With the Guards' Brigade from Bloemfontein to Koomati Poort and Back Part 12

They _should_ have got him, and they would have got him, if they could; but when Lord Roberts, long months after, set sail for home, he left De Wet still in the saddle. Then Kitchener, our Soudanese Lord, took up the running, and called on the Guards to aid him, but even they proved unequal to the hopeless task. "One pair of heels," they said, "can never overtake two pair of hoofs." Then our picked mounted men monopolised the "tally-ho" to little better purpose. De Wet's guns were captured, his convoys cut off, but him no man caught, and possibly to this very day he is still complacently humming "Tommies may come and Tommies may go, but I trot on for ever."

[Sidenote: _Cordua and his Conspiracy._]

The last verse of this sensational song had reference to yet another celebrity, but of a far more unsatisfactory type. All the earlier part of that Thursday I had spent in the second Raadsaal, attending a court-martial on one of our prisoners of war, Lieutenant Hans Cordua, late of the Transvaal State Artillery, who, having surrendered, was suffered to be at large on parole. In my presence he pleaded guilty, first to having broken his parole in violation of his solemn oath; secondly, to having attempted to break through the British lines disguised in British khaki, in order to communicate treasonably with Botha; and thirdly, to having conspired with sundry others to set fire to a certain portion of Pretoria with a view to facilitating a simultaneous attempt to kidnap Lord Roberts and all his staff. Cordua was with difficulty persuaded to withdraw the plea of guilty, so that he might have the benefit of any possible flaw his counsel could detect in the evidence; but in the end the death sentence was p.r.o.nounced, confirmed, and duly executed in the garden of Pretoria Gaol on August 24th. It was from that court-martial I came to the Soldiers' Home Concert, sat close behind Lord Roberts, and listened to this song:--

Though the Boer some say is a practised thief, Yet it certainly beggars all belief, That he slimly should try _to steal our Chief_.

But no Hollander mobs Shall kidnap our Bobs Long as the world goes round!

[Sidenote: _Hospital Work in Pretoria._]

Historians tell us that the hospital arrangements in some of our former wars were by no means free from fault. Hence Steevens in his "Crimean Campaign" a.s.serts that while the camp hospitals absolutely lacked not only candles, but medicines, wooden legs were supplied to them from England so freely that there were finally four such legs for every man in hospital. Clearly those wooden legs were consigned by wooden heads. Even in this much better managed war the fever epidemic at Bloemfontein, combined with a month of almost incessant rain, overtaxed for a while, as we have seen, the resources and strength and organizing skill of a most willing and fairly competent medical staff.

But Pretoria was plagued with no corresponding epidemic, and possessed incomparably ampler supplies, which were drawn on without stint. In addition to the Welsh, the Yeomanry, and other canvas hospitals planted in the suburbs, the splendid Palace of Justice was requisitioned for the use of the Irish hospital, which, like several others, was fitted out and furnished by private munificence. The princ.i.p.al school buildings were also placed at the disposal of the medical authorities, and were promptly made serviceable with whatever requisites the town could supply. To find suitable bedding, however, for so vast a number of patients was a specially difficult task. All the rugs and tablecloths the stores of the town contained were requisitioned for this purpose; green baize and crimson baize, repp curtains and plush, anything, everything remotely suitable, was claimed and cut up to serve as quilts and counterpanes, with the result that the beds looked picturesquely, if not grotesquely, gay.

One ward, into which I walked, was playfully called "The Menagerie" by the men that occupied it, for on every bed was a showy rug, and on the face of every rug was woven the figure of some fearsome beast, Bengal tigers and British lions being predominant. It was in appearance a veritable lion's den, where our men dwelt in peace like so many modern Daniels, and found not harm but health and healing there.

