Title: On the Heels of De Wet
Author: Officer, The Intelligence
Language: English
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ON THE HEELS OF DE WET

by

THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER



William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
MCMII



_ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.'_



FOREWORD.


This short history is an amplification of a diary kept by the author
during the late war, which amplification, through the courtesy of the
editor, was published as a series of papers in 'Blackwood's Magazine.'
The author is well aware of the shortcomings of his work, which he
presents to the public in all humility, after asking pardon from such
of the performers on his stage as may see through the slight veil of
anonymity in which it has been attempted to enshroud them. If any
should think the few criticisms which have crept into the text unjust,
will they bear in mind that the regimental officer has suffered, in
silence, much for the sins of others. It is the author's conviction
that cases were rare when the ship did not sail true enough: in the
beginning she may have badly wanted cleaning below the water line, but
she never failed to answer her helm. It was more often the man at the
helm than the sailing quality of the vessel that was at fault, and the
marvel is that she was of sufficiently tough construction to be able
to stand the stress incurred by indifferent seamanship.



CONTENTS.


                                                        PAGE
   I. THE BIRTH OF THE BRIGADE                             1

  II. THE MEET!                                           15

 III. BEE-LINE TO BRITSTOWN                               45

  IV. THE FIRST CHECK                                     75

   V. A NEW CAST                                         103

  VI. A POOR SCENT                                       133

 VII. "POTTERING"                                        155

VIII. STILL POTTERING                                    184

  IX. TO A NEW COVERT!                                   214

   X. JOG-TROT                                           246

  XI. FULL CRY                                           292

      L'ENVOI                                            344



ON THE HEELS OF DE WET.



I.

THE BIRTH OF THE BRIGADE.


"De Aar," and the Africander guard flung himself out of his brake-van.

De Aar! After forty-eight hours of semi-starvation in a brake-van, the
name of the junction, in spite of the ill-natured tones which gave
voice to it, sounded sweeter than the chimes of bells. It meant relief
from confinement in a few square feet of board; relief from a
semi-putrid atmosphere--oil, unwashed men, and stale tobacco-smoke;
relief from the delicate attentions of a surly Africander guard, who
resented the overcrowding of his van; relief from the pangs of
hunger; relief from the indescribable punishments of thirst.

Yet at its best De Aar is a miserable place. Not made--only thrown at
the hillside, and allowed by negligence and indifference to slip into
the nearest hollow. Too far from the truncated kopjes to reap any
benefit from them. Close enough to feel the radiation of a
sledge-hammer sun from their bevelled summits--close enough to be the
channel, in summer, of every scorching blast diverted by them; in
winter, every icy draught. Pestilential place, goal of whirlwinds and
dust-devils, ankle-deep in desert drift--prototype of Berber in a
sandstorm--as comfortless by night as day. But as in nature, so in the
handiwork of men, even in the most repulsive shapes it is possible to
find some saving feature. De Aar has one--one only. Its saving feature
is where a slatternly Jew boy plays host behind the bar of a
fly-ridden buffet. Here at prices which, except that it is a campaign,
would be prohibitive, you can purchase food and drink.

But at night it is not an easy place to find. The station is full of
trains, and, arriving by a supply-train, you are discharged at some
remote siding. A dozen wheeled barricades--open trucks, groaning
bogies piled with war material--separate you from the platform. You
dare not climb over the couplings between the waggons, for engines are
attached, and the trains jolt backwards and forwards apparently
without aim or warning. Up over an open truck! You roll on to the top
of sleeping men, and bark your shins against a rifle. Curses follow
you as you clamber out, and drop into the middle way. A clear line.
No,--down pants an armoured train, a leviathan of steel plates and
sheet-iron. You let it pass, and dash for the next barricade. Thank
heaven! this is a passenger train. As it is lighted up like a grand
hotel you will be able to hoist yourself over the footboards and
through a saloon--"Halt! who goes there?" and you recoil from the
point of a naked bayonet. "Can't help it, orficer or no orficer, this
is Lord Kitchener's special, and you can't pass here!" It is no use.
Another wide detour; more difficulties, other escapes from moving
trains, and at last you find the platform.

De Aar platform at night. If the management at Drury Lane ever wished
to enact a play called "Chaos," the setting for their best scene could
not better a night on De Aar platform. Each day this Clapham Junction
of Lord Kitchener's army dumps down dozens of men, who are forced for
an indefinite period to use the station as a home--tons and tons of
army litter and a thousand nondescript details. The living lie about
the station in magnificent confusion--white men, Kaffirs, soldiers,
prisoners, civilians. A brigadier-general waiting for the night mail
will be asleep upon one bench, a skrimshanking Tommy, who has
purposely lost his unit, on the next. Even Kitchener's arrival can
work no cleansing of De Aar. It only adds to the confusion by
condensation of the chaos into a more restricted and less public area.

But our first needs are animal. Stumbling over prostrate forms,
cannoning against piles of heterogeneous gear, we make the buffet. A
flood of light, the buzz of voices, and the hum of myriads of
disturbed flies, and we live again. Filthy cloths, stained
senna-colour with the spilt food and drink of months, an atmosphere
reeking like a "fish-snack" shop, a dozen to twenty dishevelled and
dirty men of all ranks clamouring for food, two slovenly half-caste
wenches. That is all, yet this is life to the man off "trek." There is
even a fascination in an earthenware plate, though its surface shows
the marks of the greasy cloth and dirty fingers of the servitors.

A lieutenant-general and his staff have a table to themselves; we find
a corner at the main board, where the meaner sit. After food, news. De
Wet has invaded the Colony with 3000 men. He was fighting with Plumer
to-day at Philipstown. Then we begin to understand why we were
summoned to De Aar. The little horse-gunner major, who vouchsafed the
news, had just arrived with his battery from somewhere on the
Middelburg-Komati line. Five days on the train and his horses only
watered four times. That was nothing at this period of the war, when
the average mounted man was not blamed if he killed three horses in a
month. The major did not know his destination or what column he was to
join. Delightful uncertainty! All he knew was that his battery was
boxed up in a train outside the buffet, and that it would start for
somewhere in half an hour. It might be destined for Mafeking, or it
might be for Beaufort West; but he was ready to lay 2 to 1 that within
six weeks his battery would be on the high seas India bound. Wise were
the men who took up this bet, for the little major and his battery are
in South Africa to this day.

Food over, it was necessary once more to face the maze of De Aar
platform. It may seem strange, but when you are on duty bound, it is
easier, once the right platform is gained, to find the officials at
midnight than in the day. Under martial law few travellers have
lights; fewer are allowed, or have the desire, to burn them on the
platform. Consequently a light after midnight generally means an
official trying to overtake the work which has accumulated during the
day.

"Railway Staff Officer? Yes, sir, straight in here, sir."

A very pale youth, in the cleanest of kit, whitest of collars, and
with the pinkest of pink impertinences round his cap and neck. He
never looked up from the paper on which he was writing as he opened
the following conversation--

_Pale Youth._ "What can I do for you?"

_Applicant._ "I am here under telegraphic instructions."

_P. Y. (taking telegram proffered)_ "Never heard of you."

_A._ "You must have some record of that wire!"

_P. Y._ "I never sent it. It must have been sent by the Railway Staff
Officer. He's asleep now. Come back in the morning and see him!"

_A. (furiously)_ "You d----d young cub!--is this the way you treat
your seniors? What do you belong to?"

_P. Y. (Jumping up nervously)_ "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I thought
you were one of those helpless Yeomanry officers. They are the plague
of our lives. I will go and wake the R.S.O." [_Disappears. Returns in
five minutes._]

_P. Y._ "The R.S.O. says that you must report to the office of the
line of communications. They may have orders about you. You will find
the brigade-major in a saloon carriage on the third siding outside the
Rosmead line." [_Salutes._]

We go out into the night again, wondering if perdition can equal De
Aar for miserable discomfort, and De Aar officialdom for
inconsequence. The third siding, indeed! It was an hour before the
saloon was found in that labyrinth of cast-iron.

The brigade-major was there, a wretched worn object of a man, plodding
by the eccentric light of a tallow dip through the day's telegrams.
Poor wretch! he earns his pittance as thoroughly as any of us do.
Again we drew blank. "Never heard of you." All we could get out of him
was, "You had better bed down in the station and await events." Poor
devil! so worn with work and worry that he looked as if a simple
little De Aar dust-devil would snap his backbone if it touched him. So
we were turned adrift again in the old iron heap to swell the army of
vagrants who live by their wits upon the communications.

It was about two in the morning before we found our servants. The
soldier servant is a jewel--but a jewel with some blemishes. If you
tell him to do anything "by numbers," he will do it splendidly; but he
does not consider it part of his duty to think for himself,
consequently you have always to think both for yourself and your
servant, and that is why on this occasion we found ours sitting on our
rolls of bedding at the far end of the platform. It had never struck
them that we should want to sleep in a place like De Aar. Disgusted,
we tried the hotel. Here they loosed dogs on us and turned out the
guard. Still more disgusted, we returned to our bedding, and sardined
in with the ruck and rubbish on the platform.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sunrise in South Africa. The sun knows how to rise on the veldt. When
first seen it is as good as a tonic. It makes one feel joyous at the
mere fact of being alive. But this feeling wears off with a week's
trekking, especially when the season gets colder, or a night-march has
miscarried. Then you never wish to see the sun rise again. There was a
time when a man who boasted that he had never seen the sun rise was
branded as a lazy sloth, an indolent good-for-nothing, who willingly
missed half the pleasures of life. After twenty months continuous
trekking in South Africa one is not sure that one's opinions on this
subject fall into line with those of the majority. For after a baker's
dozen of sunrises one has generally reached that state when the
greatest natural pleasure is found inside rather than outside of a
sleeping-bag. But in spite of the general detestation in which De Aar
is held, the neighbouring hills furnish, in the quickening light of
dawn, studies in changing colour so voluptuous, varied, and fantastic
that the wonder is that all the artists in the world have not
fore-gathered at the place. But familiarity with all this beauty
reduces it to a commonplace. It just becomes part of the monotony of
your daily life, especially if you have, as we had that morning, to
wait your turn before you could wash, at the waste-water drippings
from a locomotive feed-pump. Here you fought for a place, jostled by
men who at home would have stepped off the pavement and saluted. But
after a few months of war, at a washing-pump there is little by which
you can distinguish officers from men, unless the former have their
tunics on. From the washtub to _chota haziri_. The buffet is not yet
open, but a dilapidated Kaffir woman on the platform is doling out at
sixpence a time a mess of treacle-like consistency which is called
coffee. What would you think if you could catch a glimpse of us? What
would the bright little maid who brings in the tea in the morning say,
if she could see us now? Certainly if we came to the front-door she
would slam it in our faces, and threaten us with the police!

But we must be up and doing. It is an extraordinary day at De Aar.
Every one is bustling about. Staff popinjays hurry up and down the
platform. Stout elderly militia colonels, who would never be up and
dressed at this hour in ordinary circumstances, are heckling the
R.S.O., who has more starch in his tunic than has ever been seen in a
tunic before. What does it all mean? Then we remember the naked
bayonet of the previous night. Lord Kitchener is at De Aar. Oh, Hades!

We feel his presence, but it is not long before we see him. How he
must worry his tailor. Tall and well-proportioned above, he falls away
from his waist downwards. It is this lower weediness which evidently
troubles the man who fashions his clothes. But it is his face we look
at. That cold blue eye which is the basilisk of the British Army. The
firm jaw and the cruel mouth, of which we read in 1898. But presumably
this is only the stereotyped "military hero" that the papers always
keep "set up" for the advent of successful generals. None of it was
visible here. A round, red, and somewhat puffy face. Square head with
staff cap set carelessly upon it. Heavy moustaches covering a somewhat
mobile mouth, at the moment inclined to smile. Eyes just anyhow;
heavy, but not overpowering eyebrows. In fact, a very ordinary face of
a man scarcely past his prime. Hardly a figure that you would have
remarked if it had not been for the gilt upon his hat--in fact it was
all a disappointing discovery. He was pacing up and down with his
hands on his hips, and elbows pointing backwards, talking
good-naturedly to a colonel man, who was evidently just off "trek,"
and with his overgrown gait and ponderous step the great Kitchener
did not look half as imposing as his travel-stained companion.

The chief was explaining something to the colonel. They paced up and
down together for a few minutes, then stopped just in front of us, and
the conversation was as follows:--

_Chief._ "All right; I will soon find you a staff. Let me see; you
have a brigade-major?"

_Colonel._ "Yes; but he is at Hanover Road!"

_Chief._ "That's all right; you will collect him in good time. You
want a chief for your staff. Here, you (_and he beckoned a colonel in
palpably just-out-from-England kit, who was standing by_); what are
you doing here? You will be chief of the staff to the New Cavalry
Brigade!"

_New Colonel._ "But, sir--"

_Chief._ "That's all right. (_Reverting to his original attitude._)
Now you want transport and supply officers. See that depot over there?
(_nodding his head towards the De Aar supply depot._) Go and collect
them there--quote me as your authority. There you are fitted up; you
can round up part of your brigade to-night and be off at daybreak
to-morrow. Wait; you will want an intelligence officer. (_Here he
swung round and ran his eye over the miscellaneous gathering of all
ranks assembled on the platform. He singled out a bedraggled officer
from amongst the group who had arrived the preceding night in the van
of the ill-natured Africander guard._) What are you doing here?"

_Officer._ "Trying to rejoin, sir."

_Chief._ "Where have you come from?"

_Officer._ "Deelfontein--convalescent, sir."

_Chief._ "You'll do. You are intelligence officer to the New Cavalry
Brigade. Here's your brigadier; you will take orders from him.
(_Turning again to the colonel and holding out his hand._) There you
are; you are fitted out. Mind you move out of Richmond Road to-morrow
morning without fail. Good-bye!"



II.

THE MEET!


The driver leaned out of the cab of his engine and gave the brigadier
a little of his mind.

"Look here, I am a civilian; I know my duties. I had my eight bogies
on, and by the rights of things I had no business to take on your
beastly truck--and now I tell you that the line is not safe, and here
I stay for the night. Bear in mind that you are now dealing with
civilian driver John Brown, and he knows his duties."

"My hearty fellow!" answered the brigadier, who had commanded a
Colonial corps too long to be put out by "back-chat" from a
representative of the most independent class in the world, "that is
not the point. If we were all to do our duty rigidly to the letter, we
should get no forwarder. It is not a matter of saving this train, it
is a matter of a gentleman keeping his word. I have given my word that
I will march out of Richmond Road to-morrow at daybreak. You wouldn't
like it on your conscience that not only had you made a pal break his
word, but you had also been the means of leaving a gap in the line for
De Wet. Duty be hanged in the Imperial cause! What did Nelson do at
the battle of Copenhagen? Now this is just a parallel: I know that you
are loyal and sportsman to the backbone; I want you to be the Nelson
of this 'crush.' I know I can't order you--but I know that you are a
sportsman, and as a sportsman you will not give me away. Look here, I
am just going into the telegraph-office for ten minutes. Think it over
while I'm there!"

The driver's face was a study, and as for Fireman Jack, he just smiled
all over his dirty countenance. There is only one way to a Colonial's
heart, and you must be shod with velvet to get there. We then
adjourned to the little shanty that served Deelfontein for a
stationmaster's office. We--that is such of the staff of the New
Cavalry Brigade as the brigadier had been able to collect in De Aar.

"Where's a map?" asked the brigadier. The chief of the staff looked at
the intelligence officer. The intelligence officer looked at the
supply officer. A map! No one had ever seen a map. But a "Briton and
Boer" chart had been part of the chief of the staff's home outfit, and
after considerable fumbling it was produced from his bulging
haversack.

"Well, you are a fine lot of 'was-birds' with which to run a brigade:
but this will do. Now, Mr Intelligence, jot down this wire:--

  "_From O.C. New Cavalry Brigade to O.C. first squadron 20th
      Dragoon Guards to arrive at Richmond Road._


    "On receipt move with all military precautions at once to Klip
    Kraal, twenty-six miles on the Britstown Road. I will follow
    to-morrow morning. Look out for helio. communication on your
    left, as another column is moving parallel to you to the south."

"There," said the brigadier, "we have got over that difficulty, and
anticipated Kitchener's orders by twelve hours. May Providence protect
those raw dragoons if old Hedgehog[1] is in the vicinity. Three days
off a ship and to meet Hedgehog is a big thing!"

The dirty and smiling face of Fireman Jack was poked in at the
doorway.

"Please, sir, the driver says as how he is ready to move, and would
like to start as soon as possible."

"Hearty fellow!" said the brigadier; and then as we climbed into our
saloon again he added: "There is only one way of treating these
fellows. Treat them as men and they are of the very best on earth;
combat them, and they won't move a yard. Some one at De Aar ordered an
extra truck on to this man's train, and he has been sulking ever
since. Now that he's on his mettle and emulating Nelson, you will see
that he will bustle us along. Nothing but a dynamite cartridge will
stop him. My fellows in Natal were just the same."

Two hours later, just before it was dark, we ran into Richmond Road.
The driver jumped off his engine and strode across the platform.
"General," he said, with the frank familiarity of the Colonial, "I
should just like to say that I had shaken hands with you. I wish that
there were more like you; we should all be better men. Good-bye and
good luck to you, sir!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It is not intended in these papers to compile a historical record of
the operations in South Africa to which they relate. But in order that
the part which the New Cavalry Brigade played in the campaign which
arrested De Wet's invasion in February 1901 may be intelligible, and
in order that the readers may better understand the peregrinations of
our own particular unit, it may be expedient here to give a brief
outline of the initial scheme which, sound as it may have appeared,
within twenty-four hours of its birth became enshrouded in the usual
fog of war. After outlining the scheme all we can hope is that these
papers may furnish occasional and momentary gleams of light in that
fog, since their object is not to build up contemporary history, but
to furnish a faithful record of the life and working of one of the
pieces on the chess-board of the campaign--a piece which, in this De
Wet hunt, had perhaps the relative importance of a "castle."

   [Illustration: ROUGH SKETCH MAP SHOWING DE WET'S INVASION
   (_from the Note-book of a Staff Officer_)]

De Wet's long-promised invasion--of which Kritzinger's and Hertzog's
descent into Cape Colony had been the weather-signal--was now an
accomplished fact. He had invaded with 2500 to 3000 men and some
artillery. Plumer had located him at Philipstown, had effectually
"bolted" him, and, in spite of heavy weather, had pressed him with the
perseverance of a sleuth-hound in the direction of the De Aar-Orange
River Railway into the arms of two columns in the vicinity of
Hautkraal. A week previous to this, as soon as it was known that De
Wet had evaded the force intended to head him back when moving south
down the Orange River Colony, the railway had been taxed to its utmost
to concentrate troops on the Naauwpoort-De Aar-Beaufort West line. Day
and night troop-trains, bulging with khaki and bristling with rifles,
had vomited columns, detachments, and units at various points upon
this line--Colesberg, Hanover Road, De Aar, Richmond Road, Victoria
West, and Beaufort. Lord Kitchener himself, at a pace which had
wellnigh bleached the driver's hair, had hied down to De Aar in his
armoured train. Plumer had diverted the invasion west, Crabbe and
Henniker and the armoured trains had kicked it over the railway-line.
Kitchener was content. If De Wet followed his jackal Hertzog into the
south-western areas, the columns on the line from De Aar downwards
were to move west as parallel forces and tackle the invader in turn.
Each would run him till exhausted, with a fresh parallel to take up
the running from them as soon as they were done; while at the end,
when the last parallel was played out, De Lisle as a stop stood at
Carnarvon, ready to catch the ripe plum after the tree had been well
shaken. Admirable plan--on paper. Admirable plan if De Wet had only
done what he ought to have done--if he had only allowed himself to be
kicked by each parallel in turn, churned by relays of pom-poms, until
ready to be presented to De Lisle. But De Wet did not do the right
thing. He was no cub to trust to winning an earth by a direct and
obvious line, where pace alone would have killed him. He was an old
grey fox, suspicious even of his own shadow, and he doubled and
twisted: in the meanwhile Plumer ran himself "stone-cold" on his
heels, and the majority of the parallel columns, played by his screen
of "red herrings," countermarched themselves to a standstill. The old,
old story, which needs no expansion here. Admirable plan, if only the
British columns had been as complete at their rendezvous as they
appeared on paper. We were the New Cavalry Brigade--the 21st King's
Dragoon Guards and the 20th Dragoon Guards, just out from home; the
Mount Nelson Light Horse, newly raised in Cape Town; a battery of
R.H.A., and a pom-pom. But where were we. We were due to march out of
Richmond Road at daybreak on the morrow. Two squadrons of the 21st
King's Dragoons and one of the Mount Nelson's were with
Plumer--Providence only knows where--learning the law of the veldt.
The rest of the Mount Nelson's and one squadron of the 21st King's
Dragoons were at Hanover Road. One squadron of the 20th Dragoon Guards
was at Richmond Road; two squadrons were in the train on the way up
from Cape Town. The guns at least had arrived. Yet we were about the
value of a "castle" on the chess-board designed to mate De Wet.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now we shall have to take our coats off."

The brigadier was right. It was no mean affair to arrive at sundown at
a miserable siding in the Karoo, called by courtesy a station, to find
its two parallels of rails blocked with the trucks containing the
nucleus of a cavalry brigade, and to get that nucleus on the road by
daybreak. The supply column was all out, the battery half out--these
were old soldiers; but the two squadrons of 20th Dragoon Guards had
not yet awakened to the situation. The brigadier looked up and down
the platform, gazed a moment at the long tiers of laden trucks, and
then made the above remark.

And we had to take our coats off. The 20th were new but they were
willing; and it is difficult to say which hampers you most, an
over-willing novice or an unwilling expert. You who sit at home and
rail at the conduct of the campaign, rail at the wretched officer,
regimental or staff, little know what is expected of him. You have
your type in your mind's eye--an eyeglass, spotless habiliments, and a
waving sword; you pay him and expect him to succeed. Your one argument
is unanswerable. You place the greatest man that you can select to
guide and cherish him, therefore if he does not succeed it must be
through his own shortcomings. In your impatience you opine that he has
not succeeded. Therefore he must be ignorant, indifferent, and
incompetent. Little do you realise the injustice of your opinion. You
sweat, during a war, an intelligent class--the same class, be it said,
from which the best that your universities can produce is drawn,--you
sweat it as no other educated class would allow itself to be sweated
in the whole civilised world, and yet, though men drop in harness for
you by dozens every month, you turn upon them and revile them. Can you
not appreciate the fact that it is not always the medium, through
which the Great Head you have selected works, that is in error,--that
the pilot's hand may be at fault, and not the steering-gear? Take us
that night at Richmond Road. New troops, new staff, little or no
information, and an order to be in position at a point 50 miles
distant in 36 hours. If bricks have to be made, has not the workman a
right to expect to be supplied with the ingredients? Is the blame
altogether his if, when exposed to the heat of a tropical sun, his
hurriedly constructed clay crumbles to pieces for want of the straw
with which his taskmaster failed to supply him? We think not. But that
night at Richmond Road we had no time to ruminate upon our
difficulties. We had to surmount them, and with our brigadier we took
our coats off and buckled to the job.

