen a collection of huts and offices, where the
Controller conducted his important business of food-purveyor to
the community, and a Government inspector of cattle had equally
arduous duties to perform. I must mention that, owing to disease
in the south, cattle were then not allowed to cross the Zambesi,
and horses and dogs had to be disinfected before they were
permitted to leave the south bank. Their troubles were not even
then over, as they had to be swum across the river, and, owing to
its enormous width, the poor horses were apt to become exhausted
halfway over, and had to be towed the rest of the way, their
heads being kept out of the water—an operation attended
with a certain amount of risk. It followed that very few horses
were crossed over at all, and that these animals in North-Western
Rhodesia were at a premium.

From the Controller’s Camp I had another opportunity to admire
the river itself, just as wonderful in its way as the Falls, and
I remember thinking of the delights that might be derived from
boating, sailing, or steaming, on its vast surface. Since that
day the enterprising inhabitants have actually held regattas on
the mighty stream, in which some of the best-known men in the
annals of rowing in England have taken part. But seven years ago
our river trip was attended with mild excitements; the small
skiff, carrying our party of six, was an excessively leaky canoe,
which had to be incessantly baled out to keep it afloat, and
wherein, notwithstanding our efforts, a deep pool of water
accumulated, necessitating our sitting with feet tucked under us
in Oriental fashion. Hence I cannot say we realized to the full
the enjoyments of boating as we know it at home in far less
beautiful surroundings, or as others know it there at the present
time.

The principal features that struck me were, first, the
colossal width of the river. As we gazed across the translucent
surface, reflecting as in a looking-glass the fringe of trees
along the edge, the first impression was that your eyes actually
perceived the opposite bank; but we were undeceived by one of the
residents, who observed that was only an island, and that there
were several such between us and the north side. Secondly, we
marvelled at the clearness of the water, reflecting the blueness
above; and, thirdly, at the rich vegetation and the intense green
of the overhanging foliage, where the graceful and so rarely seen
palms of the Borassus tribe were growing to an immense height.
All was enhanced by the most intense solitude, which seemed to
accentuate the fact that this scene of Nature was indeed as God
left it. These reflections were made as we floated on in our
rickety canoe to a creek, where we landed to walk to the actual
Falls. A new path had just been cut in the wooded part of the
north bank, and we were almost the first visitors to profit by
it. Formerly the enterprising sight-seers had to push their way
through the scrubby undergrowth, but we followed a smooth track
for two miles, the roar of the cataract getting louder and
louder, with only occasional peeps of the river, which was fast
losing its calm repose and degenerating into restless rapids
hurrying on to their bourne. Now and then a buck would dance
across our path, pause affrighted for an instant at the unusual
sight of man, and bound away again into the thickness beyond; and
once three fine wart-hogs almost stumbled into our party, only to
gallop away again like greyhounds, before the rifles, which were
carried by the black boys behind, could be made use of.

At last we emerged suddenly, without any warning, on the
northern extremity of the cataract, which at this point measures
over a mile from bank to bank, but of which only about a quarter
of that distance is visible, owing to the blinding spray. It is
wellnigh impossible to describe a scene of such wonder, such
wildness. It is awe-inspiring, almost terrible in its force and
majesty, and the accompanying din prevents speech from being
heard. Standing on a point flush with the river before it makes
its headlong leap, we gazed first on the swirling water losing
itself in snowy spray, which beat relentlessly on face and
clothes, while the great volume was nosily disappearing to
unknown and terrifying depths. The sight-seer tries to look
across, to strain his eyes and to see beyond that white mist
which obscures everything; but it is an impossible task, and he
can but guess the width of the Falls, slightly horseshoe in
shape, from the green trees which seem so far away on the
opposite bank, and are only caught sight of now and then as the
wind causes the spray to lift. At the same time his attention is
fixed by a new wonder, the much-talked-of rainbow. Never varying,
never changing, that perfect-shaped arc is surely more typical of
eternity there than anywhere else. Its perfection of colours
seems to be reflected again and yet again in the roaring torrent,
and to be also an emblem of peace where all is turmoil. We were
hurried away to remove our wet rainproof coats and to dry our
hats and faces in the brilliant sunshine. It seemed as if the
Falls guard their beauties jealously, and do not allow the
spectator to gaze on them without paying the price of being
saturated by their spray. For the next two hours we were taken
from one point of vantage to the other, and yet felt we had not
seen half of even what is known as the north side. We were shown
the barely commenced path leading right away down to the edge of
the foaming, boiling gorge, which is to be known as “The Lovers’
Walk,” and from its steepness it occurred to me that these same
lovers will require to possess some amount of endurance. We
examined from afar the precipitous Neck jutting right out
opposite the main cataract, its sides running sheer down to
unfathomable depths of water, which has caused this rocky
formation to be called “The Knife’s Edge,” and along which, up to
the date of our visit, only two men had ventured. We saw the
actual site for the existing railway-bridge, which site had only
been finally selected a few days before by two of the party who
were with us.^[46] The travellers over this
great work now see all we saw on that long morning, and a great
deal more besides, while the carriage windows are soused by the
all-pervading spray, thus carrying out one of Mr. Rhodes’s
cherished sentiments. Finally—musing at the marvellous and
confusing twists and turns of the river, changing in character
and appearance so as to be wellnigh unrecognizable—we
walked on a hundred yards, and came upon a deep, deep gorge,
rocky, barren, and repelling, at the bottom of which, sluggish
and dirty in colour, a grey stream was winding its way, not a
hundred yards wide, but of unfathomable depths; and this
represented the Zambesi after it has taken its great leap,
when, bereft of all life and beauty, it verily looks tired out.
This gorge continues for forty miles, and so desolate is the
surrounding country, that not only is it uninhabited by man, but
even game cannot live there. The shadows were lengthening and the
day was approaching its close. Early on the morrow we were to
leave for the northern hunting grounds. We regained our canoe,
and paddled away to our temporary camp.

