Book: Campaign Pictures of the War in South Africa (1899 1900)

A >> A. G. Hales >> Campaign Pictures of the War in South Africa (1899 1900)








AUSTRALIA AT THE WAR.

ENSLIN CAMP.


Lately I have been over a very considerable tract of country in the saddle.
I might remain at one spot and glean the information from various sources,
but do not care to do my business in that manner, simply because one is
then at the mercy of one's informants. I find it quite hard enough to get
at the truth even when it is personally sought for. It is really astounding
how lies increase and multiply as they spread from camp to camp. At one
spot a fellow ventilates an opinion that a big battle will be fought next
day at a certain spot; some other person catches a portion of the
conversation, and promptly tells his neighbour that a big battle has taken
place at the spot mentioned. A little later a passing train pulls up at
that camp, and a party possessing a picturesque and vivid imagination at
once informs the guard that a fearful fight has occurred, in which a
General, a Colonel, twelve subs., and six hundred men have been killed on
our side, with fourteen hundred wounded and nine hundred prisoners. The
Boer losses are generally estimated at something like five times that
number.

The guard tells the tale later on to some traveller, who embellishes it,
and passes it along as a fact. He goes into details, tells harrowing
stories concerning hair-raising escapes from shot and shell. He splashes
the surrounding rocks with gouts of blood, and then shudders dismally at
the sight his fancy has conjured up. When the thrilled listener has
refreshed the tale-teller from his whisky flask, the romancist takes up the
thread of his narrative once more, and tells how the Lancers thundered over
the shivering veldts in pursuit of flying hordes of foemen, and for awhile,
like some graveyard ghoul, he revels in the moans of the dying and the
blood of the slain. Another pull at the flask sets him going again like
clockwork, and he makes a vivid picture out of the thunder of the guns as
our gallant (they are always gallant) fellows bombarded the enemy from the
heights.

Then he switches off from the artillery, and tells a blood-curdling tale of
Boer treachery and cowardice. He tells how the enemy held out the white
flag to coax our men to stop firing. Then, in awe-inspiring tones, he sobs
forth a tale of dark and dismal war, how our soldiers respected the white
flag and rested on their arms, only to be mowed down by a withering rifle
fire from the canaille who represent the enemy in the field. Having got so
far, he does not feel justified in stopping until he has thrown in some
flowery language concerning a Boer cannonade upon British ambulance
waggons, full of wounded; from that he drifts by easy and natural stages to
Dum-Dum bullets, and the robbing of the wounded, and insults to the slain.
And that is very often the person who is quoted in newspaper interviews--as
a gentleman who was an eye-witness, and etc., etc., etc.

And yet, for some reason which I have been unable to gauge, the military
authorities talk of sending all correspondents away from the front. It
seems to me that it would be far better to give _bona fide_ newspaper
men every reasonable opportunity of discovering the truth instead of
hampering them in any way. I fail to see why Great Britain and her Colonies
should be kept in the dark concerning the progress of the war, for all the
foreign Powers will be well supplied with information from the Boer lines;
and, if we are blocked, some at least of the British newspapers will most
assuredly go to foreign sources for news, if they are not allowed to obtain
it for themselves. Others will content themselves with news gathered
haphazard, and the last state of the Army, as far as the public mind is
concerned, will be far worse than the first.

Colonel Hoad, who commands the Australians at Enslin, has offered the seven
hundred and sixteen men, who up to date have acted as infantry, to the
authorities as mounted infantry, and the offer has been accepted, much to
the delight of the men, all of whom are very eager to get into the saddle,
as they imagine that when their mounts arrive they will get a chance to go
into action. They have been practising horsemanship during the day, and did
fairly well, as many of them are expert riders, many more are fair; but a
few of them are more at home on a sand-heap than in a saddle. There are not
many of the latter kind, however. They will soon knock into shape, for
Colonel Hoad hates the sight of a slovenly horseman as badly as a duck
hates a dust storm. He is an untiring rider himself, and will work the
beggars who cannot ride until they can.