Telegrams:--

  1. _To Intelligence, New Cavalry Brigade, Richmond Road, from
      Intelligence, De Aar._

    "You must organise your intelligence locally, impossible to
    supply so many columns with men from here. Will see what can be
    done later. Authorise such expenditure as you think fit."

  2. _To Int. N.C.B. from Int. De Aar._

    "De Wet Expert[2] reports De Wet moving towards Vosberg. Plumer
    still in touch. Hertzog, Brand, Pretorius, all between Prieska
    and Vosberg with large quantities remounts for De Wet. Theron
    has been detached by De Wet, moving south rapidly to join Brand,
    intention attacking Britstown. Local farmers Hanover and
    Victoria West districts collecting to assist invaders. Inform
    New Cavalry Brigade. This wire is repeated to Intelligences
    Victoria West, Carnarvon, Fraserberg, 'Chowder'[3] Cape Town,
    Orange River, Beaufort, and Chief Pretoria."

  3. _From Brigade-Major New Cavalry Brigade, Hanover Road, to O.C.
      N.C.B. Richmond Road._

    "Hope to move out from here to-morrow. No trains available. As
    ordered by you, proceed by road to Britstown. Saddles for Mount
    Nelson's not yet arrived."

  4. _From Ass. Director Transport De Aar to O.C. N.C.B. Richmond
      Road._

    "Impossible to equip you with more mule transport than has been
    forwarded to you; will make up your deficiencies with ox
    transport, which will be waiting for you at Britstown when you
    arrive."

  5. _From O.C. De Aar to O.C. N.C.B. Richmond Road_ (60871).

    "Proceed with extreme caution, as local rebel commando under Van
    der Merwe said to be collected at Nieuwjaarsfontein between you
    and Britstown. As extra precaution you may take the company of
    Wessex Mounted Infantry, stationed at Richmond Road, with you as
    far as Britstown."

  6. (Six hours later) "_Vide_ my 60871. Wessex M.I.
      countermanded."

    These only represent a portion of the communications which were
    waiting for us in the telegraph-office at Richmond Road. But
    they are a fair enough sample to illustrate the difficulties
    with which the brigadier had to contend. The communication about
    the rebel gathering at Nieuwjaarsfontein moved him to moralise.
    "Alas for my advance squadron! If I believed that it were true,
    I would move out at once with what we have got and nab those
    rebels. But as it is I will leave it to the advance squadron,
    and we will supply the burial-party in the morning! Look here,
    Mr Intelligence, you have got to form an Intelligence Department
    to-night. You had better set about it at once."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Intelligence officer walked out into the clearing in front of the
station and surveyed the scene. It was now too dark to see his face;
but there was that something in his attitude that betrayed the feeling
of utter hopelessness which possessed him. It is in just such an
attitude that the schoolmaster detects Smith Major's failure to
prepare his Horace translation before that youth has hazarded a single
word. The Intelligence officer had been ordered to raise an
Intelligence Department for the brigade. Trained in the stern school
of army discipline, he had no choice but to obey. And with this end in
view he left the precincts of the station. Then the absolute
impossibility of the situation dawned upon him. Not a soul was in
sight, and even if there had been, though the powers of the press-gang
officer were vested in him, he did not know a word of the Dutch or
Kaffir tongues. He stood upon the fringe of the gaunt Karoo. On either
hand stretched a waste of lone prairie--a solitude of gathering night.
Out of its deepest shades rose masses of jet-black hill: the ragged
outline of their crests bathed purple and grey in the last effort of
the expiring twilight. Already the great dome of heaven had given
birth to a few weary stars, and but for the shrinking wake of day
still lingering in the west the great desolate pall of night had
fallen upon the veldt--the vast, mysterious, indescribable veldt!

But as treasure-trove is found when the tide is at its lowest ebb, so
often when the wall of impossibility seems an insuperable mass of
concrete, it is found to be the merest paper. As the Intelligence
officer, awed by the great solitude of the sleeping veldt, stood
musing on its fringe, a voice hailed out of the darkness--

"What ho! Whose column is that?"

A moment more and a mounted man cantered up, and a young Africander
threw himself out of the saddle.

"Whose column?" asked the new-comer.

"The New Cavalry Brigade!"

"Not Henniker's?"

"No; who are you?"

"I'm one of Rimington's Tigers.[4] I'm attached to Henniker's column,
and I've been sent down here to round up a man who lives about these
parts!"

"Have you got him?"

"No. Who may you be? Have you got a match?"

The Intelligence officer felt in his pocket, and an inspiration came
to him as he fumbled for the matches.

"How did you see me? I never saw you, and you were against the
sky-line."

"A cigar is a big beacon, old chap!" Then the Tiger struck a light,
and for the first time realised that he was talking to an officer.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought that you were a civilian."

In the short life of the match each had taken stock of the other,--the
one, a pleasant-faced Imperial officer, the other a hard-bitten
Colonial. The Intelligence officer was the first to speak.

"Do you speak Dutch and Kaffir?"

"I do."

"Are you in a giant hurry to get back to Henniker's?"

"I'm not wearing myself out with anxiety."

"Well, look here, we shall probably meet Henniker in the course of the
next few days. Come along with us till we strike your column. I am
Intelligence officer of this brigade, and I want to get together some
sort of an Intelligence gang to-night. We start at 4.30 to-morrow
morning."

"In what capacity do you want me?"

"As my chief guide. Do you know this country?"

"I have often been through it; but I'll soon find some one who does.
Have you got any boys?"[5]

"Not a soul. I've only just this moment arrived!"

"Well, we must have boys. Where are we to go?"

"To Britstown."

"Then we want a white guide and at least four boys. Yes, I'll come,
sir. What's the force?"

"It's an embryo brigade; but when we get it together it will be quite
a handsome force--three regiments and six guns!"

"Any Colonials?"

"Yes, the Mount Nelson Light Horse."

"Never heard of them, but you now want to raise these boys. What kind
of a man are you? Do you go straight in up to the elbows, or do you
play about in kid gloves?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, will you come down to a farm over there, and back me up in
everything that I do? We can get all we want there!"

"I'll back you up in everything that is in accordance with the
exigencies of the service."

"Which means----?"

"That I don't wear kid gloves----?"

"Come along, then; we'll soon round up a gang!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A quarter of a mile brought the two men to the enclosure of a little
Karoo homestead, nestling in a hollow in the veldt. The Tiger was
leading his pony, and after he had tied it to the rail outside, they
walked boldly up to the verandah. They were greeted by an excited dog,
and a minute later the door was opened by a tall cadaverous-looking
youth.

"What do you want?"

The Tiger answered in Dutch. The farmer had evidently seen him before,
as he bridled angrily.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" came the answer. "You have come back again.
Well, I am sorry we have no forage for you!"

"It is not forage I want. Where is your father? Here is an officer who
must see the 'boss.'"

"I tell you the 'boss' is not here. But will not the officer come in.
Good evening, mister, come in here. I will bring a light!"

The two men were shown into a sitting-room, and the youth disappeared.
A moment later a slender girl of about seventeen whisked into the room
with a lamp, put it on the table, and disappeared. But the light had
shone upon her just long enough to show that she was very comely. The
true Dutch type. Flaxen hair, straight forehead and nose, beautiful
complexion, and faded blue eyes. The farm evidently belonged to people
of some substance. The room, after the manner of the Dutch, was well
furnished. Ponderously decorated with the same lack of proportion
which is to be found in an English middle-class lodging-house.
Harmonium and piano in opposite corners,--crude chromos and distorted
prints upon the walls; artificial flowers, anæmic in colouring and
glass-protected, on the shelves; unwieldy albums on the table; coarse
crotchet drapings on the chairs; the Royal Family in startling
pigments as an over-mantel. For the moment one might have fancied that
it was Mrs Scroggins's best parlour in Woburn Square.

After considerable whispering in the passage, the mother of the
family, supported by two grown daughters and three children with
wide-opened eyes, marched into the room.

"Good evening," and there was a limp handshake all round.

The attitude and expression of the good dame was combative. She was
stout, slovenly, and forty. And the first impression was that she had
once been what her pretty daughter was now at seventeen. There is
nothing of the beauty of dignified age in the Dutch woman past her
prime.

"Where is your man?"[6] asked the Tiger.

"He has gone to Richmond to sell the _scaapen_."[7]

"And your sons?"

"I have no sons."

The Tiger threw open the photograph album on the table, and put his
finger on a recent photo of two hairless youths in bandoliers. The
likeness to the good lady in front of us was unmistakable.

"Who are these?"

"My sister's children," came the glib answer.

"Good," said the Tiger, as he slipped the photograph out. "I shall
keep this. Who is the young man who opened the door."

"Bywoner."[8]

"Good; then he can come along with us. How many boys have you on this
farm?"

"They have all gone with my man."

"All right, I am going round to see--bring a candle. All right, don't
make a fuss, my good lady. Don't take that lamp; the officer will stay
here while I go out."

The stout _frau_ produced a piece of paper, and laid it on the table
with all the confidence of a poker-player displaying a Royal Flush.
The Tiger picked it up and read:--

    "This is to certify that Hans Pretorius can be implicitly
    trusted to give all assistance to the military authorities. He
    has furnished the required assurances.

            "(Signed) L----,
             _Resident Magistrate_."

The Tiger held the slip of paper and photograph side by side for a
moment, and then slowly lit the former in the flame of the lamp. The
women and children stood solemnly and watched the blaze. Only the
pretty girl showed any emotion. The faded blue of her eyes seemed to
darken. She said something. It sounded like "hands opper."[9] How the
Dutch hate the English Africander!

The Tiger only laughed as he said, "You wait here, sir, while I go
round the premises. Come along, Mrs Pretorius."

The Intelligence officer had not been alone five minutes before the
door opened and the pretty daughter appeared with a glass of milk on a
tray. The look of indignation had disappeared--a smile lurked on the
pretty features. Now the Intelligence officer was tired and thirsty--a
glass of milk was most refreshing. Moreover, he was an Englishman--a
pretty face was not without its charms for him.

_The Daughter._ "Please, sir, the Kharki[10] is taking Stephanus with
him. You will not let him do that. There will be no one left to look
after the farm and to protect us from the boys."

_Intelligence Officer._ "Who is Stephanus?"

_D._ "He does not stay here; he is" (_then the blue eyes filled with
tears_)--"he is--my sweetheart!"

_I. O._ (_softening_) "But we will not hurt him; you will have him
back in a few days."

_D._ "Who can say? You are going to make him fight, and then I shall
never see him again. Oh, please, sir, don't take him" (_and a hand--a
fair dimpled hand--rested on the Intelligence officer's sleeve_).

_I. O._ (_moving uncomfortably_) "I am afraid that I must; but no harm
shall come to him, that I promise!"

_D._ "But he doesn't know the way, and you will shoot him if he shows
you a wrong road."

_I. O._ "He will know all that we want him to know."

_D._ "Where will you want him to take you? I know he doesn't know the
way."

_I. O._ "Why, he has only to go to Britstown!"

_D._ (_the tears drying_) "And you promise me that you will not harm
him?"

_I. O._ "Of course I won't."

_D._ "Oh, thank you." She was gone, and the Intelligence officer was
left to his own thoughts. It had slipped out unawares. He had been
caught: he realised that much as soon as the word had left his lips.
He had yet much to learn.

There was a noise in the verandah. The Tiger had arrived with
Stephanus, four ponies, and three native boys.

"This will do for a start, sir; we will amplify on the march!"

But as the Intelligence officer handed over his department to the
quarter-guard of the 20th Dragoon Guards for safe keeping until the
morrow, Miss Pretorius was saddling a pony in the kraal. She had to
find her father before daybreak. Her father with his two sons was at
Nieuwjaarsfontein!

       *       *       *       *       *

Richmond Road is not a township. It is only a railway-station, but it
boasts of one _winkel_[11] adjoining the railway buildings. Here the
O.C. of the New Cavalry Brigade had taken up his quarters for the
night, and here the Jew proprietor had arranged food and lodging for
the staff. Part barn, part shop, and part dwelling, this dilapidated
hostelry is typical of its kind. You meet with them all over the South
African veldt. You bless them when they shelter you from the wind and
rain; curse them when, housed in a six-storeyed mansion, which boasts
the same legend over the door--hotel--you remember to what you were at
one time reduced by the chances of a soldier's life.

The brigadier was just sitting down to the only meal that the
slatternly wife of the Jew could produce--a steaming mess of lean
boiled mutton--when the Intelligence officer returned from his
adventure.

"Come and sit down, Mr Intelligence; have you raised a band of robbers
yet?"

"Yes, sir; I've collected a trooper of Rimington's Guides and some
boys."

"You seem a brighter fellow than I took you for. Well, here you are;
here is another telegram for you. We ought to come right on the top of
the swine to-morrow."

    _To Intelligence N.C.B. from Int. De Aar._

    "Gathering of rebels at Nieuwjaarsfontein confirmed from two
    sources. Repeated, &c."

The Intelligence officer kept his own counsel. He felt certain that
there would be no gathering at Nieuwjaarsfontein when the force
arrived. But he had bought his experience, and determined to profit by
the same in the future.

"I think that we have a chance of a show this jaunt," said the
brigadier, after somebody had produced a bottle of port. "This is
about the best plan that K.[12] has thrown off his chest. But I am
afraid that Plumer will spoil it. He is a holy terror when he gets on
a trail. That is his great fault: you will never catch these fellows
by holding on to a trail after you have been on it three days. I don't
care how red-hot it may be. You run yourself stone-cold, only to find
that your quarry has outlasted you. Now, after De Wet crossed the
railway at Hautkraal, Plumer's obvious move was to Strydenburg. They
could have pushed stuff out there to him from Hopetown. K. wants De
Wet to go south-west into the loop of the J which our five columns
make. Now, if Plumer, Crabbe, & Co. stick to him, he'll break back to
the Orange River as sure as fate. But if Plumer lets him alone, and we
are not messed about by too many general-men, we'll have him. Once De
Wet gets south as far as Britstown he's a dead bird. But we shall be
messed about by too many generals. See, how many have we?--Five.
That's enough in the way of cooks to spoil any pottage. But personally
I don't think De Wet will be the good little fly and walk into our
pretty parlour. They don't ask me for opinions; but if I was running
this show, I would have halted Plumer on the railway, left the J as it
is, and collected an infernal 'push' of men north of the Orange River.
I should have held a line from Mark's Drift to Springfontein. When I
had got that, I would have turned our sleuth-hound Plumer loose again.
Then all we fine fellows could have played with De Wet until he was
sick of the Colony. We could then escort him to the Orange River, and
the 'pushes' on the far side would have picked up the pieces. But here
we are; may Providence guide him to us! I'm for bed. Good night!"


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Commandant Judge Hertzog.

[2] A special Intelligence officer was told off to watch De Wet's
movements.

[3] "Chowder" was telegraphic address of general commanding line of
communications in Cape Colony.

[4] Rimington's Guides wear a piece of leopard-skin in their hats, and
are known as Rimington's Tigers.

[5] Native boys.

[6] Husband.

[7] Sheep.

[8] Farm working hand.

[9] Traitor. Lit., Hands upper--_i.e._, surrendered man.

[10] The Boers speak of all British soldiers as Kharkis.

[11] Store.

[12] Lord Kitchener is commonly spoken of as "K." in South Africa.



III.

BEE-LINE TO BRITSTOWN.


"Not bad for a green crush."

The brigadier sat down on the edge of a great slab of rock to watch
the baggage over the nek. It was a typical South African nek. An
execrable path winding over the saddle of a low range of tumbled
ironstone. Just one of those ranges which force themselves with sheer
effrontery out from the level of the plain. Loose sugar-loaf
excrescences which stud the sea of prairie with a thousand flat-topped
islets, and weave the monotony of landscape peculiar to this great
continent. The rough post-cart track led down into a vast
amphitheatre, so vast that Western Europe can furnish no parallel to
it. Yet its counterparts are met and traversed every day by the
countless British columns now slowly darning the gaping rent in
Africa's robe of peace. Who, if they had not known, would have said
that the beautiful panorama, which the morning sun now unveiled before
us, was a theatre of war? Away at our feet stretched mile upon mile of
rolling Karoo and blue-grey prairie. True it was punctuated and ribbed
with stunted kopjes. But still the everlasting plain predominated,
until it was lost in an autumn haze which no sun could master.
Immense,--a land without a horizon, a land every characteristic of
which inspires a sense of independence and freedom. A sensation--an
intoxication, to be felt, not to be described. Why should men fight in
a land such as this? Surely there is room for all! The very animals of
the field, ignorant of the selfishness bred of a limited pasturage and
restricted space, are docile and free of vice. But with man it is
different.

The dweller on the open plain learns freedom. The lesson of cramped
cities is avarice--that the fittest may survive. Who shall blend the
two? There, as we stood with our loins girt for war, did that great
peaceful prairie unfold before us. As the morning sun grew stronger,
the everlasting grey of the Karoo became jewelled with brighter tints.
The middle distance of the plain was spangled with a streak of winding
silver. A river tracing its erratic course between the kopje islets.
At intervals along its banks the eye rested upon the patches of darker
green. The home plantation of some farm, glimpses of whose whitewashed
walls even now caught a glint from the strengthening sun-rays. Here
was a stretch of yellow furrow--the finger of civilisation on a virgin
waste. Here spots of shimmering white, where the surface of a dam
reflected the flooding light of day. Here and there a flock of sheep
relieved the monotony of the everlasting grey. While across our front
a bunch of brood-mares were galloping in the ecstasy of day and
freedom, and a bevy of quaintly pirouetting ostriches gave life to the
wonderful picture. And presently a little fan of brown dots opened out
on the grey below--opened out and diverged in pairs. Dots so small and
insignificant that they looked like ants upon a carriage-drive. Out
and out they spread, till they seemed lost and merged with the
brood-mares and ostriches, now ceasing their wild movements and
grouping in mild amazement at the strange invasion. And still the dots
diverge. It is the advance-guard of our column--heralds of selfish man
bringing horrid war into this peaceful vale. As the dots mingle with
the ant-heaps on the plain, or are lost in the folds of the grey
prairie, a pillar of dust rises from the centre of the fan. A larger
mass of brown--the battery and its escort--a great kharki caterpillar
creeping across the grey,--it is time to be moving, the last
mule-waggon has topped the nek, and the last of the rear-guard are
leading their horses up the post-cart road.

"Not bad for a green crush!" said the brigadier as he prepared to
follow down the hillside. "Hullo! what is that?"

A spark had shown out of the misty distance. A little glitter. It
came, trembled a second, and disappeared. Again it came, a
many-pointed star, winking and shivering.

"Some one is calling up. Here, signaller!--where is the brigade
signaller?"

A great dragoon tumbles out of his saddle and begins to arrange his
tripod. In a few seconds his mirror has caught the sun in answer to
the twinkling star in front.

"Who is it?"

A silence broken only by rhythmic clicks, as the signaller catches the
distant conversation, and his monotonous reading of the code. A stolid
assistant takes it down. "'T' group, 'W' group, 'I' group, 'Enna,' 'E'
group--Major Twine, sir."

"Oh, the advance squadron. Well, that's satisfactory; we shall not
have to bury them after all. What have they got to say?" and the
brigadier sat down on his rock again as the signaller spelt out the
message.

"Am moving now on Nieuwjaarsfontein. Parties of mounted Boers on both
flanks. Have not been molested." Here the signaller broke down.

"Something has gone wrong, sir. They have gone out!"

For a moment the light again twinkled in frenzied haste. "Breaking
station--shooting!" then all was dark.

"I think, sir," ventured the signaller, "that they have broken up the
station because some one was shooting at them."

"Very likely. Here, Mr Intelligence, just you get on your horse and
gallop up to the main body. Tell Colonel Washington that I want to
send an officer on to the advance squadron, now twenty-five miles in
front of us: would he be so kind as to send one back to me. Don't
waste time!"

Down the steep hillside, threading through the rumbling mule-trollies,
with their teams zigzagging in the throes of a heavy drift, and their
groups of chattering drivers, whose black polished faces are aglow
with negroid bonhomie. "_Aihu, Aihu. Bom-Bom. Scellum_[13] Oom Paul.
_Scellum_ President Steyn." Then a crack from the great 12-foot
whip-thong, sounding like a well-timed volley. At the bottom of the
incline a small spruit. There on the bank stands Willem the Zulu. A
dilapidated coaching-beaver on his head. A square foot of bronzed
chest showing between the white facings of an open infantry tunic. His
nether limbs encased in a pair of dragoon overalls, with vivid green
patches on the knees. Was there ever such a picture of savage good
nature and childishness as the giant Willem swung the great bamboo
haft of his whip above his head, and chided or exhorted his team
straining in the drift! "Come up, Buller," to a favourite ass.
"Kruger, you _scellum_," to a refractory lead, while the great thong
cracked like a pistol as the leather hissed between the culprit's ears
without touching a hair on its hide.

Splash through the drift. "D--n it, sir, can't you let a horse water
in peace." And as you feel the springy Karoo beneath your animal's
stride, you catch the lament of some officer whom you have hustled in
the drift.

That first gallop in the morning! Although we who have been out here
for months may hate the very mention of the veldt, yet if we live to
go home we shall live to regret that we ever left it. We may curse its
boundless wastes--curse that endless rise which so often has lain
between our tired bodies and the evening bivouac; but the curses will
die over the rail of an ocean steamer and with the fading lights of
Cape Town, while the memory of the exhilarating air, the freedom, the
stirring adventure lurking in every dip and donga of that wind-swept,
sun-dried, war-racked expanse of steppe, will live with us for ever.
Who can forget those autumn mornings, when the horse, influenced by
the same exhilaration as his rider, races across the spongy soil;
playfully shies at a half-hidden ant-heap; with cat-like agility
avoids the dangerous bear-earth; when all seems strong, and young, and
full of life; when war is forgotten, until the rocket-bird falls
slanting across your path, and its plaintive note calls back to your
memory the whine of the Mauser bullet! Yes, it is good to be a
soldier. The chances are heavy; but, all told, it is worth it.

"Where the devil are you galloping to? Don't you know that you
shouldn't approach mounted troops at that pace?"

You feel inclined to tell the cavalry colonel, fresh from the Curragh,
that we had left all that behind eighteen months ago. But discipline
rules experience, and automatically the respectful hand is up to the
helmet-peak.

"The general's compliments, sir. He wishes to send an officer on at
once with a message to Major Twine. Will you kindly detail one of
your officers. He is to come back with me to the general at once."

"Oh, you are from the general, are you? Here, Sturt," turning to his
adjutant, "send Mr Meadows back with this officer to the general. And
you, sir, don't you in future come galloping up like that into my
regiment."

"Very good, sir."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now, Mr Intelligence, I don't want you here any more. You have got to
find out something about this road. I shall expect you to know all
about those farms by this evening. So get along with your robbers. You
can call yourself an egg-and-milk patrol, if you like. I should like
some eggs for breakfast. Unless we strike Burghers, I halt at the
first convenient water after eleven--from eleven until two. Go and
find that water, and don't get shot."