Again we were delighted with the calm beauty of that river
scene, and found it difficult to decide when it was most
beautiful—whether the morning light best gilded its glories
or whether the evening lent additional calm. We passed island
after island in bewildering succession. Away towards the drift
three huge black masses were splashing in the water, which we
easily made out to be hippopotami taking their evening bath, and
as we glided along a sleepy crocodile slipped back into the water
from a muddy eminence where it had been basking in the sun. Then
our canoe ran into a creek where leaves and ferns grew in
delightful confusion, and we landed in soft marshy ground just as
the sun was sinking like a red ball into the river, and giving
way to the sovereignty of a glorious full moon, which soon tinged
everything with a silver light, making glades of palms look
delightfully romantic.

Civilization has since found its way to Livingstone. Engines
are whistling and trains are rumbling where then the only tracks
were made by the huge hippos and the shy buck, but they can never
efface the grandeur of the river in its size and calmness; the
incomparable magnificence of the cataract itself; the rainbow,
which one cannot see without retaining a lasting impression of
its beauty; and, lastly, that cloud of white spray, seemingly a
sentinel to watch over the strength and might of the huge river,
for so many ages undiscovered.

Many who knew the Falls in their pristine solitude have gladly
welcomed there the advent of twentieth-century developments, of
sign-posts, of advertisements, of seats, of daily posts and
papers; but others, some of the older pioneers, still, perchance,
give a passing sigh for the days when they paddled about the
river in a leaky canoe, and letters and telegrams were not events
of everyday occurrence.

In spite of the railway constructed since our visit, few
people, comparatively, have been to North-Western Rhodesia, and
yet it is a country of over 400,000 square miles. It was in
October, 1897, that the then administrator of the
country,^[47] with five policemen,
crossed the Zambesi and declared the territory to be under the
protection of Her Late Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria. For many
years previously the natives, who are not of a particularly
warlike disposition, had been decimated, and the country laid
waste, by the fierce Matabele, who were in the habit of making
periodical raids into this fair land, and of killing the old men
and the young warriors, who made but a slight resistance; of
annexing the attractive ladies as wives and the fat cattle as
prized booty, and then of retreating again south of the mighty
river without fear of reprisals. For this reason there was, in
1903, a very meagre population for many hundreds of miles north
of the Zambesi in this direction; and of cattle, for which there
is pasture in abundance, there was hardly one to be seen. One has
to travel much farther north and west to find the densely
populated valleys, whose inhabitants own Lewanika, Chief of the
Barotse, as their ruler, who look to the great white British King
as their protector, and to the Chartered Company as the immediate
purveyor of their wants.

Of these natives the chief tribes are, first, the Barotse
themselves, who are the most numerous, and who inhabit the
low-lying country along the Zambesi Valley north of Sesheke, and
up to Lia-Lui, their capital.

The second in importance are the Mushukulumbwe, which,
translated literally, means “naked people.” This designation was
given them as a reproach by their friends, as the male element
wear no clothes; and should they possess a blanket, they would
only throw it round their shoulders whilst standing still or
sitting down. When remonstrated with by the well-meaning
missionaries on the absence of any attire, they are wont to
reply: “Are we women or children, that we should fear the cold?
Our fathers needed no clothes, nor do we.” They are keen hunters
and trackers, essentially a warlike people, tall and
good-looking, while the women also are of more than average
height, and gracefully made. What the men lack in clothes they
make up for in their head-dress, which has been so often
illustrated, and which is sometimes 5 feet in height. It is the
result of much care and trouble, and the cause of great pride to
the wearer. Ruled over by a number of small chiefs, they mostly
own Lewanika as their paramount chief, and to him they pay
tribute. They are withal a curious, wild kind of people, but are
now becoming less afraid of, and in consequence less hostile to,
the white man, the first of whose race they saw in 1888, when Mr.
Selous^[48] penetrated into their
country, and very nearly lost his life at their hands. Now they
are well-disposed, and it is safe to travel through their land
with a comparatively small escort.

Thirdly, the Batokas. These are, and always have been, a
servile race. They are lazy in disposition, for the most part of
unprepossessing appearance, and their country has the Kafue River
on the east, and the Zambesi on the south, as natural boundaries.
As carriers they do fairly well, and, while also owning
Lewanika’s authority, they are well aware of the fact that this
chief only rules in virtue of the support of the “Great King” in
a far-off land, whom they often hear of, but can never hope to
see.