After the arrival in Capetown of the two celebrated soldiers, Lords Roberts
and Kitchener, I made it my business to converse with as many Boers as
possible in regard to the two Generals, and was astonished to find how much
they knew concerning them. How, and from whom, they get information passes
my comprehension, but the fact remains that they knew all over the country
as soon, if not sooner, than we did that our great leaders had arrived.
They do not seem to fear them, though they invariably speak of them as
wonderful soldiers. "God and Oom Paul Kruger will look after us," is their
creed. Their faith in President Kruger is simply boundless. Not only do
they fancy that he is a man of dauntless courage, great sagacity, and
indomitable will, but they really seem to think that he has God's special
blessing concerning this war.

He is to the Boers what Mahomet was to the wild tribesmen of Arabia, and it
is as impossible to shake their faith in him as it would be to shake their
faith in the story of Mount Calvary. It is all very well for a certain
class of writers to attempt to cast unbounded ridicule upon these men and
their leader, but it is not by ridicule that they can be conquered. It is
not by contemptuous utterances or by untrue reports that they can be
overcome. It is not by belittling them that we can raise ourselves in the
eyes of the men of to-day or ennoble ourselves upon the pages of history.
It would be conduct more in accordance with the traditions of a great
nation if we gave them credit for the virtues they possess and the courage
they display.

It is hard to drag any sort of information from a Boer, whether bond or
free, but from what I can pick up they are perfectly satisfied with what
they have done up to date. They think that President Kruger has astonished
the world, and they wag their heads, and give one to understand that the
same old gentleman has a good many more surprises in store for us. It is
impossible to get a direct statement of any kind from them, but by patching
fragments together I incline to the opinion that they really count on Cape
Colony rising when Kruger wants a rising. Personally, from my own limited
observations, I would not give a fig of tobacco for the alleged loyalty of
the Cape Colony. If I am correct, this "surprise" will give the enemy an
additional force of 45,000 men, most of whom will be found able to ride
well and shoot straight.

It is nonsense to say that they will only form a mob destitute of
discipline and unprovided with officers. They will not be a mob, they will
be guerilla soldiers of the same type that the North and South in America
provided, and they will take a lot of whipping at their own peculiar
tactics. As for officers--well, up to date, they have not gone short of
them. It is true they do not bear the hallmark of any modern university,
but they know how to lead men into battle, all the same. They wear no
uniforms, neither do they adorn themselves with any of the stylish
trappings of war, but they are brainy, resourceful men, highly useful if
not ornamental. Like Oliver Cromwell's hard-faced "Roundheads," they are
the children of a great emergency, not much to look at, but full of a "get
there" quality, which many school-bred soldiers lack entirely.

I rode down to Belmont a couple of days ago, and had a look at the
Canadians and Queenslanders, who are quartered there. They are all in
excellent health and spirits, and seem to be just about hungry for a fight.
The Munsters, who are quartered there, are simply spoiling for a brush with
the enemy, and seem to be as full of ginger as any men I have ever seen.

And every one of them with whom I conversed--and I chatted with a good many
of the burly young Irishmen--expressed a keen desire to meet in open fight
the Irish brigade now fighting on the side of the Boers. Should it ever
come to pass during the progress of the war, I devoutly hope that I may be
handy to witness the struggle. It will not be a long-range fight if I am
any judge of men and things; it will be settled at close quarters, and the
"baynit and the butt" will play a prominent part in the _melee_.

A few of our New Zealand fellows got to close quarters with the enemy
recently up Colesberg way, and they did just as we knew they would when it
came to the crossing of steel. The Boers stormed the position, and the New
Zealanders joined in the bayonet charge which drove them back. Our men had
a couple killed and one or two wounded. The enemy left a goodish number of
dead on the field when they retired, about thirty of whom met their fate at
the bayonet's point. The British losses were small. There was nothing
remarkable about the behaviour of the New Zealanders in action; they simply
did coolly and well what they were ordered to do, and proved that they are
quite as good fighting material as anything the Old Country can produce.
The gravest misfortune which has yet befallen any of the Australians
happened at the same locality, when eighteen New South Welshmen allowed
themselves to be pinned in a tight place. Eight escaped, but the others are
either prisoners or killed. We do not like the surrender business, and
would rather see our men do as their fathers and grandfathers used to
do--bite the motto, "No surrender," into the butts of their rifles with
their teeth, and fight their way out of a hot corner. There has been a good
deal too much of this throwing up of arms during the present campaign, and
I hope that we shall hear less of it in the future.