Back again to the front. By throwing a circle the main body is
avoided, and ten minutes' canter brings you to the advance-guard. To
the brain of the advance-guard would have been perhaps a more truthful
statement, for the subaltern commanding the leading troop is riding
alone along the post-cart road. His men are but dots strung out on
either flank like buoys in the Hoogly. The subaltern himself is full
of importance, grievances, and map-study.

_Subaltern._ "Why haven't you given me a guide?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "There is only one road, and that is as clear
as a pikestaff."

_Sub._ "It is the principle that I go on."

_I. O._ "Well, continue to go on it. You are doing all right."

_Sub._ "That is not the point. I ought to have a guide and an
interpreter. This is not the only road in the whole bally country, I
presume?"

_I. O._ "Well, here we are. There are five of us. You only have to
command us. That's what we are here for."

The subaltern with evident disapproval took stock of the Intelligence
officer and his following--the Tiger and three nondescript black boys.

_Sub._ "Have you been here before?"

_I. O._ "Never."

_Sub._ "Have your boys?"

_I. O._ "I cannot say. They speak no known language!"

_Sub._ "Great Heavens! I call it murder to send us out like this."

A dragoon sergeant galloped in from the right flank.

_Sergeant_ (_in great state of excitement_). "Please, sir, mounted men
have just crossed our front."

_Sub._ "Which way?--how many were there?"

_Sergeant._ "About five thousand, sir!"

_Sub._ "Great Cæsar's ghost! Five thousand!--did you count them,
sergeant?"

_Sergeant._ "No, sir; nobody saw them, sir: it was only their tracks.
There are so many they are all over the place, so I think that there
must be about four or five thousand!"

_I. O._ "I'll send my men to look at them!"

_Sub._ "Yes, do. I'll go too; but I will first send a note back to the
column."

_I. O._ "I wouldn't do that yet. It may only be a herd of springbok!"

The subaltern did not disguise his look of scorn at this reflection.
But John the Kaffir, with the aid of the Tiger, announced that the
tracks in question had been made on the previous day by Major Twine's
squadron--perhaps eighty strong. So much for circumstantial evidence.
But this is nothing. It is not fair to judge new troops on their first
day on the veldt. If that sergeant is alive to-day, you might stake
such credit at the bank as you possess that he would not only give you
the correct number to within five of the group which made the spoor,
but would also give a fair description of the nature of the party and
the pace at which they had travelled. Such is experience.

At eleven o'clock, except that the ridge of hill had been left behind,
it seemed that no impression had been made upon the great waste of
Karoo in front of us. But the road led down into a pretty little glen,
formed by the shelving banks of a tiny river. In the early days some
wandering Voortrekker had chanced upon the fascinating spot, had
marked down the crystal stream and fertile grazing. Here he had
out-spanned his team, drawn fine with days of trekking, and his
bivouac had grown into a permanent abode. Here he had lived and died,
and no doubt his great-grandchild now owned the pretty little
homestead where the column was to make its midday halt. All Dutch
homesteads are the same, yet there are not two alike, which is a
paradox in which every one who has trekked across the veldt will
agree. There are the same kraals and cattle-runs. The home plantation
surrounded with stone walls. The same outhouses and forage-lofts. The
artesian well, with its fluttering windmill. The dam with dirty water,
the little low-roofed dumpy dwelling, washed white, half-swing doors,
low stoep, and trellis front. It is in their topographical
surroundings only that they differ. The one will stand bleak and
exposed upon a dreary plain, the other will nestle coyly behind a
grove of pointed gum-trees in some kloof or gully. Chance and nature
alone decide if in structure and setting they please the eye. Man is
indifferent. A house is to shield him from the elements, not to
improve the landscape or impress the passer-by.

Although the Intelligence officer knew little about the science of his
new office, yet he had common-sense, which is a soldier's most
valuable attribute, and he knew better after eighteen months of war
than to ride haphazard into a farm-house, even though the farm-house
was in Cape Colony. He borrowed two men from the advance-guard, and,
with the aid of the Tiger and his boys, reconnoitred the environs
before he sent back to the general to tell him that he had found an
ideal spot for the midday halt. Then as the advance-guard occupied the
nearest eminences, he handed his horse over to one of the boys and
walked up to the stoep of the farm-house. The farmer and his _frau_
stood on the verandah to welcome him, and, as is their wont, their
family of girls of all ages crowded in the open door behind their
parents to gain a view of the Kharkis. Just as the inevitable
hand-shake had taken place, up cantered the Tiger.

"Here we are, sir. These are the kind of people we have to deal with,"
and he produced two gaudily framed pictures--President Kruger and
President Steyn. "Our worthy host made a miscalculation this morning,
for I found a Kaffir girl hiding these in the bushes."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you see, sir, yesterday morning a commando was here. Then our
loyal friend had these two pictures hanging up in his parlour. Last
evening the squadron of 20th Dragoons passed through. Uncle here saw
them coming, so he hid away Oom Paul and Steyn and put the Queen and
the Prince of Wales on the wall. After the squadron had gone he
expected his commando back again, so up go the Presidents. We came
along first, so there had to be another transformation-scene, which I
have partially disturbed. I'll bet my bottom dollar that their Royal
Highnesses are now adorning the parlour." (Sinking his voice.) "It's a
very fair weather-cock, sir; we are not a hundred miles from a pretty
strong commando. It must be under some influential leader, or we
shouldn't have this little burlesque."

The farmer smiled benignly and pressed his hospitality upon the
troops. Nor had the Tiger been mistaken. There, sure enough, upon the
walls of the sitting-room reposed coloured portraits of the late Queen
and King Edward, while, as the Intelligence officer stepped into the
room, a strapping daughter sat down to the piano and played the first
bars of the National Anthem. Poor subterfuge, since the damsel had
overlooked the Free State favour pinned upon her breast!

"Eggs--butter? Yes, they had both; they would only be too glad--would
not the general take food with them?"

_Click-clock! Click-clock!_[14]

The main body had just come in, the gunners were watering their
horses, the Dragoons taking out their bits. The gunners knew what it
meant, and the little major, who for some reason had undone his
gaiter, shouted, without changing his attitude, the only necessary
order, "Hook in!" To the Dragoons the muffled reports meant nothing.
For all they knew or cared at the moment that hollow echoing rhythm
might have been a housewife beating carpets. But the General, the
Intelligence officer, and the Tiger knew.

_Click-clock, click-clock!_

Here came the news. A heavy dragoon, sweating from every pore, his
face portraying the satisfaction of a man first shot over, came
galloping in. He handed to the general a slip of paper from the
subaltern in command of the advance-guard:--

"11.55. Enemy firing on my left flanking patrol--about fifty mounted
men advancing towards me. I am on a rise 500 yards to the south-west
of the farmhouse."

"That is a good boy," said the brigadier musingly, as he swung round
on his heel and took in the topography of our position at a glance. "A
very clear report. Here! you tell the officer commanding the pom-pom
to take his gun up on to that rise. And you" (turning to another of
his staff), "tell Colonel Washington to send a squadron with the
pom-pom! Wait, don't be in a hurry; hear me out, please. Tell him that
the squadron is to extend, take the rise at a gallop--dismount just
before it reaches the top. Now you may go."

Then turning to the chief of the staff, "Have you got a match? Thanks.
Now, tell Freddy[15] to send two of his guns on to that rise south of
the dam. Send a troop with him. I will be here with the rest to await
developments!"

"Order given, sir!" and the Intelligence officer touched his cap.

"Good. Now you go with the pom-pom. I shall be here; let me know
developments. Get along. Don't argue!"

Already the pom-pom is trotting out of the farmhouse enclosure and the
squadron of Dragoons extending on the plain beyond. The faces of the
gunners are as impassive as if they were about to gallop past at a
review. They have been doing this sort of thing for months; it has no
novelty for them. But with the Dragoons it is different. This is their
first engagement; you can see it in the countenances of the men
nearest you. The excitement which whitens men's cheeks and makes every
action angular and awkward.

"Second Squadron 20th Dragoon Guards--Gallop!"

"Pom-pom--Gallop!" comes the echo.

The Boers must be close up, for the advance-guard is falling back.
They are coming back for all they are worth. It will be a race between
us and the enemy for the possession of the ridge; please Providence
that we may be there first, for of a truth he who loses will pay the
stake. The officers realise this, and sitting down to their work they
make the pace. The wild line careering behind them suits itself to
their lead; instinctively in its excitement and inexperience it closes
inwards. Only 200 yards more. The sky-line is clear and defined. No
heads have appeared as yet. One hundred yards! Now we are under the
rise, the horses feel the hill--a few seconds and we shall know who
has won the race. "Steady, men, steady!" Up goes the squadron leader's
arm. "Halt! Dismount!" A chaotic second as the frenzied line reins in.
"'Number Threes.' Where are the 'Number Threes'?"--"Way for the
pom-pom." The straining team crashes through the line. The dismounted
troopers follow their officers up the slope. A moment of suspense--and
a long-drawn breath. We are first. There are the Boers dismounting a
hundred yards away. "Action front, the pom-pom." "Down men,
down!"--come the hoarse orders, and a ripple of fire crackles along
the summit of the rise. "Let them have the whole belt."
_Pom-pom-pom-pom-pom-pom!_ The little gun reels and quivers as it
belches forth its stream of spiteful bombs. For a moment the Boers
return the fire. Then they rush for their horses, and in as many
seconds as it takes to light a cigarette are galloping _ventre à
terre_ across the plain in an ever-extending fan. The merciless lead
pursues them. The Dragoons spring to their feet to facilitate rapidity
of fire, while the pom-pom churns the dry dust of the veldt into
little whirlwinds among the flying horsemen. Five hundred yards away
stands a kopje. In three minutes the last of the Boers have placed it
between them and the British fire--except for the three or four that
lie motionless upon the plain.

"Now we shall have it!" and the pom-pom captain turns to the squadron
commander. "I advise you to make your men lie down again. I'm going to
man-handle my gun down the slope."

"_Click-clock, click-clock, click-clock!_" go the Mausers. The Boers
are on the top of the kopje. It is to be their turn now. No; there is
a roar behind the farm, then another, and another. Then three little
white cloud-balls open out on the lip of the kopje.

"Good little Freddy!" soliloquises the pom-pom captain as he snaps his
glasses into their case. "He was watching them. I must get my beauty
to the end of this rise, to catch them as they leave."--"Pom-pom,
limber up!"

_Boom-boom-boom._ Three more little puffs of white over the kopje.
_Click-clock_ once, and the brush was over. What was it worth? Four
mangled rebels on the veldt, and one stalwart dragoon, with white
drawn face and sightless eyes turned to the beautiful blue of heaven!

The brigadier cantered up to the rise. A section of Horse Artillery
rumbled up after him. "Look here," he said to the squadron leader,
"you must get your men on to that kopje: they are not worth
pursuing--there are not more than twenty of them. If I were you I
should open out, divide and gallop round both flanks of the kopje;
it's open veldt beyond, and we'll look after you from this ridge. You
won't see any more of them than their tails. Don't pursue beyond 3000
yards. My orders are to go to Britstown, not to wear my horses out
over scallywag snipers!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"We must push on and get touch with our loose squadron to-night," said
the brigadier, as he and his staff made a hasty midday meal off tinned
sausages and eggs cooked by the terrified women of the farmhouse. "I
wonder what has happened to that poor little subaltern boy that I sent
on this morning. Ah! here's Mr Intelligence direct from the
bloodstained field; now we shall know the damage!"

_Brigadier._ "Any Boer wounded?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "Yes, sir; two, and two killed."

_B._ "Are the wounded talkative?"

_I. O._ "One is too far gone, sir; the other is quite communicative."

_B._ "Well, what has he got to say?"

_I. O._ "He lies about himself. Swears that he is a Free Stater; but
as a matter of fact his name is Pretorius, and he is a son of the
farmer from whose wife we got our guides last night. By the merest
chance we took a photograph of the farmer's two sons out of an album
we found at the farm. And here is one of them wounded to-day. From
his account it appears that a man called Lotter is here with a
commando, and that he and his have just brought off rather a bad
thing. Lotter's commando only joined the rebels returning from
Nieuwjaarsfontein about an hour ago. The rebels knew that our advance
squadron was at this farm last night, and when they saw us here, they
mistook us for Major Twine, and knowing his strength attacked in good
heart."

_B._ "I thought it was something of that kind. Well, we need not eat
our hearts out about Twine. Those swine won't be taking any more
to-day, especially now that they have reason to believe that we are
about. But we won't waste time; we'll go on in half an hour. Send word
round, and then come and have some food!"

       *       *       *       *       *

As the shadows began to grow long across the level of stunted Karoo we
had placed another ten miles behind us on the road to Britstown. Never
a further sign did we see that day of our enemy. But this is typical
of this free fighting on the open veldt. Your enemy comes upon you
like a dust-devil--he appears, strikes, wins or loses, and then
disappears again as suddenly as he came. You fight your little battle,
bury your dead, shake yourselves, and forget all about the incident.
This, it may be assumed, for the last year has been the nature of the
life which all mounted men have led out here.

Just before the sun set, enshrouded in a curtain of rising mist, we
reached a great ridge of table-land. A particularly wild and forsaken
tract of country.

"We shall have to halt at the first water," said the brigadier. "What
an unholy place to camp in! Well, if there are no Boers it doesn't
matter. It's lucky that we had a turn-up against those fellows to-day.
They will hardly stomach a night-attack with the echo of a pom-pom
chorus still ringing in their ears. Is that a flag?"

The advance-guard were beginning to show like stunted tree-trunks upon
the sky-line on our front. Yes; it was a flag. There was work for the
lumbering dragoon signaller again. Slowly he spelt out the message:
"No enemy have been seen. Ridge is clear. Right flanking patrol had
touch with rear troop of Major Twine's squadron, now moving on
Nieuwjaarsfontein. Lieutenant Meadows, rejoined, reports Major Twine's
squadron seen several bodies of enemy; his squadron has been sniped,
but not seriously engaged. Country very open on far side of ridge.
Good camping-ground and water at foot of ridge."

"Good business!" said the brigadier, turning to his chief of staff.
"Will you canter up and mark out a camp? It's a great relief to find
that that advance squadron hasn't been scuppered."

A more dismal camping-ground could not have been found. The fair veldt
seemed to have vanished. Instead of a sprinkling of farms, there was
only one human habitation within sight--a miserable edifice of mud and
unbaked bricks belonging to a Boer shepherd of the lowest type. The
dam was a natural depression formed by what appeared to have been the
crater of some long-extinct volcano. The country surrounding it was of
the roughest, and to make the situation more depressing, with sundown
great banks of cloud had gathered in the west. The brigadier might
well be anxious for his small force of raw troops in such a fastness,
and it is easy to appreciate the feeling which prompted him to
personally post the night pickets. But raw troops, raw transport, all
will settle down in time, and an hour after sundown the men were
having their food.

Before the main body moved into camp the Tiger had made a discovery.
He had found a wounded Boer in the shepherd's shanty. A stalwart young
Dutchman, with his right hand horribly shattered by a pom-pom shell.
The youth was in great pain, and, as the Boer so often has proved, was
very communicative under his hurt. He was a Free Stater from
Philippolis, and belonged to Judge Hertzog's commando. He was one of
fifteen scouts sent by Hertzog, under a commandant called Lotter, to
pick up the Richmond rebels and take them down to Graaf Reinet, where
De Wet's invaders had orders to concentrate, before undertaking the
more desperate venture of the invasion. He indorsed the other wounded
man's version of the attack they had made upon us in the morning, and
he also volunteered the information that Brand, Hertzog, and
Pretorius were due to attack Britstown--our destination--this very
evening. This information so far interested the brigadier that he
ordered an officer's patrol from the 20th Dragoon Guards to leave camp
at 3 A.M. and ride right through to Britstown without a halt, so as to
arrive there by nine or ten in the morning. It was important to know
if Britstown had been attacked, since until the concentration took
place on the morrow the garrison there was weak: it was also important
that the general officer commanding the combined movement should know
of the deflection from Hertzog's commando which we had encountered.
Lieutenant Meadows, having proved so successful in avoiding the enemy
in the morning, was again entrusted with the mission, and he was given
Stephanus as his guide.

       *       *       *       *       *

The gathering clouds did not prove simply a seasonable warning. A
great icy blast swept up the valley, driving a broad belt of stinging
dust before it, and the bivouac was smitten through and through by a
South African dust-storm. Five minutes of fierce gale, with lightning
that momentarily dispelled the night, then a pause--the herald of
coming rain. A few great ice-cold drops smote like hail on the
tarpaulin shelter that served headquarters for a mess-tent. Then
followed five minutes of a deluge such as you in England cannot
conceive. A deluge against which the stoutest oil-skin is as
blotting-paper. A rain which seems also to entice fountains from the
earth beneath you. In ten minutes all is over. The stars are again
demurely winking above you, and all that you know of the storm is that
you see the vast diminishing cloud, revealed in the west by the fading
lightning-flashes, and that you have not a dry possession either in
your kit or on your person.

"Not much fear of sleeping sentries to-night," said the chief of the
staff as we cowered round a fire under the waggon-sail.

"No; and it is just as well: it is on these sleepless nights that
'brother'[16] is fond of showing himself," answered the brigadier. "I
don't like all these Free Staters about. They may be able to stir up
the new crop of rebels into doing something desperate. Raw guerillas,
with a leaven of hard-bitten cases, are always a source of danger. But
I think that we worked our own salvation in the skirmish this morning.
They would hardly believe that we should have such a small force with
so many guns. No; our luck was in to-day, when they discovered us
instead of Twine's squadron. We shall make something out of the 20th.
They are the right stuff: that squadron went for that rise to-day in
splendid style. The Boer cannot stand galloping. I may be a
crank--they believe that I am one at Pretoria--but I am convinced that
I have discovered the true Mounted Infantry formation for the sort of
fighting that we are now experiencing out here. If you find your enemy
in any position that you can gallop over, without riding your horse to
a standstill, go for him in extended order. You will get more results
from an enterprise of this kind than from a week of artillery and
dismounted attack. I hear that D. claims to have originated this
formation. Why, I was practising it with my fellows in Natal before
D. was born, or rather when he was an infant in the knowledge of war.
I am as convinced that I am right as I am that the rifle is the
cavalry-man's arm. It is not for shock tactics that you require to
mount men nowadays: the use of a horse is to get into the best
fire-position in the shortest possible time. The battles of the future
will be decided by rifles and machine-guns, not by lance and sabre.
There's heresy for you; but it's my honest conviction!"


FOOTNOTES:

[13] Scoundrel.

[14] The double report made by a small-bore rifle.

[15] The major commanding the battery R.H.A.

[16] _I.e._, Brother Boer.



IV.

THE FIRST CHECK.


The first lesson brought home to the Englishman in South Africa is,
that he must not judge the country by any European standard, for as
long as he continues so to do he will find himself at sea. To show
surprise is to declare ignorance--and the British and Dutch South
Africans, after the manner of all superlatively ignorant races, have
the profoundest contempt for those in whom they themselves can discern
ignorance. Thus when the kindly eminence of a hill gives you a
ten-mile view of some tiny townlet--a view conveying no inkling of the
importance of the centre which you are about to approach--it is well
to be silent. For the Colonial is surely more imaginative than the
phlegmatic Englishman--and the sorry collection of tin shanties and
flimsy villas, which at so great a distance appear to you of little
more significance than a farm with straggling outhouses--represent to
his mind a town, and he will resent a less appreciative rating of
them. This may appear unreasonable: it is, but it is none the less
true; and in a great measure the variance of focus between the English
and the Colonial mind has been responsible for the girth-galling which
at the beginning of the war marked our efforts in harness with our
colonial _confrères_. We have heard all the defects of the British
officer, because the Colonial thinks quickly and lightly, and wastes
no time in giving expression to his thoughts; we have not heard so
much of the defects of the Colonial, because the British officer,
while focussing his opinions less rapidly, though more seriously than
the majority of Colonials, reserves his criticisms. But they are an
easy people to manage if you can preserve your silence without
offending their vanity. They admire in the Englishman the qualities
which they themselves have not yet fully developed; but it cuts them
to the quick if the evidence of superiority is thrust upon them. Thus,
when the officer commanding the advance-guard, looking down the great
straight road leading into Britstown,--a track which would have done
credit to the Roman Road at Baynards,--commented unkindly upon the
township, the Tiger was hurt, and thought unpleasant things about
British cavalry subalterns in general, and the officer in command of
the advance-guard in particular. But then Britstown had been a town to
the Tiger ever since he could remember. Until he had arrived at man's
estate and visited Kimberley and Cape Town, Britstown had been the
town of his imagination and Beaufort West his metropolis. To the
officer commanding the advance-guard, Britstown and Beaufort West, if
rolled into one, would hardly have earned the dignified classification
of a village. The mental focus of the two men was at variance, and the
Tiger felt that the subaltern possessed the stronger lens. Yet man for
man, on horse or foot, clothed or naked, to the outward eye he was not
a better man. It is here that the feeling lies.

The brigadier halted the advance-guard upon the rise. He wanted to
know something about Britstown. The ugly rumour of Brand's intention
to storm and sack it was still with us. As yet there had been no news
of Lieutenant Meadows and his patrol. Three hundred yards to the right
front was a tiny farm. A solitary upstart on the bare veldt. An
architectural nightmare in red brick. Already a patrol from the
advance screen of dragoons was edging towards it, lured by that
magnetism irresistible to every British soldier. A magnetism prompted
from beneath the belt, and which no military precaution, or
experience, or solicitude for personal safety will eradicate from the
canteen-bred soldier. If our scouts had been as farm-shy as so many of
them have proved gun-shy, it would have made an appreciable difference
in the casualty lists of the campaign. The brigadier looked upon the
farm. It cannot be said that he found it fair, within the artistic
meaning of the phrase. But there was a pan,[17] which meant water for
the horses, and doubtless there was a hen-house and a buttery.

"Mr Intelligence, we will have breakfast at that farm. Let the
advance-guard move on another half-mile, then Freddy will be able to
water his horses in comfort. Here, who is commanding the
advance-guard? Have you told your men to rally on that farm?"

"No, sir."

"Then you had better look after them."

Away the youth went at a gallop, and it was about time, as the right
flank had evidently divined success in the attitude of the first
patrol, which had stopped at the farm, and the ungainly red edifice
was exercising its magnetic effect upon the whole advance-guard. When
the officer commanding the advance-guard arrived, dragoon No. 1
already had his head buried in a bucketful of milk, while dragoon No.
2 was indiscriminately stuffing as many eggs and pats of butter into a
square of red handkerchief as the said square would contain.

The brigadier moved up to the homestead, and threw his reins to his
orderly. The family paraded on the stoep, as all Dutch families do on
similar occasions. And, as is the custom of the country, the brigadier
shook hands with them all with great dignity. But he had no eyes for
Oom Jan of the massive head and bushy beard, no eyes for the stout
madam his _frau_, nor for his six solid and lumpy daughters, for he
was busy breaking the tenth commandment. In front of the house, on the
beaten clay clearing, stood a truly magnificent carriage--a
four-wheeled family spring-cart, rich in upholstered cover,
electroplated bits, and cut-glass finishings. The brigadier examined
it carefully, and then sent his orderly to fetch the commandeering
officer. In this case it was the supply officer, a quick-witted boy,
who at the moment believed that he was a subaltern, but who really was
the youngest brevet-major in the British army.[18]

_Brigadier._ "Look here, Mr Supply; I want you to value this
_sham-a-dan_."[19]

_Supply Officer._ "Very good, sir; it looks a good cart."