[Sidenote: _The wear and tear of War._]

In this campaign the loss of life and vigour caused by sickness was enormously larger than that accounted for by bullet wounds and bayonets. At the Orange River, just before the Guards set out on their long march, thirty Grenadier officers stretched their legs under their genial colonel's "mahogany," which consisted of rough planks supported on biscuit boxes. Of those only nine were still with us when we reached Pretoria, and of the nine several had been temporarily disabled by sickness or wounds. The battalion at starting was about a thousand strong, and afterwards received various drafts amounting to about four hundred more; but only eight hundred marched into Pretoria.

The Scots Guards, however, were so singularly fortunate as not to lose a single officer during the whole campaign.

The non-combatants in this respect were scarcely less unfortunate than the bulk of their fighting comrades. A band of workers in the service of the Soldiers' Christian a.s.sociation set out together from London for South Africa. There were six of them, but before the campaign was really half over only one still remained at his post. My faithful friend and helper, whom I left as army scripture reader at Orange River, after some months of devoted work was compelled to hasten home.

A similar fate befell my Canadian, my Welsh, and one of my Australian colleagues. The highly esteemed Anglican chaplain to the Guards, who steadily tramped with them all the way to Pretoria and well earned his D.S.O., was forbidden by his medical advisers to proceed any further, and his successor, Canon Knox Little, whose praise as a preacher is in all the churches, found on reaching Koomati Poort that his strength was being overstrained, and so at once returned to the sacred duties of his English Canonry. Thus to many a non-combatant the medical staff was called to minister, and the veldt to provide a grave.

[Sidenote: _The Nursing Sisters._]

The presence of skilled lady-nurses in these Hospitals was of immense service, not merely as an aid to healing, but also as a refining and restraining influence among the men. In this direction they habitually achieved what even the appearing of a chaplain did not invariably suffice to accomplish. It was the cheering experience of Florence Nightingale repeated on a yet wider scale. In her army days oaths were greatly in fas.h.i.+on. The expletives of one of even the Crimean _generals_ became the jest of the camp; and when later in his career he took over the Aldershot Command, it was laughingly said "he _swore_ himself in"; which doubtless he did in a double sense. Yet men trained in habits so evil when they came into the Scutari Hospital ceased to swear and forgot to grumble. Said "The Lady with the Lamp," "Never came from one of them any word, or any look, which a gentleman would not have used, and the tears came into my eyes as I think how amid scenes of loathsome disease and death, there rose above it all the innate dignity, gentleness and chivalry of the men."

Now as then there are other ministries than those of the pulpit; and hospitals in which such influences exert themselves, may well prove, in more directions than one, veritable "Houses of Healing."

[Sidenote: _A Surprise Packet._]

As ill.u.s.trating how gratefully these men appreciate any slightest manifestation of interest in their welfare, mention may here be made of what I regard as the crowning surprise of my life. At the close of an open air parade service in Pretoria a sergeant of the Grenadiers stepped forward, and in the name of the non-commissioned officers and men of that battalion presented to me, in token of their goodwill, a silver pencil case and a gold watch. I could but reply that the goodwill of my comrades was to me beyond all price, and that this golden manifestation of it, this gift coming from such a source, I should treasure as a victorious fighting man would treasure a V.C.

[Sidenote: _Soldierly Grat.i.tude._]

The kindnesses lavished on our soldiers, as far as circ.u.mstances would permit, throughout the whole course of this campaign, by civilian friends at home, in the Colonies, and in the conquered territories, defy all counting and all description. In some cases, indeed, valuable consignments intended for their comfort seem never to have reached their destination, but the knowledge that they were thus thought of and cared for had upon the men an immeasurable influence for good.

Later on, even the people of Delagoa Bay sent a handsome Christmas hamper to every blockhouse between the frontier and Barberton, while at the same time the King of Portugal presented a superb white buck, wearing a suitably inscribed silver collar, to the Cornwalls who were doing garrison duty at Koomati Poort. But in Pretoria, where among other considerations my Wesleyan friends regularly provided a Sat.u.r.day "Pleasant Hour," the soldiers in return invited the whole congregation to a "social," on which they lavished many a pound, and which they made a brilliant success. It was a startling instance of soldierly grat.i.tude; and ill.u.s.trates excellently the friendly att.i.tude of the military and of the local civilians towards each other.