We had a nasty night here at Enslin. Word reached our headquarters that
three thousand mounted Boers were on the move towards our camp, which, for
strategic purposes, is the most important between Methuen's column and De
Aar. If the enemy could take Enslin they could make things very awkward for
General Methuen, because they would then have him between two fires. As
soon as the news came our fellows, with the Gordons, were ordered to occupy
the surrounding heights. All night long, and well on into the day, we held
them until we learned that the enemy had decided not to attack us. Had they
done so they would have paid bitterly for their rashness, for the place is
practically impregnable. A thousand resolute and skilful men, who knew how
to use both rifle and bayonet, could hold the place against 20,000 of the
finest troops in the world, providing the defenders were not hopelessly
crushed by an immense artillery force.

General Hector Macdonald went through here the other day to take the
command of the Highland Brigade, in the place of the late General Wauchope.
The "Scots" who were with us lined up and gave the General a thrilling
welcome, whilst our fellows, who are not usually demonstrative, crowded
around the railway line to get a look at the brilliant soldier who, by
sheer merit, dauntless pluck, and iron resolution, forced his way from the
ranks to the high place he holds. The Australians had expected to see a
gaunt, prematurely aged man, war-worn and battle-broken, and were surprised
to see a dashing, gallant-looking man, who might in appearance comfortably
have passed for five-and-thirty. The grey-clad men, in soft slouch hats,
from the land of the Southern Cross, lounging about with pipes in their
teeth, did not break into hysterical cheering--they are not built that way;
they simply looked at the man whose full history every one of them knew as
well as he knew the way into the front door of a "pub." But their flashing
eyes and clenched hands told in language more eloquent than a salvo of
cheers that this was their ideal man, the man they would follow rifle in
hand up the brimstone heights of hell itself, if need be; aye, and stand
sentry there until the day of judgment, if Hector Macdonald gave the order.





AUSTRALIA ON THE MOVE.

RENSBURG.


A complete change has come to the Australians who are in Africa under
Colonel Hoad. We have left General Methuen's column, and joined that of
General French. Formerly we were at Enslin, within sound of the guns that
were fired daily at Magersfontein; now we are two hundred and twenty miles
away, and are within easy patrolling distance of Colesberg.

Before we left Methuen's column we had one small night affair, which,
however, did not amount to a great deal, though it has been very much
exaggerated in local newspaper circles, and will, I fear, be unduly boomed
in some of the Australian journals. The whole affair simply amounted to
this. One hundred of the Victorian Mounted Rifles went out to make a
demonstration towards Sunnyside, in Cape Colony, where a number of rebels
were known to congregate. A hundred Queenslanders and Canadians were with
them, when a corporal and a trooper of the Victorians saw an unarmed Boer
and a nigger riding towards them in the twilight. The Boer, as soon as he
was challenged, wheeled his horse and rode off at a gallop; our men rode
after the runaway, but would not fire upon the white man because they
thought he was simply a farmer who had got rather a bad scare at meeting
armed men.

The Boer, however, played a deep game; he rode for a bit of a rise composed
of broken ground, where, unknown to our scouts, a party of rebels lay
concealed. As soon as the flying rebel was in safety the Boers opened fire,
shooting Peter Falla, the trooper, twice through the arm, one bullet
entering a few inches below the shoulder, the other shattering the bone a
little way above the elbow. The corporal got away safely, taking his
wounded comrade with him. Our fellows rode out and swept the veldt for
miles, but saw no more of the enemy. So ended what has grandiloquently been
termed "an Australian engagement," which, I may add, is just the kind of
flapdoodle our troopers do not want. What they most desire on earth at
present is an opportunity to show what they are made of. They don't want
cheap newspaper puffs, nor laudatory speeches from generals. They want to
get into grip with the enemy, and, as an Australian, let me say now that
Imperial federation will get a greater shock by keeping these fine fellows
out of action than by anything else that could happen under heaven. They
did not come here on a picnic party, they did not come for a circus; they
don't want a lot of maudlin sentiment wasted on them whilst they stay out
of the firing line to mind the jam, or give the African girls a treat.