_B._ "Do you know your Shakespeare?"

_S. O._ "No, sir. I was a militiaman; but I'm becoming educated in the
matter of South African carts, and I have found that even with fair
usage and good drifts paint will sometimes come off."

_B._ "Quite so; you have made my point, in spite of your modesty with
regard to your upbringing. What is the full limit at which you may
requisition a spring cart?"

_S. O._ "Forty pounds, sir."

_B._ "What would you think is the value of this one?"

_S. O._ "Thirty-nine pounds ten shillings, sir!"

_B._ "I think that you are right to within a few pence. Make out a
receipt for it, and then come and have breakfast. Here, Mr
Intelligence, tell my servant to put the ponies into this cart. Now I
call that a suitable conveyance for a general officer. I have never
had a decent cart since I've commanded a column. In fact, I have
almost been ashamed to sign myself as O.C. of a brigade, when my sole
possession has been a broken-down Cape cart with only one spring.
Self-respect is half the battle in the success of life. With a cart
like that I shall be able to insult with a light heart every column
commander with whom I am told to co-operate. Look here, Mr
Intelligence; I am going to be a real live brigadier in future. Just
you get me the regalia in Britstown--a pink flag and red lantern. I
don't see why--but what do you want----?"

A howl had set up in chorus from the family on the verandah of the
farm, and old Oom Jan came sidling up to the brigadier hat in hand.

_Oom Jan._ "But the commandant won't take my cart?"

_Brigadier._ "Dear me! no--no commandant will take your cart."

_O. J._ "But see, they are putting the horses in!"

_B._ "You will get a receipt."

_O. J._ "For how much?"

_B._ "Forty pounds."

_O. J._ "No, no. Only last year I gave £120 for it."

_B._ "I would gladly give £120; but I am not allowed. Besides, you are
getting full value, and I will leave you my old cart."

How much longer the altercation might have lasted would have depended
on the duration of the general's good-humour, had not another issue of
more moment prejudiced Oom Jan's case. A dragoon had cantered up from
the rear-guard, with the two little square inches of paper torn from a
notebook which mean so much in war.

"A party of about six mounted men are hanging on my rear. If they
approach any closer I shall fire upon them. They seem very persistent,
and do not mind exposing themselves."

As the brigadier handed the note to the chief of the staff, the
threatened firing broke out in the rear. Breakfast was declared ready
at the same moment. The brigadier listened. Two more shots were fired,
and then silence.

"That," said the brigadier, "is a very one-sided battle. It can wait
until we have had our food. I am not going to allow six men to play
'Old Harry' with my digestion."

As the meal progressed, in came another fleet orderly.

"Regret to say that party reported on my rear was Lieutenant Meadows,
who should have been in Britstown this morning. He lost his way in the
night. I am sending him in to you to explain. I regret that we have
shot one of his horses."

_Brigadier._ "I thought it was a one-sided battle. I don't know which
is the bigger fool, the officer commanding the rear-guard or the youth
who has lost his way in the dark. Did you give him a guide, Mr
Intelligence?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "Yes, sir; I gave him the tame burgher
Stephanus whom we roped in at Richmond Road."

_B._ "Those crimped men are no good. He slipped them in the dark, I
bet. Hullo! here is the boy. His peace of mind, I fancy, wouldn't be
worth much at a public auction."

A smart-looking, though travel-stained, little dragoon subaltern
cantered up, dismounted, and saluted. The brigadier was right; he did
not look particularly happy. There was a moment of silence while the
brigadier took a spoonful of marmalade, then he turned to the boy.

"Well, my pocket Ulysses, what is the extent of your adventure?"

_Meadows._ "Got lost, sir!"

_Brigadier._ "And your guide?"

_M._ "Had to leave him behind, sir!"

_B._ "Which means he left you!"

_M._ "He tried to, sir; but he didn't get far!"

_B._ "What happened?"

_M._ "First he took us wrong--took us back along the road we had come
by. Then when I talked to him he tried to bolt, and I had to shoot
him!"

_B._ (_suddenly becoming interested_) "The devil you did! Have you had
anything to eat? Sit down and have some food. Did you kill him?"

_M._ "No, sir; I left him with that other wounded Boer in the mud hut
near the last camp. But he is very sick. We did what we could for
him."

_B._ "Evidently! Are you sure that he was leading you wrongly?"

_M._ "Yes, sir. He was taking us back along the road by which we had
come from Richmond Road. We stumbled upon one of my own men's
water-bottles which he had dropped earlier in the day. As soon as the
guide saw what it was, he tried to do a bolt."

_B._ "Circumstantial evidence, I think; verdict and sentence in one.
Well, you at least have the satisfaction of knowing that you have
brought your man down. But next time don't hit a refractory guide so
hard. I have an idea that if you shot less straight you might have
been able to carry out your orders even with a refractory guide. Where
are the telegrams? Hand them over to your colonel, and tell him to
send another officer on with them at once. No; give them to me. Here,
Mr Intelligence, off you go. Just get into Britstown as quickly as you
can. As we haven't seen any smoke curling up over the landscape, I
take it that Brand and Co. have postponed their good offices. But if
anything is wrong, mind you manage to get one of your party back to me
with the information."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Intelligence officer and the Tiger had not left the column a mile
behind them when they met a Cape cart coming along the dusty road from
Britstown. It was driven by a youth of some eighteen summers, who
stopped his pair of mules with the greatest unconcern to the signal
from the Tiger.

_Tiger._ "Good morning. What is your name?"

_Driver._ "Good morning. Naude."

_T._ "Where have you come from?"

_D._ "Britstown!"

_T._ (_who was now close up to the cart and busy in examination of
it_) "What have you been doing in Britstown, and how long have you
been there?"

_D._ "I have been there about ten days: my wife has been confined
there!"

_T._ "So you have taken her out for a drive to-day?"

_D._ "No. How could I?"

_T._ "Then you have been driving another lady?"

_D._ "No."

_T._ "What have you got those two cushions on the seat for? What's the
good of lying? Where are you going now?"

_D._ "Back to my home!"

_T._ "Where is that?"

_D._ "Drieputs, two hours[20] on."

_T._ (_decidedly_) "Now, look here; it is no use lying any more. I
will tell you what you have been doing and who you are. You are the
son of old Pretorius of Richmond Road. Yesterday you were on commando
with Lotter; your brother was shot and taken by us. I don't know where
you slept last night; but this I do know, that yesterday you drove a
wounded man into Britstown, and probably a lady as well. The lady came
from Nieuwjaarsfontein. For you see those cushions you have on your
front seat came out of the Nieuwjaarsfontein _sitkomer_.[21] I have
got a similar one, which I took myself from the farm. So don't lie any
more. Tell me who is in Britstown?"

_D._ (_who had lost his air of stolid indifference, and was beginning
to move uncomfortably_) "Britstown is full of Kharkis; they are coming
in now fast."

_Intelligence Officer._ "Is this road clear into the _dorp_?"[22]

_D._ (_with polite sarcasm_) "You may ride along this road in perfect
safety."

_T._ (_cheerily_) "That is more than you can, my friend. (_Turning to
Intelligence Officer._) This man has evidently, sir, carried
information to Brand's people and a wounded man into Britstown; see
the blood on the back of the seat. I should keep him a prisoner,
sir--send him back to the column with a man. Besides, if I am to stay
with you, sir, I should like his cart and mules. They are good mules,
you see. They have been into the town and back, and have scarcely
turned a hair!"...

There was no doubt as to the occupation of Britstown when the
Intelligence officer and his escort crossed the vlei, which is the
principal outlying feature of that typical little South African
township. The De Aar road was one block of moving transport, and the
usually quiet main street of the village was alive with troops. Of a
truth a concentration was taking place, and the Dutch were not amiss
in their simile when they likened a British concentration to a flight
of locusts.

Very few of you will have ever heard of Britstown. Yet, like so many
other obscure South African townships, this war has brought it a
history. Nor is the historical record which has been built up for it
of extraordinary merit. There will be many in the ranks of a certain
favoured corps who will scarcely treasure the memory of that little
wayside asylum. We remember when the papers were full of the exploits
and valour of this returning corps--then Britstown found no mention.
Yet its associations, pleasant though they may not be, are closely
interwoven with its short-lived history. The story is told to-day over
the hotel-bars of the little township by gleeful Colonials. Told how
in open fight, a handful of rebel farmers--perhaps our friends the
brothers Pretorius and Stephanus were amongst them--drove two
companies of England's _élite_ every mile of the twenty-two which lie
between Houwater and Britstown. The Colonial, clinking his
glass,--shallow in his taste and appreciation,--glories in the story,
which is writ large in rebel little Britstown to this day, and will be
for all time.

A militia picket is astride the road. None--at least by the main
highway--may pass into the confines of the town without permission.
The stolid country lout of a sentry views all new-comers with
suspicion. But the deadlock is saved by the arrival of a dapper,
chubby-faced youth, clean of person, well groomed in habiliments and
gear.

"I am the staff officer of the town commandant. What can I do for
you?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "What I want is the telegraph-office."

_Staff Officer._ "Certainly, sir; but what do you belong to? Are you
with the main column?"

_I. O._ "Dear me, no. I have just come in from the New Cavalry
Brigade!"

_S. O._ "Yes; we are expecting you. You are to camp on the south side
of the town. Just under the parapet of those defences. Those are our
southern defences. What do you think? Brand had the impertinence to
send in last night and demand our immediate surrender. That we,
Britstown, should surrender----!"

_I. O._ (_brutally_) "And did you? Look here; you will have to wait
until the general comes in for your camping arrangements. All I want
is the telegraph-office."

_S. O._ "Of course we did not surrender. Why, we have made this place
impregnable. There are three companies of my regiment here, to say
nothing of the local town-guard."

_I. O._ "Oh, hang the town-guard! You trot along and find the chief of
our staff. I have other things to think about. By the way, has the
rest of the New Cavalry Brigade come in here? The Mount Nelson Light
Horse--they are marching from Hanover Road?"

_S. O._ "No; but there is some ox-transport for you with the Supply
column. How far back is your general?"

_I. O._ "About three miles. Thanks." (_Intelligence Officer and the
Tiger canter on._)

_Tiger._ "Please, sir, did he say that the De Aar column was in?"

_I. O._ "Yes. Why?"

_T._ "Only the bulk of Rimington's--that is, Damant's--Guides are with
it, and I should like to go and see them as soon as I have shown you
the telegraph-office. I will also try and find out what young
Pretorius was doing in here last night."

In five minutes a "clear-the-line" message was on its way to "Chief,
Pretoria," to tell him that the concentration ordered two days ago had
taken place. To us, following the fortunes of one small unit in the
great move, it will appear that in our forty-eight hours' association
with the New Cavalry Brigade everything has proceeded as could have
been desired by the master-mind. But it was not so. Almost before the
last of the horses had been detrained at Richmond Road, the whole
nature of, and necessity for, the movement had changed. In short,
everything had turned out as the brigadier had anticipated. Plumer,
with the tenacity for which he is famous, had clung to the rear-guard
of De Wet's column, snatching a waggon here and a tumbril there, until
he himself could move no farther. De Wet had outlasted him, and had,
moreover, seen that it would be useless to carry out his original
programme. So he doubled and doubled again, with the result that the
cleverly devised scheme of relays of driving columns was out of joint,
and a dozen units were uselessly spread out over the veldt a hundred
miles from the place in which the invader was catching his breath,
within jeering distance of the column which had ran itself stone-cold
in his pursuit. So within forty-eight hours of the start the whole
plan had to be reconstructed. This reconstruction was explained to
the New Cavalry Brigade through the medium of one hundred and four
telegrams which were awaiting its arrival at Britstown. As the
majority conveyed contradictory instructions, the piecing together of
the real meaning partook of the nature of one of those drawing-room
after-dinner games with which yawning guests at winter house-parties
are beguiled. The first cover that was opened deprived the brigadier
of his chief of the staff. That officer was ordered to proceed without
delay to take up the command of a mobile column to be formed at
Volksrust, the other end of the world--that is, the world with which
we are at present concerned.

"Don't open any more till we have fed," said the brigadier. "A man
with an empty stomach has no mind. We will have a fat high tea at the
local Carlton, and then devise strategy."

A general in the field is a great man. But a general in a town at
which half-a-dozen Colonial Corps have concentrated is of no account.
In the street men pass him by without recognition, and in hotels
private swashbucklers in smasher hats literally hustle him.

"This table is reserved for the commandant," said the ample hostess of
the Britstown Carlton.

"Who is the commandant?" queried the brigadier.

"Major Jones," came the answer.

"Well, I'm----! this beats cock-fighting. This is the result of
martial law and the control of the liquor licence!--a well-fed major
reserves seats, while a hungry general stands!" and the general and
staff of the New Cavalry Brigade occupied the reserved table, and
became guests of the hotel in common with thirty dishevelled troopers,
who had passed into the hotel, representing themselves to the dazed
militia sentry at the door as officers. The food may not have been of
the best, but it was in abundance; and in a quarter of an hour the
brigadier was prepared to study his instructions.

_B._ "Now, Mr Intelligence, since they see fit to remove my chief of
the staff, you have got to be maid-of-all-work. You and I have got to
run this brigade until the brigade-major turns up. He must be a bit
of a 'slow-bird,' I think, or he would have been here with the rest of
my hoplites by this. Do you know anything about staff work?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "Nothing, sir!"

_B._ "So much the better; you will then have a mind ripe for tuition.
Now I will give you a lesson. You have two pockets in your tunic. The
right pocket will be the receptacle for 'business' telegrams, the left
for 'bunkum.' Now for the telegrams!"

It would be beyond the scope of this sketch to give the contents of
the one hundred and four telegrams which had accumulated in
forty-eight hours. It will suffice to state that ninety-seven were
relegated to the "bunkum" pocket, and seven retained as conveying
intelligent orders worthy of consideration. It is superfluous to
mention that the whole of the messages sent by the local intelligence
departments and by the De Wet expert were dismissed as "bunkum," often
without perusal. As the brigadier pertinently remarked: "I suppose
that the poor fellows have to justify their existence as members of
the great brain-system of the army. The only means by which they come
into prominence is by squandering the public money, and they only hurt
those who take their information seriously. They do you no harm if you
consistently ignore their existence, and don't worry to read their
messages."

The sum-total of the messages of instruction which the brigadier had
so quaintly filed as "business-material" was information from the
Chief, Pretoria, that the plan of the operations was changed. That our
general was to co-operate--a word of very elastic meaning, and
responsible for much velvet-covered mutiny during the present
campaign--with the columns in his neighbourhood which, over and above
the skeleton of the New Cavalry Brigade, had concentrated that day at
Britstown. A message in cipher gave an inkling of the plan which had
risen phoenix-like out of the ashes of the original dispositions. De
Wet, instead of being enticed south, was to be driven north into the
loop of the Orange River between Prieska and Hopetown, where Charles
Knox's column and a column of Kimberley swashbucklers would be ready
for him. The Britstown columns, and the brigadier of the New Cavalry
Brigade co-operating, would push north--wheel into line with the
panting Plumer, now north of Strydenburg, and then "Forward away!"
Now, just as the original scheme had, when on paper, presented a very
reasonable and common-sense stratagem, so with the new incubation. But
there were three main factors over which the gilt cap at Pretoria had
no control, and which dished this, as they have dished ninety-nine out
of every hundred of schemes which were undertaken during the guerilla
war. The first of these three lay in the fact that the strategy was a
conformation to the enemy's movements. This naturally gave him time to
think and to develop his counter-move, with all advantages in the
balance. No. 2 is to be found in the timidity of certain of the column
commanders. Men who proverbially take every opportunity of sacrificing
the main issue to pursue some subsidiary policy. Men whom De Wet
loves, and whom he plays with, decoys, and bluffs until he achieves
his object. Men whose heart will not take them, like Plumer,
"slap-bang" along the course which must lead to heavy conclusions, if
the enemy will fight; but who prefer to fritter away the _morale_ and
efficiency of their columns in pursuing a phantom enemy. Choosing a
country in which an enemy as sagacious as the Boer would never
operate, these men are careful not to leave the security it affords,
though their telegrams to headquarters build up the statistics which
have misled our calculations throughout the war. The third reason is
just as deplorable. It is the passive resistance evinced between
column commanders, who are called upon to co-operate. These leaders,
instead of sinking all differences in one common objective, work
rather as if they were employed in a business competition. And why is
this? Ask of the man in Pretoria with his hand on the tiller. Is not
centralisation the cause of it all? Does not the centralisation of the
guiding authority mean that all success is judged by personal
results,--that the "brave" is selected for preferment who can claim to
have the most scalps dangling from his waist-belt. This is the nature
of the war for which the British nation is content to pay many
millions a-month!

       *       *       *       *       *

"Please, sir, can I speak to you a moment?" The Tiger stood in the
doorway of the hotel dining-room.

"Anything serious?" asked the Intelligence officer.

"I have made a discovery."

"Can you spare me, sir?" (_to the Brigadier._)

"For half an hour. I am going down to the commandant's office to see
the general. Meet me there in half an hour."

"What is it, Tiger?"

"I will now show you something which will open your eyes. Something
which will show you how this game is worked. It is only about two
minutes' walk from here."

As the Intelligence officer and the Tiger made their way down the main
street, it would have required no great strain upon the imagination to
have fancied that the town had recently been carried by assault, and
the victorious troops allowed the licence consequent upon street
fighting. Even in the few short hours of occupation debauchery had had
its way. Drunkenness is the worst attribute of irregular soldiering
upon five shillings a-day. If the Colonial has money he will drink.
Where the average white man greets a friend and acquaintance with a
hand-shake, the South African Colonial calls him to the nearest bar,
and they drink their salutation. When half-a-dozen Colonial Corps "off
the trek" meet in a wayside township, they turn it into an Inferno.
Here they were crowding in and out of the houses in drunken hilarity.
The townsfolk, delighted at their opportune arrival when Brand was at
their gates, ply them with the spurious spirit which passes for whisky
in South Africa. If the spirit is there, no amount of military
precaution will prevent the Colonial trooper from securing it. You
cannot place whole regiments--officers and men alike--under arrest.
And when a Colonial regiment is "going large," in the majority of
cases it would baffle any but an expert to distinguish officer from
man. And while young men in smasher hats fall over each other in the
streets, the sober British troops look solidly on and wonder. Some, it
is true, fall away with the rioters. But they are few. Discipline and
want of means buoy them at least upon a surface of virtue. Yet, be it
said to the credit of these roysterers in town, the man who drinks
the hardest in the afternoon will follow you the straightest in the
morning!

The Intelligence officer and the Tiger had arrived at a little cottage
on the outskirts of the town. A primitive yet pretty dwelling--a toy
villa of tin.

"Go in," said the Tiger.

The Intelligence officer knocked and entered. He was met with a smile
by the pretty Dutch girl with the great blue eyes, who had so played
upon his feelings at Richmond Road.

"Miss Pretorius!"


FOOTNOTES:

[17] Water dam or pool.

[18] When out with a column men were often weeks before they knew what
the Gazette had given them.

[19] Colloquial Hindustani--bullock hackney carriage.

[20] Boer method of assessing distances.

[21] Sitting-room.

[22] Village.



V.

A NEW CAST.


For the moment the Intelligence officer could ill disguise his
astonishment. Here, standing in front of him, was the girl who had
taught him his first lesson in staff jurisprudence. The memory of the
incidents at the farmhouse, her petulance with the Tiger, her tears
for her lover, had been almost effaced by the vicissitudes of the last
forty-eight hours. If he had ever thought of the girl at all, it had
been in the same spirit as a mariner recalls a passing ship, whose
shapely lines were barely distinguishable in the night. His surprise
was such that he could only marvel that while, travel-stained and
dishevelled, he had arrived at Britstown with an effort, she had
already reached that goal, and, to judge from the studied neatness of
her attire, had reached it with consummate ease. Her smile and
attitude as she held out her hand to her visitor expressed
satisfaction at the meeting--a satisfaction tempered with a
determination to show a front which should declare a full measure of
resistance. Taking advantage of his officer's surprise, the Tiger
discreetly withdrew.

_Intelligence Officer._ "Miss Pretorius,--how did you get here?"

_Miss Pretorius._ "Quite simply. Partly on horseback, partly in a Cape
cart."

_I. O._ (_recovering somewhat_) "Naturally; I did not anticipate that
you had walked. But with what object?"

_Miss P._ (_the corners of her pretty mouth sinking in defiance_) "I
might easily have walked, and arrived before a British column. As to
my object in coming here, surely your Africander spy has informed
you?"

_I. O._ "If you mean the Tiger, he has told me nothing!"

_Miss P._ "And may I also ask something,--What authority have you to
put me such a question? At the institution which prided itself in
teaching me--an Africander girl--the manners and customs of the
English, they were emphatic upon the impertinence of asking personal
questions."

_I. O._ "I must apologise, Miss Pretorius. But the circumstances are
hardly normal. We cannot get away from the fact that we are influenced
against our better natures by an unfortunate state of war."

_Miss P._ (_petulantly_) "Oh, the war! That is just like you
Englishmen--you paragons of manly virtue--you make the war a cloak for
all your sins. It is such an upright war, therefore in its furtherance
you can do no wrong--cannot even be unmannerly. It is this that has
made you so beloved in the Republics; but how does your attitude hold
good with me? I am a loyal British subject, living at peace with all
men in a British colony. What right, therefore, have you to catechise
me as to my goings and comings? I do not even live within the
legitimate area of your so-called just war. I am only exposed to its
rigours--that is, as far as the insolence of those who should be our
defenders affects us women--because you English, in spite of your
vaunted power and military magnitude, cannot defend us, your
Africander dependants, from a few simple farmers. Where is your
manhood, where the courtly bearing of the Englishman, of which I have
heard so much--and seen so little?"

_I. O._ "Really, Miss Pretorius, if I may say so, I think that you
exaggerate the case. Unfortunately we are at war. You claim
consideration on the score of loyalty. Are you astonished that I
should have mistaken your attitude towards us? Your two brothers only
yesterday were in arms against us. One is wounded, the other a
prisoner in our hands. Is it surprising that I regarded you as their
accomplice in rebellion?"

_Miss P._ "I am surprised at nothing that an Englishman may do. But
why should I be compromised because my brothers have taken up arms
against you. Am I not of an age to formulate opinions of my own? or is
it that you consider that we poor Africander girls have no
intelligence, that our opinions must of necessity be bound up in those
of our men-folk, that we have no mind above the duties of the drudging
_hausfrau_? No, sir; I am an Africander loyalist--more loyal by far
than the renegade white who brought you here. And if you wish to know
the reason of my presence at Britstown, I am not averse to telling
you, provided you will not claim to have the information as a right."

_I. O._ (_with a touch of penitence in his voice, which for a moment
caused a smile to flicker round the corners of the girl's mouth_) "Of
course, Miss Pretorius, I have no right. You will persist in
misunderstanding me."