[Sidenote: _The Ladysmith Lyre._]

It sometimes happened among these much enduring men that the greater their misery the greater their mirth. Thus our captured officers, close guarded in the Pretoria Model School, and carefully cut off from all the news of the day, amused themselves by framing parodies on the absurd military intelligence published in the local Boer papers; whereof let the following verse serve as a sample:--

Twelve thousand British were laid low; One Boer was wounded in the toe.

Such is the news we get to know In prison.

About this time there came into my hands a sample copy of _The Ladysmith Lyre_; but clearly though the last word in its t.i.tle was perfectly correct as a matter of p.r.o.nunciation the spelling was obviously inaccurate. It was a merry invention of news during the siege by men who were hemmed in from all other news; and so the grosser the falseness the greater the fun.

In my own particular copy I found the following dialogue between two Irish soldiers:--

First Private--"The captain told me to keep away from the enemy's foire!"

Second Private--"What did you tell the Captain?"

First Private--"I told him the Boers were so busy sh.e.l.ling they hadn't made any foire!"

That is scarcely a brilliant jest; but then it was begotten amid the agonies of the siege.

One of the poems published in this same copy of _The Ladysmith Lyre_ has in it more of melancholy than of mirth. It tells of the hope deferred that maketh the heart sick; and gives us a more vivid idea than anything else yet printed of the secret distress of the men who saved Natal--a distress which we also shared. It is ent.i.tled--

"AFTER EDGAR ALLAN POE."

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over all the quaint and curious yarns we've heard about the war, Suddenly there came a rumour--(we can always take a few more) Started by some chap who knows more than--the others knew before-- "We shall see the reinforcements in another--month or more!"

Only this and nothing more!

But we're waiting still for Clery, waiting, waiting, sick and weary Of the strange and silly rumours we have often heard before.

And we now begin to fancy there's a touch of necromancy, Something almost too uncanny, in the unregenerate Boer-- Only this and nothing more!

Though our hopes are undiminished that the war will soon be finished, We would be a little happier if we knew a little more.

If we had a little fuller information about Buller; News about Sir Redvers Buller, and his famous Army Corps; Information of the General and his fighting Army Corps.

Only this and nothing more!

And the midnight sh.e.l.ls uncertain, whistling through the night's black curtain, Thrill us, fill us with a touch of horror never felt before.

So to still the beating of our hearts, we kept repeating "Some late visitor entreating entrance at the chamber door, This it is; and nothing more!"

Oh how slow the sh.e.l.ls come dropping, sometimes bursting, sometimes stopping, As though themselves were weary of this very languid war.

How distinctly we'll remember all the weary dull November; And it seems as if December will have little else in store; And our Christmas dinner will be bully beef and plain stickfast.

Only this and nothing more!

Letham, Letham, tell us truly if there's any news come newly; Not the old fantastic rumours we have often heard before:-- Desolate yet all undaunted! Is the town by Boers still haunted?

This is all the news that's wanted--tell us truly we implore-- Is there, _is there_ a relief force? Tell us, tell us, we implore!

Only this and nothing more.

For we're waiting rather weary! Is there such a man as Clery?

Shall we ever see our wives and mothers, or our sisters and our brothers?

Shall we ever see those others, who went southwards long before?

Shall we ever taste fresh b.u.t.ter? Tell us, tell us, we implore!

We are answered--nevermore!

When twenty months later the Scots Guards again found themselves in Pretoria they too began dolorously to enquire, "Shall we ever see our wives and mothers, or our sisters and our brothers?" But meanwhile much occurred of which the following chapters are a brief record.

CHAPTER XI

FROM PRETORIA TO BELFAST