Mr. Chamberlain has made a good many mistakes in regard to the war,
mistakes that will live in history when his very name is forgotten, but he
need not add to them by alienating Australian sentiment by coddling men who
came across the Indian Ocean to prove to the whole world that on the field
of battle they are as good as their sires. Our fellows have got hold of a
rumour (the prophets only could tell whence camp rumours originate) that
instructions have been received from England that they are to be kept out
of danger, and a madder lot of men you could not find anywhere between here
and Tophet. They wanted to send a petition to Lord Roberts asking to be
allowed to face the enemy, but though the officers are quite as sore as the
men, they could not permit such a breach of discipline. So now the men ease
their feelings by jeering at each other.

"What are we here fer, Bill?"

"Oh, get yer head felt; any fool knows why we are here. There's a blessed
marmalade factory somewhere about, and we are going to mind it whilst the
British Tommy does the fighting."

"Marmalade be d----!" chirruped a voice down the lines. "Think they'd trust
us to look after anything so important?"

"Oh, you're a blessed prophet, you are," snarls the little bugler. "P'raps
you'll tell us what our game is."

"Easy enough, little 'un. Our officers 've got to practise making mud maps
in the dust with a stick, and we've got to fool around and keep the flies
away."

"I suppose they'll keep us at this till the war's over, and then send us to
England, 'nd give us a bloomin' medal, 'nd tell us then we are gory,
crimson heroes. Ugh!" grunts a big West Australian with a face like a
nightmare, and a voice that comes out of his chest with a sound like a
steam saw coming through a wet log.

"Don't know about England 'nd the medal, 'Beauty,'" chirrups a Sydney
gunner, "but I know what they'll give us in Australia if we go back without
a fight."

"P'raps it'll be a mansion, or a sheep station, or a stud of racehorses,"
meekly suggests a tired-looking South Australian, with a derisive twist of
his under lip.

"No, they won't present us with a racing stud," lisps the gunner, "but, by
G----, they'll shy chaff enough at us to keep all the bloomin' horses
between 'ere and 'ell, and the girls will send us a kid's feedin' bottle,
as a mark of feelin' and esteem, every Valentine's Day for ten years to
come, because of the glorious name we made for Australia on the bloody
fields of war in Africa."

"Fields o' war--fields o' whisky 'nd watermelons! Oh, d---- it! I'm going
ter stop writing ter my girl before she writes ter tell me that a white
feather don't suit a girl's complexion in Australia."

He lifts his bugle, and sounds "Feed up" so savagely that the horses strain
on their leg ropes and kick themselves into a lather as hot as their
riders' tempers, the long, loose-limbed troopers move off, cursing
artistically in their beards at the very thought of the roasting they will
get from the witty-tongued, red-lipped girls of Australia, when--


They cross the rolling ocean,
Back from the fields of war,
To show the British medal
They got for guarding a store.

To show the British medal
On stations, towns, and farms,
They got for guarding the marmalade,
Far away from war's alarms.

To show the British medal,
With a blush of angry shame,
For which they went to risk their lives
In young Australia's name.

To show the British medal,
With a sneer that's half a sob,
Ere they pawn it to their uncle,
And go and drink the "bob."


When we received notice to move away from Enslin down the line through
Graspan, Belmont, Orange River, to De Aar, our fellows were naturally very
wrathful; they had done splendid work for many weeks up that way; they had
dug trenches, sunk wells, drilled unceasingly; they had watched the kopjes
and scoured the veldt, and all that they were told to do they did like
soldiers--readily and uncomplainingly. The cold nights and the scorching
days, the monotonous drudgery, found them always ready and willing, because
they believed that when the order came for a great battle at Magersfontein,
or an onward march to Kimberley, they would be in the thick of it. But for
some reason, known only to those who gave the order, they were sent away
from the front, and they felt it keenly. From De Aar they were sent on to
Naauwpoort, and from this latter place they were forwarded on to Rensburg.