_Miss P._ "It is a simple problem. I am loyal, as I have said; but I
am a daughter and sister first, patriot later. In a fit of meaningless
bravado, tempered perhaps by some compulsion from over the border, my
old father and brothers had joined a rebel commando. You, with a
naïveté which I had hardly expected in you, and for which I liked you,
told me the objective of your column--information which meant
everything to me, and perhaps to you, for you looked as if you would
have liked to have bitten your tongue out after you had parted with
it. I, with the honest intention of saving my father and brothers from
you, rode out to them that night. I then knew nothing of Lotter's and
Hertzog's men. If it had not been for the fighting, I should be now
back again at Richmond Road. As it is, my poor wounded father in the
next room is sufficient reason for my presence here."

_I. O._ (_who, English-like, was all sympathy at once_) "Oh, it was
your father then that you brought with you in the Cape cart. I hope
that he is not badly wounded. May I see him?"

_Miss P._ "There would be no object in your seeing him, as he is at
present asleep. No; he is, not severely wounded. He is shot through
the shoulder,--luckily it has missed his lung."

_I. O._ (_with unaffected solicitude_) "I am indeed sorry for you,
Miss Pretorius; those last forty-eight hours have been full of trouble
for you. But I doubt if you know the worst!"

_Miss P._ (_suddenly paling, and losing for the moment her
self-control_) "The worst!--surely you have not burned our farm? You
are not burning farms in the Colony!"

_I. O._ "No, not your farm; but I am afraid your sweetheart has been
badly hit!"

_Miss P._ (_with evident relief and surprise_) "My sweetheart!"

_I. O._ "Yes; the guide whom we took from your farm. He tried to
escape, and was unfortunately shot."

_Miss P._ (_laughing outright_) "Oh, Stephanus! He is no sweetheart of
mine. How could he be? He is only a bywoner!"

_I. O._ "But you told me that he was when I first suggested taking him
with me!"

_Miss P._ "Did I? It was not the truth, then; it was only an addition
to the part I was then playing."

_I. O._ "How do I know that you are not still playing a part?"

_Miss P._ "If I am, then it is a very sad one. No; you may trust me
now. I have played my part, and if anything that I could do for you
would stop this dreadful war, I would gladly help you!"

_I. O._ "You can help me, if you will; but after what you have said
about my want of manners, I am afraid to ask you a question."

_Miss P._ "I have forgiven you that; and now that you do not claim the
right to question me, I do not mind answering you if I can!"

_I. O._ "How, if your object was to save your father, did it happen
that Lotter was informed of our presence at Richmond Road?"

_Miss P._ "I expected that you would ask that. I did not tell him
personally, nor would I in any circumstances have done so. But the
fact that I arrived in great haste in the small hours of the morning
had a peculiar meaning to the commando, and it was not necessary for
me to open my mouth. I daresay to-night there will be one hundred
Africander girls in the saddle in different parts of the Colony. When
the urgency is great, a girl is more reliable than a Kaffir. It is one
of our means of communication. There; is not that an admission worthy
of a loyal Africander?"

_I. O._ (_holding out his hand_) "Good-bye, Miss Pretorius."

       *       *       *       *       *

It would have been difficult to analyse the Intelligence officer's
feelings as he strode back along the Britstown main street to keep his
appointment with his brigadier. He was at a loss to understand two
things,--the anomalism of his second meeting with the Pretorius girl,
and the latter's attitude towards the Tiger. He could not divest
himself of a feeling of suspicion that all was not quite as it
appeared. There is no walk in life which breeds distrust in one's
fellows so rapidly as that of military Intelligence. And although the
Intelligence officer had only formed an atom in this great structure
of British incompetency in South Africa for two days, yet sufficient
had been borne in upon him during this period to cause him uneasiness
as to the sincerity of motive in those that moved round him. It is
said that the only person that a race-horse trainer will trust is his
wife, and that as long as he trusts her he remains an unsuccessful
man. We cannot say what truth there may be in this ancient turf adage;
but we do know that administrative work successfully performed in the
Intelligence Department of an army in the field leads a man to place
the lowest estimate upon the integrity of his fellows. The first
lesson is of an inverse nature, and compels a man, however he may
dislike the procedure, to believe those who move about him to be
knaves, until he has had opportunity to test their honesty. Young in
his knowledge of the people against whom he had been warring for
eighteen months, the Intelligence officer was exceedingly puzzled at
the strange anomaly presented by the Africander girl he had just left.
He could not help feeling that this daughter of a nation which he had
led himself, if not to despise, at least to depreciate, had fathomed
him in two short interviews, while he had penetrated little beyond the
surface of her feminine attractions and lively wit. He was puzzled at
the outcome of his interview, even perhaps a little alarmed at the
manner in which he had been treated--shocked at the erroneous estimate
which he had formed of Dutch women after eighteen months in their
midst. But this rebuff had served its purpose: it had sown in him the
seeds of that appreciation of our enemy which will have to generally
exist if we are ultimately to live in peace and concord, united as
fellow-subjects, with the people of South Africa.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was now already dark, and the Intelligence officer had some little
difficulty in finding the house in which the general had taken up his
headquarters. The main street was still full of revellers, bursting
with Colonial _bonhomie_, but strangely lacking in topographical
information. In fact it seemed doubtful if the general's house would
ever be found, and the weary Intelligence officer was rapidly losing
his temper, when chance again came to his aid. A horseman came
galloping down the street. A little man in civilian attire--all
slouch-hat and gaiter. He seemed to be in a desperate hurry, as he was
flogging his tired and mud-bespattered animal unmercifully with his
_sjambok_. It was a beaten horse; and just as it came level with the
Intelligence officer, it stumbled, half recovered itself, and then
fell heavily in a woeful heap. The Intelligence officer pulled the
little civilian on to his feet, with a soft admonition about the
riding of beaten horses. The civilian shook himself, and turned to his
prostrate horse with a curse. But the poor beast had no intention of
rising again. It had lain down to die.

"It can't be helped; the news I bring will be worth a horse or two
anyhow. I must leave it, saddle and all, until I have seen the
general."

"Do you know where to find him?" hazarded the Intelligence officer. "I
am looking for his house now."

_Civilian._ "Well, I ought to; I've not run a store in this town for
five years not to know my way about. But who may you be?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "I'm staff officer to one of the columns which
came in to-day. I've been trying to find headquarters this last ten
minutes."

_Civ._ "Come along with me. I must get there at once. I've just come
in from Houwater. I was sent out by the commandant to follow up Brand,
and I have located him and Hertzog. I tell you I have come in
fast--never went faster in my life. Devilish nearly got cut off. My
word, I bore a charmed life to-day. Well, here we are. I shall go
straight in. The new general doesn't know me, but he soon will. The
commandant knows me: he knows that when I come with news there is
something worth hearing."

The little civilian bounced up the steps and dived into the lighted
hall of the headquarter's villa, before orderly or sentry could stop
him. A tall Yeoman stepped up to the Intelligence officer, and
saluting with more dignity than alacrity said, "Beg your pardon, sir;
but I am the general's orderly, and he told me to tell you that he
would only be a few minutes here, and that if you wouldn't mind
waiting he would join you immediately."

Waiting for a general is a serious undertaking, and the Intelligence
officer was tired. Moreover, he did not know where the camp was, or
when he would be expected to take over from the chief staff officer of
the column. But on active service all these things work out in their
own time, so he just sat down on the whitewashed steps of the verandah
and lit a cigarette. The tall Yeoman orderly did likewise on the far
side of the entrance. The Intelligence officer smoked in silence for
some time, engaged in the occupation most welcomed by tired men on
service--thinking of better times--until the nightmare of the column,
the orders for the morrow, the supplies and the camp, broke in upon
his reverie.

_Intelligence Officer._ "Do you know where the camp is?"

_Orderly._ "Yes, sir; it is about half a mile from here."

_I. O._ "You can find your way there in the dark?"

_Ord._ "Yes, sir; it is straight down the main street, and then the
first to the left. It would be impossible to miss it."

_I. O._ "What do you belong to?"

_Ord._ "I don't quite know what I belong to now. I came out originally
with the 218th Company Imperial Yeomanry; but they have gone back
home."

_I. O._ "Then what are you doing out here now?"

_Ord._ "Well, you see, sir, I came to the general as orderly about
four months ago, and I liked being with him so much that I did not
rejoin the company. As a matter of fact, we were away down in Calvinia
District; I don't quite see how I could have got back to them, even if
the general would have let me go. I haven't seen the company since I
was wounded at Wittebergen seven months ago. I joined the general from
Deelfontein Hospital!"

_I. O._ "I hope that your billet has been kept open for you in
England."

_Ord._ "I sincerely trust it has, sir; but I have missed a season's
hunting. I don't intend to miss another if I can help it."

_I. O._ "The devil you don't. What do you do at home?"

_Ord._ "I hunt four days a-week in the winter, and in the----"

_I. O._ "I mean, what is your job?"

_Ord._ "I haven't much of a job, sir; I'm the junior partner in an
engineering firm, and as we do some very big things in contracts,
there isn't much left for me to do except amuse myself!"

_I. O._ "Then whatever made you come out in the ranks?"

_Ord._ "It suits me, sir. I am not fond of responsibility: besides, if
every one who could afford it had taken a commission in our company,
we should have been all officers, with no one to command!"

_I. O._ "I call it most sporting of you."

_Ord._ "No; not exactly sporting. It was no idea of sport that brought
me out here. It was a sense of duty. Were you out here, sir, during
the Black Week--the Colenso-Magersfontein period? You were. Then you
have not realised, and you never can realise, what we in England went
through during that period. I went down to my stables one morning, and
my groom came up to me and asked if he might leave at once. In answer
to my look of surprise, he said, 'It's this way, sir: I feel that the
time has come when we shall want every man who can ride and shoot to
defend the country. I can do both, and the country is not going to be
defeated because I can ride and shoot, and won't. I want to join the
Yeomanry!' I let him go, and thought over his estimate of the
situation all day. If the country's honour lay in my groom's hands,
how much more must it lie in mine--the employer of labour? I made up
my mind before dinner, told my wife before going to bed, and here I
am, sir."

Nor was this an extraordinary case. There must have been in South
Africa during the second phase of the war many hundreds of men--one
might almost say thousands--actuated by the same spirit, impelled by
the same feeling, as this rich contractor and his groom. Men who felt
that the nation had desperate need of their services; men who
voluntarily undertook the risks and perils of a soldier's life, not
from any hope of preferment, not from love of adventure or mercenary
advancement, but from true patriotism--a sacrifice to meet the
nation's call in the hour of her need. But that day soon passed. The
tide turned, and clash of arms ceased upon our own frontiers and
within our own dependencies, and the din of war sounded faintly from
the heart of the enemy's country. Then true patriotism failed; the men
who had gone forth with their country's acclamations returned as their
obligations expired. There were no patriots of the same class found to
take their places. Yet the exigencies of the struggle required even
more men than had been in the field when Lord Roberts made his extreme
effort to retrieve the earlier misfortunes. Then it was that we
committed another of those many errors in judgment which have marked
the conduct of the campaign. We believed that in December 1900 the
edifice of the Boer resistance was crumbling to its foundations,--that
it was like a mighty smoke-stack, already mined at its base, and but
requiring fuel at the dummy supports to bring the whole structure in
ruins to the ground. We called for the fuel. The cry went forth for
men--men--men. Any men; only let there be a sufficient quantity. The
war was over. Had not the highest officials said that it was over. The
recruiting-sergeant went out into the highways and hedges to collect
the fuel for Lord Kitchener's final operation. It mattered not the
quality--it was only quantity. The war was over. The gates of the Gold
Reef City would again be open. Then the mass of degraded manhood which
had fled from Johannesburg at the first muttering of thunder in the
war-cloud flocked from their hiding-places on the Cape Colony seaboard
and fell upon the recruiting-sergeant's neck. Mean whites that they
were, they came out of their burrows at the first gleam of sunshine.
Greek, Armenian, Russian, Scandinavian, Levantine, Pole, and Jew.
Jail-bird, pickpocket, thief, drunkard, and loafer, they presented
themselves to the recruiting-sergeant, and in due course polluted the
uniform which they were not fit to salute from a distance. The war
was over; there would be no more fighting, only a quick march to
Johannesburg, and disbandment within reach of the filthy lucre which
they coveted. And so new corps were raised, with spirit-stirring
titles, while old, honoured, and existing regiments were sullied
beyond recognition by association with the refuse and sweepings from
the least manly community in the universe. Such fuel could not even
clear the dummy supports at the base of the Boer resistance. It
refused to burn. It could never have burned in any circumstances.
These men had no intention of fighting. Their appearance in the field
gave new life to the enemy. New confidence, and free gifts of rifles,
ammunition, clothes, and horses. Men could not be found to command
them, for to place confidence in their powers meant professional
disgrace. These men had not come to fight. They had enlisted only to
reach Johannesburg, and they refused to fight. Surrender to them
brought no qualm or disgrace. They possessed no faculty sensible to
shame. Then the enemy hardened his heart. And who can blame him? He
had ever been told that the supply of British fighting material was
limited. He found these creatures in the field against him. He stepped
up to them, and disarmed them without an effort. Then he said, we have
exhausted their supply of real fighting men. They are now forced to
place this spurious article in the field. We will persevere just a
little longer. If we persevere till disease shall further destroy
their good men, we must win in the long-run. The error in judgment
which allowed of the enlistment of these men has perhaps done more
than anything else to prolong the war. If any doubts remain, let the
curious call upon the Government for a return of arms and ammunition
surrendered to and captured by the enemy between November 1900 and
November 1901, and then, if the answer be justly given, judge of the
necessity of arsenals for our enemy.

       *       *       *       *       *

The brigadier had finished his interview with his superior, and the
clink of glasses had shown that the general had not sent him off
without a stirrup-cup. He came out upon the verandah, and called for
his orderly.

_Brigadier._ "Hullo, Mr Intelligence; I thought you were lost. Come
along here out into the road. I want to speak to you, but we must be
careful not to be overheard; this place simply teems with rebels.
(_They advanced into the broadway, the orderly following at a
respectful distance._) Now, look here, we are to have a big fight
to-morrow. You saw that funny little beggar in the hat. Well, he
wasn't playing at robbers, though you would never have known it. He
was really bringing the good news to Ghent--killing horses all the
way. He's a local Burnham, and passing good, according to the
commandant. Well, he's located Brand, Pretorius, and our old friend
Hedgehog[23] at Houwater, and we are going out to give battle. More,
they believe that De Wet has doubled back towards Strydenburg, and is
trying to link up with these Houwater gentry, as the latter have
collected horses for him. Now, our bushranging robber reports that
Brand has an outpost of thirty men at a farm on the Ongers River,
twelve miles from here, covering the Houwater-Britstown Road. We are
to take a surprise party out to-night and round them up. If we
succeed, we will run a very good chance of bringing off quite 'a show'
to-morrow. So we must get along now, and get out the invitations for
the tea-party. The 'Robber' is to meet us here in two hours, and the
old man has lent me fifteen of Rimington's Tigers, who are 'fizzers'
for this sort of _shikar_."

       *       *       *       *       *

It would be an artist, indeed, who could analyse and adequately
describe the feelings of a man parading for his first night-attack.
The magnitude or insignificance of the enterprise is immaterial. The
feelings of the young soldiers from the New Cavalry Brigade as they
paraded with the hard-bitten swashbucklers, Rimington's Tigers, were
identical with those of the army advancing across the desert to the
assault at Tel-el-Kebir; of Wauchope's Highland Brigade blundering to
disaster in the slush and bushes before Magersfontein; and Hunter
Weston's handful of mounted sappers, who so boldly penetrated into the
heart of the enemy's line to destroy the railway north of
Bloemfontein. A night-attack must of necessity always be a delicate
operation. Shrouded in the mystery of darkness, men know that their
safety and the success of the enterprise is dependent upon the
sagacity and coolness of one or, at the most, two men. They must be
momentarily prepared to meet the unexpected. The smallest failure or
miscarriage--the merest chance--may lead to irretrievable disaster.
Men who can face death without flinching in the light of day often
quail at the thought of it in the darkness. The mental tension is such
that once men have been overwhelmed during a night attack, like the
beaten ram of the arena, it must be weeks, even months, before they
can be trusted to face a similar situation. No man who has ever taken
part in night operations will forget his first sensations. The
recurring misgivings bred of intense excitement. The misty
hallucinations, outcome of abnormal tension. The awful stillness of
the night. The muffled sounds of moving men, exaggerated by the
painful silence of the surroundings. You long--with a yearning which
can only be felt, not described--that something may happen to break
the overpowering monotony of this prelude to success or disaster. Some
outlet to your pent-up feelings. If only some one would shout, or the
enemy surprise you, or--thank God! relief has come,--it has begun to
rain!

As the little column of adventurers from the New Cavalry Brigade
trudged on in ghostly silence, great drops of icy rain began to
fall--harbingers of a coming storm. A shudder of satisfaction passed
through the ranks, from the "Robber" leading the forlorn-hope, with
the Intelligence officer and the leader of the Tigers beside him, to
little Meadows and his troop of the 20th Dragoons in rear. Then,
preceded by a brief ten minutes of inky darkness, the storm broke. It
does not rain in South Africa--water is voided from above in solid
sheets. A wall of beating rain pours down, obliterating the landscape
by day, intensifying the darkness by night. The column came to a halt;
the horses, unable to face the downpour, in spite of bridle, bit, and
spur, swing round their tails to meet it. And before a collar can be
turned or a coat adjusted every man in the column is drenched to the
skin. For ten minutes perhaps the deluge lasts, then fades away as
rapidly as it came. And as one by one the misty features of veldt
reappear, you can hear the passing rainstorm receding from you, still
churning the veldt surface into sticky pulp. The officers re-form the
column, and the journey is continued. But though the respite has been
short, it has been valuable; local inconvenience acts as a sedative to
the nerves. Besides, there is less silence. The track that was parched
and spongy has now become soft and slippery. Horses flounder and
slide. Wet mackintoshes swish against the animals' flanks, and hoofs
are raised with a rinsing, sucking sound. But there is man's work
afoot. As the rain-mists sufficiently clear, the "Robber" is able to
take his bearings. The head of the column has now reached the foot of
a long low-lying ridge. The end cannot be seen; but the "Robber"
explains that the farm where the Boers should be lies in a small cup
at the foot of the farther end of this ridge. The column has already
reached the place where it will be advisable to leave the horses. If
they are taken farther along, the Boer picket, which is probably
stationed on the ridge, may be disturbed. Now, even if a horse should
neigh, it would be mistaken for one of the many brood-mares belonging
to the farm. The march has been admirably timed; it still wants two
hours to daybreak. It will take fully half this time to work along the
ridge, overpower the picket if there is one, and surround the farm.

"Dismount--Number threes take over the horses." The word is passed
from man to man in whispers. There is some little noise. Exaggerated
by the situation, it sounds a babel. Can any enemy within a mile have
failed to hear it? A rifle-butt hits against a stone. A horse, either
pulled by the bit or terrified at some night-horror, backs and
plunges, and disturbs the whole section. A smothered curse, as in the
_melée_ some man's foot is trampled. Surely such a noise would wake
the dead! No; the men fall in at the foot of the hill. They are told
to lie down and wait. The horror of that waiting! There is a sound on
the side of the hill. A boulder has been shifted. The men clutch
their rifles, the click of a pistol cocking is clearly audible. Then a
form looms up. The "Robber" signals silence. The figure is
approaching. It is only the Kaffir scout, who had been sent on in
advance to locate, if possible, the picket. He comes up and hangs his
head upon his hand. He has found the picket, and this is his way of
demonstrating that the two Boers comprising it are asleep.

Harvey of Rimington's takes command. He issues his orders, first to
his own men, then to the whole. They are simple: "Fix bayonets. I will
take the Kaffir with me. When I hold up both my hands, the left
section of fours will follow me. You know what to do; mind, not a shot
is to be fired. The force will advance up the hill extended to two
paces, and halt as soon as it reaches the summit. If we are discovered
by more than the picket, Rimington's will rally on me, the 20th on
their own officer. Remember, your line of retreat must be to the
horses."

Then the advance began. Slowly the men toiled up. It seemed impossible
to make the ascent in silence. Men must trip in darkness over rough
ground--tripping men with rifles in their hands make what appears to
be a fearful clatter. By hypothesis it would seem impossible to
surprise even a sleeping picket. But you have only to be on picket
duty once to realise how full the night is of deceptive noises. In
reality the advance was made with praiseworthy silence. Just as the
top was reached, the Kaffir plucked Harvey's arm. His veldt-bred eyes
could see that which was still obscured from the white man. "Near,
near!" he whispered in the captain's ear. Harvey raised both his hands
above his head. Silently, but with the agility of cats, the four lean
Colonials followed him. Six paces on, and under the shelter of a rock
appear the forms of two men, asleep, and rolled in their blankets. It
is not necessary to describe what followed. A leap forward by four
lithe figures with shortened arms, a sinuous flash of steel, a
sickening thud and gurgle, one choking wail, and all was over, and two
farmer-soldiers had paid the extreme penalty for the betrayal of the
trust their comrades had placed in them!

Five minutes for breathing-space. Then the little line was reformed
diagonally along the table-top of the ridge. Half the game had been
won. It now remained to complete the _coup_. If the unexpected did not
happen, there was no reason why the farmhouse should not be surrounded
by daybreak. But in war it is the unexpected which does happen. Slowly
the thirty men worked along the plateau towards the point of the
ridge. Two-thirds had been traversed, when suddenly two figures
appeared against the eastern sky.

"Reliefs for the picket,--d----n!" muttered the Rimington captain, and
as the truth flashed upon him came the challenge in Dutch--

"_Wie dar?_"

"Follow me, Rimington's!" and the nearest men joined their captain in
a dash to reach the men. But it was too late. Up came the Mausers. Two
wild shots, and the relief had turned and was rushing down the hill
towards the farm. If it had been day, all might have yet been saved by
pace. But in night operations you cannot take these risks, especially
when only one man in the force knows the exact position of the
objective. Harvey rallied his men on the ridge, and even before he
could place them in position, Mausers were popping from below,
disclosing the kraals and outhouses of the farm.

"We must stop up here till daybreak. They will be gone before that.
Well, there will be no surprise of Hertzog at Houwater to-day, all
through a turn of rank bad luck!" and the Rimington captain commenced
to fill his pipe, for his long abstinence from tobacco-smoke by reason
of the night-march had been his particular grievance since the column
had left Britstown.


FOOTNOTES:

[23] Hertzog.



VI.

A POOR SCENT.


"There will be no surprise of Hertzog at Houwater to-day."

The Rimington captain had summed up the results consequent upon the
night-attack with considerable accuracy, and as his party, in
obedience to orders, worked down the banks of the Ongers River
covering the right of the combined advance upon Houwater, there was
abundance of evidence to show that Hertzog and Company had little
intention of becoming enmeshed by the ponderous strategy set in motion
against them. Nor was the weather favourable. The storm which had
preceded the night-attack was one of those lowly pitched
thunder-clouds which, caught in a craterlike valley enclosed by
kopjes, revolved in a circle until it had spent itself. It took some
hours of morning sun before it was finally dissolved. Consequently
when the advance-guard of the force which was formed by the New
Cavalry Brigade topped the great sloping glacis, inclining for all the
world like an under-feature of the Sussex Downs, into the stagnant
morass which is Houwater's most prominent feature, the last Boers were
disappearing into the labyrinth of Minie Kloof beyond. But there was
just sufficient excitement to take the cold and stiffness, bred of a
miserable march, out of the bones of the men. The pom-pom unlimbered
above the drift, and spent, at an impossible range, a belt of its tiny
bombs. A spare dozen of Rimingtons, who had pushed farther forward
than the rest, lightened their bandoliers by a few cartridges, and
then, unmolested, the miniature British army marched into possession
of its _point d'appui_.

You who have only seen the British soldier at his worst, that is, when
he is buttoned into a tunic little removed in design from a
strait-waistcoat, or when the freedom of the man has been subordinated
to the lick-and-spittle polish of the dummy,--you who glory in
tin-casing for your Horse Guards, and would hoot the Guardsman bold
enough to affect a woollen muffler,--would have opened your eyes with
amazement if you could have sat on the slopes of the Houwater drift
with the staff of the New Cavalry Brigade and watched the arrival of
the co-operating columns to their common camping-ground. First came
two squadrons of Scarlet Lancers, forming the nucleus of somebody's
mobile column. No one would have accused them of being Lancers if they
had met them suddenly on the veldt. Helmets they had none. How much
time and money and thought has been spent over the service headgear
for our men! We have seen it adapted for this climate; altered to suit
that; a peak here, a bandage there. But Thomas is the best judge of
the helmet in which he prefers to campaign, and you may rest assured
that he will choose the most comfortable, if not the most suitable.
The Scarlet Lancers had been separated from their helmets for many
months. In fact, the manner in which the gay cavalry man rids himself
of his legitimate headgear and provides himself with a substitute
rather smacks of the supernatural: for instance, our own 20th Dragoon
Guards had not been in the country more than ten days, yet there was
barely a helmet to be seen amongst them. Substitutes had been found
somewhere. The more worn and disreputable the substitute the happier
the owner, despite the fact that all his past glories centred round a
shining helmet or jaunty lancer cap, irresistible in plume and polish.
But it was a great spectacle to see the survival of the fittest
squadrons of the Scarlet Lancers filing past. There are half a dozen
Cavalry Regiments against whom no one could throw a stone--the 9th and
16th Lancers are of these. But it would be invidious to particularise
too much.

"Who the h--ll are these fellows?--are they tame Boers?" chirped a
subaltern from the 20th, who for the day was galloper to the
brigadier.

A bearded ruffian, whose only costume was a flannel shirt and a pair
of seedy check trousers, but whose eye was as keen as a hawk's, and
whose shining "matchlock" had seventeen notches[24] along its stock,
caught the subaltern's query.

"Yuss," came the answer, "we are tame Boers, the very tamest. My pal
'ere is President Kroojer, this 'ere's Botter, and hi am De--e--Wet!"

Cheery fellows; after fifteen months of war there was little about
self-preservation that you could have taught them. Lean, sinewy, and
bearded kind--they represented the English fighting man at his best.
And well might the inexperienced have asked if they were Boers. Lance
and pennon were gone. Barely a tunic or regimental button remained to
the two squadrons. Their collective headgear would have disgraced a
Kaffir location, and their boots were mostly the raw-hide imitations
of the country. But they were men. Rags and dirt could not conceal
that fact. Theirs was not the dirt of sloth and sluggard. The
essentials were bright and clean. There was not a man of the 150
attempting to represent two service squadrons who had not at some
period balanced his life against his proficiency with the rifle, and
who had not realised that on service his firelock was the soldier's
best and staunchest friend. Nor were the officers easy to distinguish
from the men. A shade cleaner, perhaps; but they, too, were
rough-bearded, hard bitten by long exposure and responsibility. How
different from the exquisites of popular fancy! Gone the beauties of
effeminate adornment. Gone the studied insolence of puppyhood--that
arrogance of bearing traditional with the British officer in times of
peace. These were the men who had been eyes and ears to French's
magnificent cavalry, who had ridden unflinchingly to the relief of
Kimberley, who had more than held their own against fearsome odds at
Diamond Hill. Did you hear that boy give an order? It was a man who
spoke, and a man of resolution and understanding, yet judged by a
standard in years he should still be a Sandhurst cadet.

The regulars are followed by a squadron of Yeomanry,--the old original
yeomanry, and, 'pon one's honour! it is hard to distinguish them from
the Lancers. They, too, have been a year in the country. It takes all
that to make any mounted regiment, however educated your material. You
may make the men in less, but not the officers, and, all told, the
officers are the essential in every corps. This is illustrative of
another of our mistakes: we have sent back our Volunteers just when
they really became efficient. These very men were under orders for
home. Knowing what we know of the capabilities of young and green
troops in mounted war, we may say with confidence that the authorities
were ill advised when they failed to enforce the clause "until the end
of the war," which was part of these men's undertaking. It has been
the same all through, the exigencies of the service have been
sacrificed to satisfy garrulous impatience on the part of home-abiding
politicians.

The New Cavalry Brigade had been freshly provided with transport. Half
was very excellent mule-transport; the balance was composed of heavy
trek-waggons, with lumbering ox-teams. Futile expedient. The
disadvantages of the one outweighed the advantages of the other. It is
only a matter of weeks since a public outcry was raised--by ignorant
critics it is true--because Paris's convoy was overwhelmed in detail,
that officer having done what every other successful column commander
has done, allowed his ox-waggons to march on ahead of his more mobile
transport, in order not to delay the progress of the column. What
chance of success lies with the officer content to passively hug
ox-waggons instead of pressing on against his mobile foe? None: yet
half the column commanders have been content to parade the country as
escort to drays packed with merchandise. When a man has been found
enterprising enough to leave his ox-transport under escort, and to
form a striking arm with such part of his force as is mobile, you turn
and rend him if the dead-weight which has cramped and curtailed his
action falls into disaster. Thus, in your ignorance, you call for the
professional martyrdom of the only men who have served you honestly
and well. Why don't you strike at the system, which, when it equips
these columns, sends the commanders forth with the millstone of
ox-transport round their necks? Do you imagine that an officer,
possessed of the same dash which in the past has built up the
traditions of our mounted arm, selects to move with heavy transport
from choice? With him it can only be a Hobson's choice. He must take
what he can get or nothing. And having secured what chance will give
him, he must make the most of it or fail. If he takes risks and
succeeds, his luck will have been abnormal. If, taking the risks, he
fails once, he will, in all probability, be sacrificed to the yapping
of the curs who voice the taxpayer, or to the vanity of some less
competent senior. These sweaters give no second chances. If he steers
the middle way, and is sufficiently plausible in the tale he tells, he
may carry on to the end of the war, or the leave season; perhaps even,
if he is sufficiently cautious, he may worm his way into an honours
list. For it is the good, not the bad, that the modern system breaks.

It is one thing for the mounted men of a column to come into camp,
another for the transport. Houwater presented an ideal place for the
bivouac, with its running water, its solitary building--half farm,
half store--at the drift, and its complement of oat-straw. But the
_vlei_[25] from which the place takes its name was the very deuce for
wheeled transport. All is fair in "love and war." This being a creed
very staunchly adhered to by the private soldier when campaigning, the
mess-servants of the staff of the Cavalry Brigade saw fit in the
early morning to steal a span[26] of mules which had strayed from the
protection of their rightful owners. Now the Brigade state _fourgon_
with a span of four mules was a big enterprise, and if treated gently
might have ministered to the comfort of the staff for many months. But
no; the brigadier's servant and the mess-waiter, who was a
high-spirited and intelligent dragoon, sought to vary the _ennui_ of
the march, and to assert their superiority over the Kaffirs in the
matter of stage-driving, by taking the _fourgon_ and its half broken
team full gallop down the incline terminating in Houwater _vlei_. A
playful and exhilarating expedient, which ruined the brigadier's
spring vehicle for ever and a day, and denied the staff many home
comforts for that and some consecutive nights....

The soldier, officer or man, who finds himself without a bivouac in
the middle of a camp, experiences for the moment much the same
sensations as a "broke" man in the streets of London. Of the two, the
officer has the worse time. A private soldier will be able to
approach some one or other of the company cooks with the certainty of
a rough welcome. If he is wise he will arrive armed with some stray
piece of driftwood to add to the stock of fuel. Thus will success be
assured, for Thomas of all men is the most unselfish. In the first
instance, if he be a staff officer, he has probably too much to get
done in a short space of time to think about his creature comforts.
Then, if the ordinary channels have failed, he has probably too much
diffidence to propose himself upon the hospitality of his
fellow-comrades. In this manner is the simile of the "broke" man in
midst of London's wealth maintained. Brigadiers, of course, do not
starve; they would not, even if they possessed no _bandobust_[27] of
their own. Some squadron mess claimed the chief of the Cavalry Brigade
for the evening, and, probably, fed him well. But the juniors of his
staff were without home, and it was long past dark before the
Intelligence officer could think of food. His first duties were orders
for the morrow. The officer in supreme command had been weak enough to
have been accompanied by a cable-cart. Lord Wolseley may cavil at
correspondents and call them the curse of modern armies; but we are
constrained to think that if a tired staff-officer were consulted he
would save the cream of condemnatory epithets for the cable-cart,
which makes his night horrible with useless telegrams. The nightmare
of that midnight message, with its probable four pages of closely
written ciphers! Those fine popinjays in starched kerseys and pink
frills, who live in luxury at railway centres, think that it adds to
their dignity if they convert their most trivial messages into cipher.
Little do they consider the poor tired being whom they rob of
hard-earned rest to open out that cipher. It pleases them. They have
nothing to do in the evenings. The codeing of a message to them is of
the nature of an after-dinner game of backgammon. But to the aching
head that has to decode it in the small hours of the morning by the
fitful light of a grease-wallowing dip it is no game, no pastime. The
cable-cart may have its uses; but many a score of worn-out
staff-officers must have blessed the grass fire which has destroyed
the ground-wire in their rear, and thus given them a few hours of
unbroken rest.

After orders and the minutiæ of brigade duties came intelligence. The
only building at Houwater Drift is a ramshackle half-way house--a
familiar landmark of the veldt. This _winkel_ was managed by a
half-bred German; the farm inadequately protected from the elements
half-a-dozen greasy Dutch _fraus_ of various ages and a single
decrepit black boy. Here indeed was a fund of information,--such being
the channels through which the British Intelligence usually is worked.
The Divisional Intelligence first took them in hand. Then "A" column,
then "B" column, and lastly our own ranged them before the
witness-table. It would have taken a veritable K.C. to have sorted the
truth from the aggregate of falsehood which had been arrived at by the
time it was our turn. The Intelligence officer had taken possession of
the showrooms of the _winkel_ to serve him as an office. This
Shoolbred of the veldt was but a sordid shelter--walls and counter of
mud; floor, sun-dried cow-dung and sand. Ranged upon the shelves was
a strange medley of merchandise. All edibles had been removed by the
Boers; there only remained what we believe the trade terms hard and
soft goods. A pile of stinking sheep-skins, a few rolls of
questionable longcloth, two packets of candles, some sheep-shears,
gin-traps, and a keg of tar. As the Intelligence officer wearily set
about his business of cross-examination, he was interrupted by the
entrance of the Supply officer. This youth, as has previously been
shown, was possessed of ready resource,--so much so that he annexed
the two sole remaining packets of candles before unburdening his mind.

_Supply Officer_ (_dropping the candles into the deep recess of the
pockets of his "coat-warm-British"_).[28] "Are you aware, old boy,
that we don't get any grub to-night?"

_Intelligence Officer_ (_wearily_). "And why?"

_S. O._ "The reason is quite simple. Those mess-servants have driven
the mess-cart into the _vlei_, and in the _vlei_ it will remain all
night."

_I. O._ "I can't help that. I always said that the general's man was
a fool. He is not only a fool but a d----d fool!"

_S. O._ "Now, look here. You may think that you're a useful feller and
doing a lot of good. But let me tell you that you are going over the
same ground that better men than you have already passed (_pointing to
the winkel-monger_). I have seen, at least, a round dozen of
Intelligence officers examining that man. Well, what the deuce is he
worth to you after that, either as a framer of fact or flinger of
fiction? Try and be useful. We have got to feed to-night. Now, we
can't go round to the messes and cadge for food. Nor shall we see our
mess-cart. (_The Intelligence officer nodded assent._) Then why do you
detain our only chance? Here, Mr Squarehead (_taking the winkel-monger
by the ear_), come and provide food. I have got two fowls and some
potatoes, and you and the _fraus_ between you have got to make a mess
of pottage, and be right quick about it, or you will never see another
sun rise."

There were protestations of inability on the part of the forced
labourers. But the Supply officer soon overcame all these, and in an
hour the staff of the New Cavalry Brigade were able after a full meal
to curl up for the night on the high-scented floor of the _winkel_.

       *       *       *       *       *

An orderly from the general almost cannoned into the brigadier as he
stood shaving by the light of a candle. There was a brusque rejoinder,
and the man handed in a note. The brigadier read the slip of paper
handed to him while he stropped his razor. The orderly who had brought
the message stood stiffly to attention until the brigadier finished
his apology for a toilet. Having washed and struggled into his tunic,
the officer commanding the Cavalry Brigade was in a position to give
his undivided attention to his correspondence. He strode over to the
four packing-cases, which in their disguise as tables represented the
brigade mess, and called for his Intelligence and acting staff
officer. That officer's toilet took even less time than that of his
chief, for he just rolled out from between two blankets, and appeared
ready made, as it were, for the day's wear and tear.

_Brigadier._ "Here, you lazy scoundrel, read that" (_and he passed the
slip of paper over to his subordinate._)

_I. O._ "These are orders, sir."

_B._ "It was not necessary to send for you to discover that. But how
does it affect the orders you issued last night?"

_I. O._ "It cancels them. Instead of taking us north-east, it will
take us due west toward the Prieska Road as soon as we strike Beer
Vlei."

_B._ "It looks as if Mr Brass Hat over there is going to dry-nurse me.
My orders are to co-operate with him--not to follow him about like a
dog at heel. I'm not sent here to be at the beck and call of every
column commander a day senior to myself. I am here to catch
Bojers[29]--not to tramp about roads in the rear of other people. This
is not co-operation; it is aiding and abetting 'refusal' tactics. Now
look here, Mr Intelligence; just let us examine our information, and
if we are right and Brass Hat is wrong, I'll just send him back a note
which will keep him halted all day wiring to Pretoria for permission
to cast me into irons. Now, what is his information?"

_I. O._ (_reads_) "Information arrived late last night that Pretorius
and Brand have taken the road to Prieska. This is confirmed by the
scouts who went out last night. The enemy retired over Minie Kloof and
halted at a farm on the far side of the pass."

_B._ "Therefore the officer commanding the New Cavalry Brigade, having
covered the whole force over Minie Kloof, will halt and allow the
brave general to pass through his brigade, and then follow him along a
Karoo road into Prieska. So these are this sportsman's ideas on the
co-operation of columns. They are about equal with his conception of
the military methods most adapted for catching the present edition of
'Brother.' What is our private information?"

_I. O._ "That Brand, Hertzog, and Pretorius with four hundred men left
this yesterday afternoon,--the former with the intention of making for
Prieska; the two latter, with the bulk of the force, to fulfil an
order from De Wet to concentrate with him upon Strydenburg."

_B._ "I forget how you came by this information?"

_I. O._ "From the German storekeeper here, sir. He's a good sort of
fellow, and the Supply officer has taken him on as a conductor. The
man was present in the store when the messenger arrived with the
communication from De Wet."

_B._ "'M, yes. But may not he have been told to tip us this yarn on
purpose? Have you any other information confirming this theory?"

_I. O._ "Yes, sir, in two places. One of the old dames in the farm
here dropped a remark which the Tiger pounced upon at once. Her
spring-cart had been sent by Hertzog into Strydenburg to get
ammunition, as the orders were then for Brand to attack Britstown, and
they expected to use up the available supply in so doing. The
ammunition would have arrived with De Wet. That is circumstantial
evidence; but last night about 2 P.M. I got the following from the
cable-cart. It is from our friend the De Wet expert, dated last night
from Orange River Station (_takes out paper and reads_): 'Despatches
captured ordering concentration of all available commandoes at
Strydenburg to meet De Wet on the evening of the 26th'--that is
to-night, sir."

_B._ "Will old Stick-in-the-mud have got that, too?"

_I. O._ "I presume so, sir!"

_B._ "Then this is a clear case of 'bilk' on his part. I will go over
and see him. I will be at Strydenburg, as I intended, by midday
to-morrow, if I have to mutiny in doing so. My orders of last night
stand until I come back."

The brigadier was returned in ten minutes, by which time the crude
mutton chops, fried in bacon fat, which formed the daily staple of the
staff breakfast, were laid upon the packing-case. The Brigadier sat
down on his biscuit-tin and took a deep draught of tea. He then seemed
sufficiently fortified to give expression to his feelings.

_B._ "Well, of all the electroplated figure-heads with which I have
come in contact in a long and varied military career, that man is the
most unmentionable. He is eloquent in his estimation of you, Mr
Intelligence. I told him that I could not agree with him upon any one
point he put forward, and that it would be childish in the extreme to
waste 2500 men in chivvying a mythical 200. He then grew angry, and
told me he had got his orders and had given me mine. Well, if this is
what is meant by co-operation, I'll never get within speaking distance
of a column with which I am told to co-operate again. Issued fresh
orders! Instead of being within striking distance of Strydenburg
to-night, we shall be messing about in the Beer Vlei. Old
Stick-in-the-mud does not mean 'going,' that I full well see. What a
sin it is!"

And we can readily indorse this comment upon the evils of seniority,
which, while giving a cover to impotence at the head, dwarf, handicap,
and crush individual energy in the junior. How much separated these
two men in age? It may have been a couple of years. Even if in the
Army List it had been a single day, the result would have been the
same. The so-called experience of seniority--which too often in this
war has spelled incompetence or unsoldierly timidity--has been able to
subjugate the wiser counsels of the junior, and crush out of his
action that fire and energy of purpose which alone could have brought
success. As in the present case, the senior deliberately ignored the
advice of the man with whom he had been ordered to co-operate, and
taking advantage of the few lines which gave him preference in the
Army List, ordered him to deviate from a scheme which in his heart of
hearts he must have known was the only one which could promise
adequate results,--it might also be said any results at all. Perhaps a
study of developments such as these will furnish some clue to an
explanation of one of the gigantic puzzles of this South African
campaign.


FOOTNOTES:

[24] A gruesome record of successful shooting.

[25] Dutch, swamp.

[26] Team.

[27] Hindustani, arrangement.

[28] Official designation of the field-service regulation overcoat.

[29] Jocular rendering of "Burghers."



VII.

"POTTERING."


"Well, if that place is held, it would take Lord Bobs and the 'Grand
Army' three days to turn it," and the brigadier dropped his glasses to
the full length of their lanyard.

The brigade, doing advance-guard to the whole concentration, had
crossed the great prairie which lies north of Houwater, and the
covering cloud of mounted _éclaireurs_ was already disappearing into
the shade of the mountain fastness in front of us. The giant outcrop
of volcanic rock which is known as Minie Kloof rises, with that
directness peculiar to the vast South African table-land, sheer from a
prairie as level as a billiard-table. A succession of rocky
flat-topped parallelograms, featureless save for the one sealed
pattern of nature's architecture of the veldt. To the nomadic
traveller and man of peace, landmarks as barren and bare as the great
ironstone belts of Northern Africa, which constrain the power of the
unwilling Nile until she surges in angry cataract through such niggard
opening as they will allow her. To the man of war, a veritable
Gibraltar; a maze of possibilities in defence; a stupendous
undertaking in attack, an undertaking which will brook neither error
nor miscalculation, and from which nature has eliminated much of the
element of chance on the one side to place it to the credit of the
other. Of such a kind were our Colenso, Magersfontein, Stormberg, and
Spion Kop heights. You at home at your ease, taking in from the map in
a second a perfunctory impression of the topography, which it would
take a cavalry brigade half a day to verify, talk glibly of turning
this position and out-flanking that. Know ye that the lateral problem,
which in the pink and green of the atlas would appear so simple, may
be for miles a gridiron of parallel and supporting positions. That the
well-considered turning movement put in motion at the first streak of
dawn may be, and probably will have become, a plain and simple
frontal attack by sunrise, through circumstances that no man, not even
Napoleon himself, could foresee or control. Then this being given, why
not deal leniently with such men as have served you well, and who may
be trusted to profit by experience dearly purchased? but the other
class, the man who has prostituted the fighting excellence of the
British soldier in the shock of war by appealing to the chances of
war, without due care and forethought--why, it is your duty to destroy
him: your bitterest strictures even will not meet the punishment such
a one deserves.

"If a life insurance agent were to turn up now, I should take him on!"
And the brigadier had every cause for anxiety, for the under-features
of Minie Kloof could swallow a thousand men, and still leave a mocking
enemy in possession of the salients. Troop after troop of Dragoons
broke into extended order, and spread away to either flank. The front
became wider and wider, and yet no rifle-shot. The main body and the
guns halted and waited, momentarily expecting to hear that intonation
of the double echo, which in a second would change the whole history
of the day. But it never came. The little brown specks, which had
vanished into the shadow of the mountain, commenced to reappear
amongst the stunted vegetation on the crests. At first it needed
strong glasses to distinguish the moving bodies from the clumps of
blurred bush-shadow. Then out twinkled that little star of light which
means so much to the general in the field. Gaily it caught the rising
efforts of the sun, and threw to brigadier and staff the welcome news
that the summit of Minie Kloof was clear.

"Thank Providence for that! we will be in Strydenburg to-night," and
the brigadier cantered on into the pass while the main body of his
command moved leisurely after him towards the natural fastness. It
must have been from places on the great South African tableland such
as this that Rider Haggard drew his inspirations to invent the hidden
kingdoms of Central Africa--charming rock-bound empires familiar to us
all. How many will there be who have trekked through and through the
new British colonies, and not been struck with the many
mountain-locked valleys which abound! Valleys as fertile and pleasant
as any in the legends of fairy tale; or, to be less fanciful in
simile, as bright in being and as difficult of approach as Afridi
Tirah in early autumn. Such a valley we found within the outer barrier
of Minie Kloof. A valley small in its proportions, it is true, but
none the less fertile. A dainty brook of crystal clearness gave life
to the barren hillsides. The silt of a thousand years of summer
torrents had furnished each niche and recess with a mould Goshen-like
in its richness. Here, amongst luxuriant groves of almost tropical
splendour, nestled the inevitable farmstead,--a white residence which
had once possessed some architectural beauty, and an outcrop of barns
and subsidiary mansions unpretentious in design, squalid in
arrangement. The staff of the New Cavalry Brigade dismounted before
the farmer's door and called for refreshment. For the moment one
possessed the mental vision of a pink-cheeked milk-maiden--the
panel-picture of civilised imagination--short of skirt, dainty in
neck and arm, symmetrical and sweet in person and carriage. It is of
such that the thirsty soldier dreams. The vision came. A slovenly hack
from the kitchen obeyed the summons. With dirty hands she thrust a
still dirtier beaker of milk upon us, and spat ostentatiously to
emphasise the spirit of her hospitality. It takes much to stifle the
honest thirst of war, but this was more than human nature could
support, and the uninviting bowl passed round the staff untouched
until it reached the less fastidious signallers. Five minutes at the
crystal brook was worth all the ministrations of Dutch milkmaids.