At Naauwpoort nearly all the Australians were mounted, and now acted as
mounted infantry. The horses supplied are Indian ponies, formerly used by
the Madras Cavalry. They are a first-class lot of cattle, well suited to
the work that lies before them, and have evidently been selected by someone
who knows his business a good deal better than a great number of his
colleagues. General French inspected the men at Rensburg during the first
day or two, and seemed fairly well satisfied with them, though, of course,
they did not make a first-class show in their initial efforts on horseback.
A great number of them rode well, but very few of them had ever gone
through a course of mounted drill, and it will take a week or two to knock
them into shape for this work; though, when once out of the saddle, they
are not in any way inferior to the best British regiments I have seen. But
they are keen to learn, and very willing, so that I expect to see them make
wonderfully rapid strides towards efficiency as mounted men. They seem to
feel that their only chance to get a fight is to become high grade
soldiers, and to that end they will stand all the work that can be crowded
into them. I have no idea what their future movements will be, nor do I
think anyone else connected with the regiment has; but one thing seems
certain, that sooner or later they will fall foul of the enemy in small
skirmishing parties, as the kopjes for a length of twenty miles are
infested by little bands of Boers, who have a knack of disappearing as soon
as a British force draws near them, only, however, to crop up again in a
fresh place, a short distance away.

For the Boer is a past master in this kind of warfare, and knows how to
play his own game to perfection. What the Goorkha is in Indian warfare, so
the Boer is in Africa. He does not fight in our style, but that does not
say that he cannot fight, neither does it argue that he is devoid of
courage. As a matter of fact, the more I have seen of this country, and
note what the Boers have done in opposition to all the might of Great
Britain, the more I am impressed with the idea that our alleged
Intelligence Department wants cutting down and burning root and branch, for
it must have been absolutely rotten, or unquestionably corrupt. We were led
by members of this Department to believe that the Boer was a cowardly kind
of veldt pariah, a degenerate offshoot of a fine old parent stock. Well,
the Boer is nothing of the kind. He is not in any way degenerate. He is a
good fighting man, according to his lights. He does not wear a stand-up
collar, nor an eyeglass, nor spats to his veldtschoon. He does not talk
with a silly lisp or an inane drawl. Therefore, the useless fellows whom
Britain trusted with the important task of watching him and sizing him up
counted him as a boor as well as a Boer--a mere country clod. But now, from
the rocky hills, these clods, these sons of semi-white savages, laugh at us
derisively, and answer our jeers with rifles that know how to speak in a
language that even the bravest of our troops have learnt to understand--and
respect.

I have a keen recollection of the last Franco-Prussian War. I remember how
the English newspapers ridiculed the French military authorities because,
whilst the Germans had accurate maps of every province within the French
borders, the French themselves were grossly ignorant of their own
territory. Now we can eat our own sarcasms and enjoy the bitter fruit of
our own irony, for, thanks to the Intelligence Department connected with
the War Office in Great Britain, we to-day stand precisely in the same
position towards our African enemy as France did towards Prussia. A glance
at the country through which I have recently passed shows only too clearly
that, whilst Paul Kruger and his advisers knew our full strength to a man,
we, on our part, knew nothing about him or the men, money, or ordnance at
his command. We knew nothing of the country which had been patiently
fortified by the best skilled military engineers in Europe. We know nothing
of his rocky, well-fortified country, which lies behind that which we have
already attacked. Our generals, instead of being supplied with maps
covering every inch of country within the enemy's borders, have to gather
information at the bayonet's point at a loss to the Empire in men, money,
and in prestige. If our commanders blunder, who is to blame but the
criminally negligent officials who have supplied them with false or foolish
data to work upon? The Empire has been betrayed, either wilfully or through
crass idleness upon the part of men who have dipped deeply into the
Empire's coffers, and the nation should demand their impeachment, apart
from their position, place, or power, and punishment of the most drastic
kind should follow speedily in the footsteps of impeachment.

The failure of General Buller to relieve Ladysmith was not due to any want
of sagacity on the part of that General. It was not due to any want of
bravery on the part of his troops. The General is worthy of his rank, and
worthy of the confidence of the nation, and his troops are as good as the
men who, under the same flag, taught the Russians to respect the power of
Britain. The cause of the failure lay mainly in the want of knowledge on
our part concerning the strength of the country the Boers held, and the
strength of the country they had to fall back upon when hard pressed.

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