It then became necessary to seek for information. It was a barren
field of search. The surly men-folk of the sordid dwelling lounged out
and met all inquiry with studied insolence. Even the Tiger could make
no headway. He was met with recriminations. The Dutchmen recognised
him as a neighbour, and ill disguised their disapprobation of his
present circumstances. Information was at a deadlock, though in
reality there was little to be learned. The brigadier halted just
long enough to water the horses, and then it was forward again for the
last climb over Minie Kloof.

It was slow work. The scouting of an outcrop of mountain by cavalry is
always slow work, especially if that cavalry is under an officer who
will have the work done well. But like all things, good or bad, it
came to an end, and as the autumn sun grew vertical, the head of the
column passed down into another great plain which sinks northwards
into the Beer Vlei.

"Thank Providence the 'push' was not stuck up in that place," said the
brigadier as he halted to watch the waggons down the last incline. "If
old man De Wet is to be at Strydenburg to-night, with Britstown as his
objective, we should have had him here to-morrow morning. I have only
seen a worse country in the colony down Calvinia way. That was the
most deceptive playground that I was ever inveigled into. But it was
as deceptive to 'brother' as it was to us. Both sides lost themselves
about twice every half-hour. Hostile pickets and outposts constantly
rode into one another. I remember one night we had just settled down
in camp when in rode three Boers. They came up to the lines of one of
my scallywag corps with utmost unconcern--halted in all good faith
right up against the horse-lines. 'What commando is this?--is it Judge
Hertzog's?' A Natal corporal was the man nearest to them, and he was a
quick-witted fellow. He slipped back the 'cut off' of his rifle as he
answered, 'I guess not--but there is our commandant over there. You
had best go and ask him whose commando it is; but you must just hold
your hands above your head before you speak to him. He is a peculiar
man, our commandant!' The men surrendered to him without a murmur, and
seemed to think it was a good joke. But I daresay three months of a
Bellary sun in the Shiny has caused them to change their opinions."

The column swung out into the great dry Karoo prairie. It was a
comfortless trek. Earth and sky seemed to have forgotten the rain of
preceding days; or it may have been that the storms which had
distressed us had been purely local, for we had struck a great
waterless plain which showed not the slightest sign of moisture. The
shuffling mules and lumbering waggons churned up a pungent dust; a
great spiral pillar of brown cloud mushroomed out above the column; no
breath of air gave relief from the vertical rigour of the sun; the
great snake-like column sweated and panted across the open, reporting
its presence to every keen-sighted Dutchman within a radius of fifteen
miles.

We have seen the beauties of the Karoo; but we cannot blind ourselves
to its defects, for they are the more numerous. At its best it is a
great stagnant desert, studded here and there with some redeeming
oases. Its verdure smacks of the wilderness. Stunted brown and grey,
the heather from which these rolling steppes take their name is
stranger to the more clement tinge of green, which is the sign of a
soil less sapless. Yet a peculiar fascination militates against a
general condemnation of the pitiless Karoo. One cannot altogether
banish from one's mind the memories of a summer night upon those
wastes. Those of you who have laboured in the desert of the Egyptian
Soudan will realise what is meant--can feel as we feel towards the
veldt of the Karoo. There is in that mysterious, almost uncanny,
fascination of those cool nights which succeed a grilling day a
something which you always look back upon with delight. What this
influence is, you can never precisely say; but it is impossible to
forget it....

At midday the New Cavalry Brigade came to a halt at some mud holes,
which furnished sufficient clayey water to allow the sobbing gun-teams
and transport animals to moisten their mouths. Water for the men there
was little, except the pittance which they were allowed to draw from
the regimental water-carts. Neither was there shade from the merciless
sun. The six inches of spare Karoo bush, though it served as a nibble
for the less fastidious of animals, was useless either as bed or
shade; other vegetable growth there was none within sight. Men crawled
under waggons and water-carts if they were fortunate enough to find
themselves near them, or, unrolling their blankets, extended them as
an awning, and burrowed underneath. The oppression of that still heat!
Fifty yards away the atmosphere became a simmering mirage; the
outposts lost all semblance of nature's form, and stood out
exaggerated in the middle distance as great blurs of brown and black.
But it is only a passing inconvenience. In an hour or two the strength
of that great, fiery, pitiless sun will be on the wane: if it were
otherwise, then, indeed, would the Karoo be a desert. So you doze--it
is too hot to sleep--and thank Fortune that you have not to march
during the furnace hours of the day. And as you doze, parched and
sweating, a little blue-grey lizard pops out from beneath the cart
beside you, and, climbing gingerly up the stem of a solitary
karoo-bush, surveys you with great, thoughtful, unblinking eyes. He is
a complacent little beast, of wonderful skin and marking; and if it
were not for the palpitation of his white waistcoat, it had been
difficult to say he lived. You wonder if he too feels the heat. You
think he does; for he opens his pink maw and sways his sprig of
heather, to make for himself that breeze in the still air for which
you are panting. You close your eyes, and smile to think that such a
little thing as a karoo-blended lizard can interest you. A sound
catches your ear: it is the upbraiding note of the bustard. Again and
again you hear it. A covey of these birds must have been raised. As
the clatter of their cry dies away, you distinguish the muffled
strokes of a galloping horse. This is significant. No man in his
senses would gallop in this heat unless his mission was serious.
Nearer and nearer comes the horseman. You hate to move, though you
hear the rapid breathing of the horse and the complaints of chafing
leather.

"Where is headquarters?" demands a voice in authority.

Your dream and rest is over; for are you not the general's flunkey?
You jump to your feet.

"Where have you come from?"

_Orderly_ (_as he hands in a written message_). "From the officer
commanding the advance-guard." The message runs: "Patrol on left front
reports large force of Boers, estimated 500 strong, to be behind the
rise three miles to the right of the solitary flat-topped kopje on our
left front. Patrol has fallen back upon me."

This information is laid before the brigadier, who is half asleep
under the mess-cart.

_Brigadier._ "How far is the flat kopje from us?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "About four miles, sir."

_B._ "Intervening country?"

_I. O._ "Flat as a polo-ground, sir."

_B._ "Oh, send out a troop to get touch with them. I'll bet it's only
a flock of ostriches or a mirage. Tell the troop not to get
compromised if they should find Boers in greater strength than
themselves. Hold another troop and the pom-pom in readiness to
support, if there should be anything. But it's not reasonable that
there should be 500 Boers so near us at this hour. It is too late for
our Houwater friends, and too early for ole man Christian.[30]"

_I. O._ "Very good, sir."...

Almost immediately upon the despatch of the troop, the main body of
the co-operating command marched up to the clay pools. The two
generals met to discuss the situation. The meeting of generals in the
field nearly always lends itself to the picturesque. We know that it
is a favourite theme for the artist's brush. And even in this
utilitarian age, when the genius of man has shorn war of much of the
panoply with which the calling of arms is associated in peace, there
is something attractive in the sight of the communion of great
soldiers in the field. The glory of war is not all cock-feathers and
steel scabbards. In fact, the brilliant colours which blend so well
with the pasture-green and brick-red of Europe would offend the eye if
grouped upon the russet veldt--would seem as incongruous as a flamingo
perching upon a hay-rick. It is an interesting picture. The two
generals standing together a little apart from their staffs, which
mingle in friendly intercourse. The lines of dismounted orderlies
holding the horses from which the officers have just dismounted. The
senior general is a tall spare man, just overlapping the prime of
life. It is more than the powdered dust that makes his moustaches
appear so fair. He is a man careful of his personal appearance. From
head to foot his uniform of modest brown fits him as would a glove--to
borrow from the sayings of a fair cousin across the Atlantic,--the fit
of everything is so perfect that it looks as if he had been melted and
poured molten into a khaki casing. The sombre dirt colour is relieved
by the scarlet and gold upon his peaked cap and collar, and the long
string of kaleidoscopic ribbons on his breast which tells of many
tented fields--and maybe as many "fields of cloth-of-gold," for it
does not take war alone now to decorate the breast, or to bind
spur-straps across the instep of a knight. The brigadier stands in
contrast to his senior. He is as tall a man, more commanding in
carriage, but of very different temperament and gait. It is no studied
negligence which has arranged the careless inconsistency of his dress.
It is but the mind speaking through the person. He wears nothing that
has cost a tailor a minute's thought to shape. His staff cap is set
askew; his badges of staff distinction have obviously been sewn into
position by some unskilled craftsman--probably his soldier servant.
His tunic tells its own story of two years' campaigning in the rough;
while the Mauser pistol strapped to the nut-brown belt which Wilkinson
designed to carry a sword, speaks eloquently of the wearer's
appreciation of the latter weapon as part of a general officer's
service equipment. But as you look at the two--the one dandy and
smart, the other rough and workmanlike--you can feel the personality
of the junior, while the senior means no more to you than a clothier's
model. This may not convey much to the average layman. But
men--illiterate, uncultured, fighting men--see and appreciate all
this, and it means much to them. Know, therefore, that there is no
keener judge of human character and human mind than the cherub of the
gutter. It is from these gutter-snipe, grown into men, that the
fighting ranks of the great British army are filled.

The generals were discussing the situation, as far as their respective
staffs could discern from their speech and attitude, amicably enough,
though the brigadier was pressing some point. In reality he had
renewed his protest against his senior's decision of the morning, and
was endeavouring to influence him into a change of policy and plan.
But the stern usage of the service decrees that the public convenience
should be ordered by the man whose name ranges first upon the Army
List schedule, and that the junior should press his arguments in
deferential rather than aggressive language. But by dint of argument,
and some short reference to the senior members of the staff, a
compromise was arrived at in order to meet the wishes of the
brigadier.

_General._ "I tell you that I don't like it; neither do I see any
object in the move. After the handling which he has had from Plumer,
Prieska can be the only line open to De Wet."

_Brigadier._ "But all my information is in an opposite direction, sir.
It distinctly----"

_G._ "I don't think that your information is worth much. What can that
boy know about it? He has been gulled by all the old wives' fables on
the line of march."

_B._ "Well, sir, leaving De Wet out of the question--I have been
promised a convoy at Strydenburg, and I have yet to pick up my
brigade. A squadron of the 21st Dragoon Guards and the whole of the
Mount Nelson Light Horse, which Plumer has not assimilated, is now
straining every nerve to catch me up."

_G._ "When do you meet your convoy, and how far behind you are your
details?"

(Now the brigadier had invented the convoy on the spur of the moment.
It was true that he had been promised a convoy, but that promise had
not indicated Strydenburg as the rendezvous. But seeing that he had
scored a point he turned at once to the Intelligence officer.)

_B._ "When is our convoy due at Strydenburg?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "Possibly to-morrow evening, sir. The day
after to-morrow at the latest." (Luckily the Intelligence officer had
been following the conversation, and the answer came glibly enough.)

_G._ "H'm, that places another complexion upon it. But it is suicidal,
reckless, to allow convoys to meander about the veldt in this
inconsequent manner. What about your details?"

(The brigadier having struck a "lead," had wasted no time in figuring
out his estimates.)

_B._ "Well, sir, I would suggest that you let me halt here for to-day.
My details are just one day behind me now. They will catch me up
to-morrow. In the meantime I will send a strong patrol--a
reconnaissance rather--into Strydenburg, starting this afternoon, pick
up the convoy, after which I will join you at any point you may
select. I shall then be a useful fighting body; now I am only a gun
escort!"

_G._ "Yes, yes; it would be dangerous for either you or your details
to be wandering about in this disturbed country alone. _I_ agree with
you, Colonel; but you must allow that in view of the present
circumstances it would be inadvisable for us to be caught in detail."

One cannot blind oneself to the fact that all this is very childish.
But then the man who undertakes life in the army must be prepared to
be a schoolboy to the end of his service. It ill becomes a brigadier
or any officer wearing his Majesty's uniform--as the expression
goes--to practise small deceits even to bring about a situation
calculated to be for the public convenience. Yet what other course was
open to the brigadier! For reasons which are evident from his
conversation, his senior had determined not to recognise him as an
independent force, but to hug him until all danger real or imaginary
was past. It is the trammels of discipline such as this that breaks
the hearts of the stalwarts in our service, and racks the national
war-chest to the bottom. Can you blame the brigadier, alive to the
pressing exigency of the situation, when, having exhausted the
man-to-man arguments of common reason, he descended to the practice of
a subterfuge to defeat the purpose of a man whose only object appeared
to be to satisfy his own personal peace of mind? Yet we doubt if the
senior was conscious of the futility of his direction. He had one
object in view. He was possessed with the single desire to avoid
disaster. In its limited sense his action was laudable enough; but
what would the owner of a racehorse say to the jockey who, after
having ridden a sound horse in a race, volunteered the information
that he had never extended his mount out of consideration for its
sinews? The care of the jockey is parallel to that of fifty per cent
of the men who have led columns in this war--except that there has
been no judge in the box to balance the merits of each case. The judge
has been far away in Pretoria, and the jockey has furnished his own
estimate of the running....

So the New Cavalry Brigade remained out-spanned by the mud-holes,
while the other column passed through it and bore away in search of
the Prieska Road. The rearguard of the moving force was brought up by
a Colonial corps, which had originally been raised in Natal by the
brigadier of the New Cavalry Brigade. Of course the _personnel_ in the
ranks had long since changed. Changed, be it said with regret, for the
worse. But there was still remaining a small percentage of the
original stock--stock that had been second to none. As the rearguard
passed through, a great burly corporal cantered to the packing-case
table at which the staff of the New Cavalry Brigade had just settled
down to lunch, shouting, "Say, where is the ole man?"

The brigadier rose with a smile.

_Corporal._ "I heard that you were here, sir, and I couldn't go by
without speaking. Lord, what a sight for sore eyes it is to see you
again!--if there were only more like you. (_Then extending his hand._)
Come, sir, put your hand right here--it is a good day's work to have
again shaken hands with a man." And then the corporal was off in a
cloud of dust. But it had been an interesting and instructive
incident. Without a doubt the man was Yankee; but he had served all
through the Natal campaign, from Willow Grange to Bergendal, and his
honest appreciation of his old chief almost brought tears to our eyes,
and was of more value than all the ribbon and tinsel that a crowned
head can bestow.

"That," said the brigadier, "is one of the finest men, amongst many
fine men, whom I have enlisted. I was recruiting for my 'push' down in
Durban. I used to go and get the fellows off the ships as they came
in. That fellow came over with a man who was running a cargo of mules.
I well remember when I broached the subject to him. His answer was
characteristic: 'Say, colonel, what do you want us for? Is it for a
straight scrapping with Boers, or is it to meander about as a town
garrison?' 'If you join me you shall be "scrapping" in a week from
to-day.' 'Will you give me your hand on that, colonel?' I acquiesced,
and straightway was able to enlist practically the whole ship's
company--and I never want to command a better lot. Did I ever tell you
about the Boer spies? Well, in the early days of recruiting in Natal
several Dutch agents were enlisted. They were paid by the Transvaal to
enlist in British corps. When we got to Mooi River one of these men
was discovered--recognised as an ex-Pretorian detective. That corporal
came to me and volunteered some advice. 'You prove him a spy, colonel,
and then turn him over to us: you won't have any more spies after
that.' I had the suspect up. There was not a shadow of doubt about his
identity, so I just said to the sergeant-major, 'This man is your
property--the fair name of the corps is in your keeping; there's a
convenient donga over there!' I never saw the man again, nor did I ask
what happened to him; but this I do know, that on the self-same
evening five men came to me and asked to be allowed to resign. They
came with faces as white as the coat of that mare over there. 'Yes,' I
said as I looked at them, 'you may go. You leave for the good of all
concerned, yourselves included.' And since that day I was never
troubled by the enlisting of Dutch agents."...

    "The best laid schemes o' mice and men
          Gang aft a-gley,"

and the dust of the column moving towards the Prieska Road was still
hanging over the horizon when a staff-officer came galloping back to
the New Cavalry Brigade. He brought written instructions to the
brigadier which nullified for ever the Strydenburg scheme. "The G.O.C.
directs the O.C. the New Cavalry Brigade to remain halted until he is
joined by such details as are following him along the Britstown Road.
As it is essential that the pass over Minie Kloof should be kept clear
pending the arrival of the aforementioned details, the G.O.C. directs
that the proposed reconnaissance to Strydenburg be abandoned, and the
troops which would have been used for the reconnaissance be sent to
hold Minie Kloof. As soon as the New Cavalry Brigade is complete, it
will follow with all speed upon the direct road to Prieska. Under no
circumstances are other arrangements to be made."

The occasion was not opportune for an expression of the brigadier's
feelings, but his silence was eloquent. There was no hope for it: it
was a written order from a senior, and we had no choice but to obey.

It is said by some that Christian de Wet is the best general that the
war produced from the ranks of our enemy. It is not our present
intention to debate upon this subject; but this much can be said with
confidence, that he has been the most fortunate of leaders. On every
occasion in which he has been hard pressed, when to all intents and
purposes he has found himself at the end of his tether, the pendulum
of fortune has favoured him in its swing. Often enough he has saved
his skin through the culpable stupidity of his pursuers. But even when
he has almost been cornered by the very best of leaders and men that
the British Empire can produce, the law of chances has stood by him. A
meddling contradictory telegram from headquarters, a thunderstorm or a
swollen river, has times without number saved the slippery commandant
at the eleventh hour. Take the present instance. It subsequently
proved that if the brigadier had, as he intended, moved upon
Strydenburg, and arrived there on the same day that he was directed by
his superior officer to stand fast and hold the Minie Kloof, he would
have arrived at his goal practically simultaneously with the guerilla
chieftain. The New Cavalry Brigade would have borne down upon the
little Karoo hamlet, fresh and in the full spirit of men new to war
and "spoiling for the fight"; men just sufficiently blooded in their
preliminary skirmish to have confidence both in themselves and in
their general, and--and this is the exasperating nature of the
story--while the British troopers would have ridden robustly into
battle, De Wet and his following were in no condition to receive them.
Unprepared for the arrival of fresh troops, spoiled of guns, train,
and ammunition, kicked and harried by the gallant Plumer's tenacity,
riddled and torn by Nanton's armoured trains, harassed by Heneker and
Crabbe, panting for rest, they would have been no match for
blood-seeking dragoons and a Horse Artillery battery that had been
studying range-finding in South Africa ever since the battle of
Magersfontein. All we can do is to shrug our shoulders and say, "The
pity of it!" while we pay the extra twopence in the income-tax which
our confidence in effete leaders, and disinclination to recognise, and
make soldiers recognise, that our army is a national institution, has
cost us.

It so happens that in war the rank and file know little of what is
taking place, and, one is inclined to add, care less. Consequently
those in the brigade who had no knowledge of the state of affairs
existing with regard to Strydenburg were delighted at the prospect of
a halt. At this period of the campaign halts were rare, and men looked
to them in much the same spirit as the average house-holder in England
looks to a spring cleaning, since, provided there is water, an "off
afternoon" will allow of a little of the cleanliness which hard
trekking renders impossible. The Dragoon Guards had not been long
enough in the country to feel the necessity of a thorough overhaul of
their linen. But the Horse gunners were old soldiers, and as soon as
the intended halt became common knowledge the men stripped the shirts
off their backs and indulged in the luxury of sand-baths where water
was not available. This may appear a simple operation, but those who
have campaigned long upon the veldt will know that a change of clothes
exposes not the least of "the horrors of war."

But, halted or moving, there is no cessation of trouble and anxiety
for the staff of any unit engaged in active service, and when the
brigadier issued his orders to meet the instructions of his superior
officer, his acting staff-officer discovered that the column was two
troops short. One troop had been missing ever since the first day out
from Richmond Road, the other had lost itself that morning in Minie
Kloof. This may sound absurd, but it is not an isolated incident; and
if we are to believe the evidence of those who marched with the "Grand
Army" into Bloemfontein, it was not a matter then of troops that were
missing, but fifty per cent of the whole army, and so badly missing
that it took the quartermaster-general's department a fortnight of
solid labour to definitely find them. The inexperienced youth could
get no help from his brigadier. Since the arrival of the message from
the main column that officer had not been approachable. But with the
aid of the good-natured gunner major and the opportune return of the
troop which had been detached in the morning, as the brigadier had
surmised, on a wild-goose chase after a mirage, it was possible to
apportion some sort of a force capable of holding a salient in Minie
Kloof without totally denuding the camp of adequate fighting strength.
But it is on occasions such as these, when isolated detachments are
scattered broadcast, that disaster is courted. Luckily it is only once
in a hundred times that the enemy has been in a position to accept the
free gifts offered to them.


FOOTNOTES:

[30] Christian de Wet



VIII.

STILL POTTERING.


To the delight of the men and disgust of the brigadier, day broke
without bringing any further orders to the New Cavalry Brigade. So it
remained halted in the great open prairie which fringes the Beer Vlei.
It may also be conjectured that De Wet and his following, as they were
stripping the adjacent little township of Strydenburg, learned with
satisfaction that the British columns, which lay round him like the
spokes of a wheel to the axle, were as immobile as usual--Plumer from
the force of circumstances, the others for the reasons set down in the
preceding chapter. But the cunning guerilla had no intention of
dallying at Strydenburg. It was not part of his strategy to spend two
consecutive days in any one spot unless bent upon the reduction of a
garrison. Even British column commanders at times have been known to
shake off their lethargy. He just remained in the town long enough to
replenish his quartermaster's stores department and to take over the
fresh ponies which Hertzog had collected for him, and then moved north
in three columns, trusting to pass between the spokes of the imaginary
wheel before Plumer had collected himself. Brand, with a thin hedge of
Free Staters and rebels, was left as a decoy to cover Strydenburg,
while the three columns made for Marks Drift in the loop of the Orange
River, south-west of Kimberley. And as De Wet put the first day's plan
of these movements into progress, the New Cavalry Brigade, by order,
remained halted, covering the entrance to the pass at Minie Kloof.

The men, however, were delighted. For the first time for many weeks
they were able to turn round and attend to their own personal comfort,
to change their under-clothes and to sort their kits. The soldier man
on service loves to sort his kit. The very fact that he is able to
shake out his modest bag to the bottom spells "holiday," and in
latter-day trekking holidays for the men were rare. But even holidays
can bring their heart-burnings, and about the breakfast-hour a howl of
despair went up from the Horse Artillery lines. A casual stroll
through the ankle-deep heather to Freddy's quarters repaid those
sightseers who had energy enough to be interested in camp excitements.
The horse-gunner major had long felt annoyance at the turnout of his
Kaffir boys and teamsters. The predominant attribute of the Kaffir is
vanity, an attribute which he possesses in common with all savages and
most white men. The reason for this vanity we will not pursue, as we
have nothing to do with the ethics of masculine conceit: it is
sufficient for this history that it exists. Vanity has caused the
Kaffirs of South Africa to acquire about fifty per cent of the British
army tunics which have landed in that continent. Thomas Atkins, as a
rule, is not over-blessed with money, consequently he cannot resist
the temptation of the five golden sovereigns which the Kaffir is
prepared to give for any scarlet tunic which is not in the last stage
of decay. The transfer of uniform came to such a pitch that an army
order was issued on the subject. Not that an army order was sufficient
to stay the general traffic in British uniforms, but it furnished such
right-minded soldiers as the horse-gunner major with the "cue" which
they required. Freddy's Kaffirs had struck a new and green regiment,
and being themselves near the end of a six months' contract, they were
"full of money." Consequently at Britstown, where money had possessed
extra fascinations for the British soldier, the "boys" attached to the
battery had been able to lay in a very complete outfit in Line
regimentals. The halt gave Freddy his opportunity, and he had every
kit laid bare. The revelation was wonderful. There was not a driver or
_voor looper_ who had not his scarlet jerkin. Many, indeed, had two,
to say nothing of forage-caps, field-service caps, dragoon overalls,
and gunner slacks. The Kaffirs had at first looked upon the kit
inspection as a joke. But they lapsed into a puzzled silence when they
saw their belongings cast upon a common heap. Their great white eyes
grew bigger and bigger, and their repulsive lips wider and wider
apart, until, when the last bag had been ransacked, the torch was
applied to the pile of clothing. Then they realised the blasting of
all their hopes, and with one accord they gave vent to the despairing
yell which had attracted the attention of the camp. They became like
men possessed. Smiting themselves heavily upon the head with their
fists, they went through the paroxysms of negroid lamentation. One
could almost feel for them, great bronzed children that they are. They
had worked hard for months, shared the privations and dangers of war
with the white men, in order that they might return to their kraals
bedecked as they thought in all the glory of the white man's clothes.
To them the Utopia of life would have been their homecoming. The
admiration of chattering women, the acclamation of piccaninies, and
the hideous smile of their paramount chief as they humbly presented
him with a battered helmet in a semi-decayed state of pipe-clay
finish. But Freddy was no philanthropist when the honour of the
uniform which his family had worn for two centuries was at stake. And
he was right. The dignity of the King's uniform is precious before all
philanthropy: "These brutes in Gunner Uniform--never! They may keep
their kharki; but I will not have our uniform outraged in my battery,
whatever other people may think!"

The native question throughout the war has furnished an interesting
study. It cannot be claimed that, under the circumstances existing in
South Africa, good will result from this tremendous struggle for
existence and paramountcy between two white races. It must always be
remembered that South Africa will, similarly with India, be held by
the dominant white race with the sword. It is not for us to trace here
what troubles may be in store for the white races in the far future.
The situation in the present and near future appears unsatisfactory
enough. The untutored mind of the Ethiopian does not appreciate the
finer ethics of social intercourse and the equality of mankind.
Freedom to his reasoning means independence; to possess independence,
to the semi-savage, is a proof of power. The inherent vanity of the
aboriginal then finds scope, and the nation which cringed and quailed
under the sjambok of the Boer will be the first to rebel against the
equity of the Briton. And what have we done during these long months
of military occupation to counteract the evil effects of war. Nothing:
Briton-like we have selected to work upon exterior lines. We have
lived in the present, secure for the future. Who has attempted to
follow the train of thought which has been uppermost in the native
mind? Yet it would have been simple enough to have analysed their
minds. Will it not have been somewhat of this kind?--"The Boers were
few and the British were many. Yet it has taken the British months to
stamp out the Boers who were few. Moreover, we have done all the
scouting for the British--without us they themselves could have done
nothing. Also of what value are the British soldiers? They are paid
30s. a-month. We--and we are black men--are paid by the British £3 and
£4 a-month. Therefore we must be twice or three times as good as the
British soldiers! And look how the British treat us. How different to
the treatment we received at the hands of the Boers. The British must
be afraid of us!" And in the abstract this reasoning is sound. We do
treat the native as if we were afraid of him. We do treat him so that
he might justly compare himself favourably with the British soldier.
We take it for granted that this illiterate black son of the south
will know, as we do, all the troubles and standards of the labour
market: will discern the reason, which to us is obvious, of his
princely pay. But this is where our crass stupidity overtakes us. The
native does not arrive at his conclusions through the same channel of
thought as we do ourselves. How could he? And as we only use him to
suit our own convenience, and remain reckless of the interpretation
which he places upon our actions, we shall only have ourselves to
blame, when, having pandered to the inherent vanity of the black, we
suddenly find him at our throats. Not that we believe that the natives
are sufficiently advanced to render our hold in the country insecure.
But they have been pampered by us enough to make them imagine vain
things, and vain imaginings may result at no distant period in a
repetition of that rapine, pillage, and massacre of isolated white
settlements, which has ever furnished the saddest stones in the cairn
of our great Empire.

As the sun rose it brought news from the Prieska Road. The helio
twinkled out another message from the general: "Good water at
Rietvlei, four miles on. Move on to Rietvlei, form your brigade there,
and await orders from me." Almost at the same moment the helio from
the summit of Minie Kloof called us up. "Have brought along two
squadrons of the Mount Nelson Light Horse and a troop of the 21st
King's Dragoon Guards. Pushing on as fast as possible"--signed,
"Brigade-Major New Cavalry Brigade."

The brigadier appeared completely uninterested. He received the
information of his coming reinforcement and the general's latest
orders without comment, and having eaten his breakfast, returned to
his tent. For the time being the brigade had become a cipher. The only
really satisfied person in the camp seemed to be the Intelligence
officer, who saw in the arrival of the real brigade-major an end to
the multiform duties which had been thrust upon him. The brigade stood
fast, and presently, riding out of an almost opaque pillar of dust,
the brigade-major and his detached command came meandering into camp.
The arrival of the reinforcement moved the camp to interest. Much had
been heard of the Mount Nelson Light Horse, which had been specially
raised against Lord Kitchener's demand for more mounted men. The Mount
Nelson Light Horse rode into camp. The gunners, who had turned out _en
masse_ to welcome their comrades, just put their hands in their
breeches pockets and turned away with the single interjection, "Good
heavens!" The dragoons, who were younger soldiers and less versed in
veldt lore than the gunners, essayed a cheer. A fitful answer came
back from the dusty arrivals--it might have been compared with the
foreign cackle by which the clients of a Soho boarding-house give
voice to their admiration of the tune of the dinner-gong. The
brigadier came out of his tent and stood in the open, bareheaded and
in his shirt-sleeves. Soldier without ribbons--frank, open, and
gallant English gentleman. His expert eye ran down the ragged ranks
of his newly acquired legion. He had commanded Colonials during the
hardest fighting in Natal. The Dragoons might not be judges, but
nothing escaped his time-tested eye. He caught each detail, the
Semitic outline of half the profiles, the nervous saddlepoise of the
twice-attested Peruvian, the hang-dog look of the few true men among
the ranks, who shrank that a soldier should find them in their present
associations. The brigadier's moustache ill hid the working of his
mouth. Then the ludicrous setting of the scene appealed to his
light-hearted nature, and, laughing heartily, he turned to his staff
with the single comment, "Gadzooks! they conspire against the fame of
my fair name. There is only one place in the wide world that I can
lead that 'push' to, and its name is Stellenbosch!"

But if the Mount Nelson Light Horse couldn't fight, they could talk.
They were full of second-hand blood. Had not a troop of theirs been
captured by De Wet, had not their men and officer witnessed De Wet's
cold-blooded outrage upon a British officer! All this was news to the
New Cavalry Brigade, and in view of a popular desire to lionise De
Wet, it will not be ill-advised to put the history of his action upon
record. We will not refer to the cruel murder of Morgenthal,
precedented in modern history by the murder of Macnaghten by Ackbar
Khan, or the pitiless treatment of the prisoners taken at Dewetsdorp
in December 1900. To us this one incident is sufficient. When De Wet
crossed to the south of the Orange River in the vicinity of Norval's
Pont the troops which Lyttelton set in operation against him from
Colesberg were too late to head him, and in the course of his
doubling--and De Wet broke back with considerable skill--he captured a
small proportion of his pursuers. These men having been pilfered of
much of their wearing apparel, including boots, could only with the
greatest difficulty keep pace with the rapid movements of their
captors. It must be remembered that the sleuth-hound, Plumer, was on
De Wet's trail, and the Boers had no time to waste if they were to
evade him. There came a time when the half-starved, almost naked, and
footsore prisoners could move no more. All the food that they had been
given was in live kind,--sheep that they had to kill, quarter, and
dress themselves. Cooking was out of the question, as the elements
were against them, even if they had possessed the necessary
appliances. Half-way through an exhausting march--flight would perhaps
better describe the nature of the movement--these wretched prisoners
lay down, and refused to move another foot. The threats and chiding of
their escort were in vain. Then some one rode forward and informed De
Wet. The guerilla captain galloped back to the tail of the column,
and, worked up into a paroxysm of rage, demanded the senior officer
amongst the British prisoners. A tall English gentleman stepped
forward.[31] In a moment the guerilla's arm was raised, and the cruel
sjambok of rhinoceros-hide fell across the Englishman's face, leaving
a great blue weal. The arm was raised for a second blow; but the
Englishman, prisoner though he was, and though his life hung in the
balance, closed with his brutal captor. Other Boers, doubtless feeling
the sting of the blow as keenly as the recipient, separated the pair
before the unarmed Englishman found the ruffian's throat. But the
blow had been struck,--an unarmed prisoner of officer rank had been
chastised, an act of savagery fit to rank with the cold-blooded murder
of an envoy. Yet the day will doubtless come when ignorant English
people will vie with each other to do honour to the man who struck the
miscreant blow. They will be persons ignorant of the feeling which
permeated the army in South Africa. As the news spread round the camp,
by common consent it was agreed that De Wet should never be handed up
alive if it fell to the lot of the New Cavalry Brigade to bring him to
his knees.

In obedience to the superior command, the whole brigade in the
afternoon sauntered on the four miles set down in the general's
message. The day had been a repetition of the one which had preceded
it--one of those burning karoo afternoons, which seem to sap the very
soul out of all things living. The feeling of dejection which pervaded
the staff seemed to have communicated itself to the whole column, and
the New Cavalry Brigade slunk rather than marched into camp. It was
not a cheerful camping-ground--a solitary farm-house of the poorest
construction, and two shallow, slimy pools of water were the only
attractions which it could claim. The men soberly fixed their
horse-lines, and rolled over to sweat out the trials of the heat until
sundown. The brigadier, who was still in his Achilles mood, retired to
his waggon. The new brigade-major, who was the only man with any
spirits left at all, busied himself with arranging for the
night-pickets and nursing the Mount Nelson Light Horse. But over a
bowl of tea, which the mess-servants arranged by four o'clock, the
brigadier seemed to revive; and he had just become approachable when
the colonel of the newly arrived contingent sauntered up to the
mess-waggon,--a big, rather ungainly man, who arrived with all the
self-assurance of one in authority.

_Colonel_ (_looking round the group of officers at tea and singling
out the Brigade-Major, whom he knew_). "Which is the brigadier?"

_Brigadier_ (_who had totalled the new-comer's checks in one brief
glance_). "I am that unfortunate. What can I do for you?"

_C._ (_saluting casually_) "Glad to meet you, sir; I thought that I
would come round to introduce myself--especially as I have some bad
news!"

_B._ "A truly noble action, and one which is likely to ingratiate you
here. What is it?"

_C._ "Nothing more or less than my men and horses are dead-beat. They
will have to halt here at least two days before they will be fit to
move. I have----"

_B._ "My dear colonel, have some tea; or perhaps you would prefer some
whisky-and-sparklet? You bring me the best news that I have heard
to-day!"

_C._ "Thank you, sir; but I am serious about----"

_B._ "Of course, of course you are serious, and I should have been
delighted to have left you and your regiment here as long as you
pleased--the longer the better. Only I shall probably have orders to
move with my whole force before daybreak, and that being the case, I
am afraid that your 'robbers' will have to move too, 'dead-beat' or
not."

_C._ "But I assure you, sir----"

_B._ "There is no need to assure me of anything, colonel. I have
absolute confidence in your knowledge of the state of inefficiency
existing in your regiment. Only I will beg you to remember in future
that I am the judge as to the capabilities of movement of the units
composing this column. But let us discuss the prospects of peace, or
some other less abstruse subject than the Mount Nelson Light Horse. In
the meantime, colonel, just to emphasise what I have said, my
Intelligence officer has orders to go out to those farms over there to
see if he can get suitable guides. I have ordered him to take a troop
of your men. He will start in fifteen minutes. Won't you stay for your
drink?" (The lion of the slouch-hat persuasion was reduced to the
lamb; he saluted, and sidled away while the brigadier replenished his
tea-cup.)

_Brigade-Major._ "That is about his size, sir. He has been more
trouble to me in my march from Hanover Road than the whole of the
truck, ox-waggons included."

_B._ "I know them. I knew that man's character from the tilt of his
hat and the cut of his breeches. He will probably prove a good
swashbuckler if kept in his place. But he came up here to divide
authority with me, and only one man can command this crush, and only
one man is going to. These fellows, if you let them, always become
saucy as soon as they pin ostrich feathers into their hats. They are
welcome to the feathers, but they must drop the sauce. So cut along,
Mr Intelligence, and see that you get that troop up to time. I don't
mind if you lose it; but you must be back yourself sometime to-night.
I want a reliable guide to take me anywhere within a radius of twenty
miles, and all the information that you can incidentally pick up. If
we hang about here much longer, we shall find ourselves let in for a
night-attack, and a night-attack with a Town Guard crowd like my new
addition is to be avoided."

The Intelligence officer went off to find the Tiger and get his horse
saddled up. He had reverted to his legitimate duties at once, and was
not sorry that the brigadier had detailed him for this particular
duty, though he felt that his mission had been designed rather as a
lesson to the colonel of the Mount Nelson Light Horse than as a
necessary precaution for the safety of the camp. But it took the
troop a powerful long time to turn out, and when at last twenty men
were mounted, they looked for all the world as if they were a party of
criminals about to be driven to the scaffold. The Tiger whispered to
the Intelligence officer--"We shall have to go easy with these
fellows. If we were not here, they would march out of camp with both
hands above their heads. They are the class of men who will become
panic-stricken at a dust-devil, and surrender to the first
cock-ostrich they meet!"

This may have been an exaggeration. There were some good men in the
corps, men who had fought well in the earlier days of the campaign.
But they were few and far between, and as events were to show, there
were not sufficient of the proper stamina to leaven the whole.

The farms which the brigadier had indicated were situated at the foot
of a spur of rocky excrescence which ploughed into the veldt from the
north of Minie Kloof. They were only five miles from the camp. But
that five miles proved too much for the escort. Whether it was
physical weakness or incipient mutiny it matters little. The men just
crawled along. So slow was the progress that the Intelligence officer,
afraid of being benighted, selected four of the better mounted from
the troop and pressed on to his objective, leaving the escort to
follow at such pace as they found convenient. The first farm lay in a
small kloof right against the hillside, and the approach was so masked
that the little party of scouts rode to within two hundred yards of
its whitewashed front without as they thought declaring themselves. A
rise in the ground and a hillock gave all the cover that the Tiger
deemed necessary, and he suggested that the four troopers should be
sent up a donga, which would enable them to climb the reverse of a
second hill which overlooked the farm, while he himself went forward,
covered by the rifle of the Intelligence officer from their present
position. To the first part of the scheme the Intelligence officer
agreed, but he reversed the order of the latter arrangement. Having
seen the troopers well on their way, he left the Tiger to cover the
advance, and rode leisurely himself towards the farm. It was a very
ordinary farm--not flush with the ground, but standing on a plinth of
brick like an Indian bungalow. A great solemn quietness reigned over
the whole kloof, not a living soul was visible, and the footfalls of
the horse sounded strangely exaggerated as the solitary rider
approached the verandah. Presently a dog stirred, trotted out into the
sunlight, and barked furiously. It disturbed the inmates of the house;
a girl hurriedly opened the upper swing-back of the door, looked out,
and then closed the door with a bang. This was suspicious, and the
Intelligence officer let his hand drop to the wooden case of the
Mauser pistol strapped to his holster; his thumb pressed the catch,
and he threw the pistol loose, keeping his hand upon its stock. Then
to his shout of "_Wie dar!_" the upper portion of the door was again
gingerly opened. The same face appeared, that of a round blue-eyed
Dutch girl. She turned her impassive gaze upon the visitor, who, by
way of opening the conversation, taxed his limited knowledge of the
vernacular so far as to ask for a little milk.

"Milk!" the girl answered in passable English. "Yes; I will get you
milk. Just wait!"

She seemed a long time finding the milk, and the Intelligence officer
began to feel the situation oppressive. He would have liked to have
turned his head to see if there were any sign of his troopers being in
position on the hill above him. But he had that indescribable feeling
which often inspires a man with the belief that his every movement is
being watched by unseen eyes. Those of you who have been
tiger-shooting on foot will readily appreciate the nature of this
sense. Yet, though he peered through the open door, his eyes could
discern no movement or his ears any incriminating sound. Presently the
girl returned with a glass of milk upon a tray. She opened the lower
half of the door, and came demurely to the edge of the verandah. The
Intelligence officer put out his hand to receive the glass, when in a
moment the girl lowered her elbow and soused the contents of the glass
full into his face.

"Hands up!" in stentorian tones from the doorway; and through a white
mist of milk, the Englishman had a vision of the business end of two
rifles pointed at him at short range, held by rough bearded customers,
and of a white-faced girl convulsed in laughter. The sobering effect
of the metal throat of a rifle a few inches removed from your breast
is considerable, and the Intelligence officer was a captured man. But
for a moment only. Something swished past his ear, and a great star
appeared in the white-washed plaster, just a foot above the Dutchmen's
heads. The Tiger had risen to the situation. The girl's laughter died
out, the two men ducked, and made instinctively for the cover of the
door. The Intelligence officer had an eighth of a second in which to
make up his mind. To have been truly sensational he should have
covered the Burghers with his Mauser; but he was more practical, and
by the time the men recovered their equanimity he was galloping as
fast as his pony could lay legs to the ground back to the hillock
where the Tiger was lying ensconced. Then he realised the extent of
the hornet's nest into which he had blundered. Rifles cracked to right
and left of him, like stock-whips in a cattle-run. But it is hard to
hit a moving body. Many who took part in the battle of Omdurman will
remember how a single Emir on a scarecrow of a horse galloped
unscathed along the whole length of the British division advancing
round the base of Jebel Surgham, though every man in the firing-line
did his best to bring him down. Similarly the Intelligence officer
braved the gauntlet, and reached temporary security round the base of
the Tiger's hillock without harm. There was no time to waste. The
Tiger was down to his horse and mounted almost before his officer
realised he was safe.

_Tiger._ "Come along, sir; it's been a near thing, but we have just
time if we gallop for it!"

_Intelligence Officer._ "But the flanking party; we must not desert
them!"

_T._ "We can do them no good. They must take their chance--for God's
sake, gallop, sir!"

The Tiger indeed spoke the truth; it was a near thing. They had not
placed a hundred yards between them and the hillock when dismounted
enemy were at the top, and the ground round the fugitives throwing up
little puffs of dust as the bullets struck.

Their luck was in, and after a perilous three minutes, they were clear
of immediate danger, as the popping of rifles from the rise in front
of them gave evidence that the officer in charge of the supporting
troop had risen to the occasion. If he had been a better soldier, he
might have lain low, and let the fugitives entice their pursuers after
them to their own destruction. But this had not occurred to the youth
who had recently changed the pestle and mortar of a chemist's
dispensary for the sword of a mounted infantry leader, and he did his
best, in a suitably excited manner.

The Tiger's story was interesting. "Just as you halted at the farm,
sir, I caught sight of the glint of a rifle on the top of the hill
which we had sent the troopers to occupy. As I knew that it could not
be our own men, I at once realised that we were in for it. They had
seen us coming. I knew that the troopers were lost men--the Boers
would let them blunder up the kopje, and when they arrived at the top,
utterly blown and useless, would disarm them without firing a shot.
Everything now depended upon the chance of my having escaped notice.
It was impossible to warn you without firing my rifle, so I looked
round to see if I was being stalked. I could see no one on my track,
so I just lay still and waited developments at the farmhouse. I saw
the girl throw the milk, and I then calculated that a shot placed
between you and the men would so disconcert them for the moment that
you could be able to get away.

"As soon as you turned, the fat was into the fire, and I found that
they were lying up for us all round. It was a mercy that they never
spotted me before I fired. I suppose they concluded that five went
with the flank scouts instead of four only. Anyhow, there must have
been quite thirty of them, and we now know that they are there."...

"Well, young feller!" said the brigadier when the Intelligence officer
reported himself, "what has all the shooting been about?"

He listened to the story, and remained thoughtful for a moment. Then
he handed the Intelligence officer a message, which ran as follows:--

"From De Wet Expert, Hopetown, to O.C. New Cavalry Brigade, Prieska or
vicinity.

"De Wet was at Strydenburg last night. Repeat to," &c.

_Brigadier._ "What do you think of that?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "We have lost a big thing. But may we not be
in the right position to-night? It seems to me that I must have run my
head right into them."

_B._ "I am afraid not. We have just touched up the 'red herring'; but,
great Scot! what a chance has been taken from me. Argue it out.
Balance the probabilities. This is what I make it. Hertzog joined De
Wet at Strydenburg last night. Hertzog joined him with the information
that three columns had moved out of Britstown, by way of Minie Kloof.
Three columns would be too much for De Wet in his dilapidated state;
so he has just thrown out a patrol to observe us, while he has struck
elsewhere. If he is still intent on going south, he will pass between
Britstown and De Aar. But I doubt if he tries the seaboard trick. If
I know him, he will double back along his original line. He is a sly
old fox. You may bet all you are worth that you blundered into his
observation patrol, and that we have lost the best chance of the whole
war simply through the idiosyncrasies of a stupid old man. I shall not
trouble about your friends any more to-night!"

An hour after dark four sorry objects, stark-naked save for their
vests, and with putties bound round their feet to replace their boots,
staggered into camp. They were the four troopers of the Mount Nelson
Light Horse which had furnished the Intelligence officer's flanking
party. As the Tiger had surmised, they had fallen an easy prey to the
Boers on the top of the hill. These had stripped them of all their
clothes, and, after herding them in a donga for a couple of hours, had
sent them back into camp with Commandant Vermaas's best compliments.
They were to tell their general that De Wet would be in Britstown that
night, and that he had passed within four miles of our camp with his
whole force that afternoon.

"That settles it," said the brigadier. "They would not have pitched
that yarn if De Wet had been really going to Britstown. You can mark
my word, he has gone north."

The words were still on the brigadier's lips when a native came in
with a message in cipher from the general. It read as follows:--

"Reliable information points to De Wet being at Strydenburg.
Concentrate there with me by midday to-morrow. I shall take the
Zwingelspan Road, which will bring me out into the hills north of
Strydenburg. You will take the Kalk Kraal-Grootpan Road, and install
yourself on Tafelkop, south of the town. Arrange to have your guns in
position by noon. Do not try to open up visual communication with me.
Such a course might give information of our movements to the enemy.
Send a receipt of this message to Zwingelspan, so as to arrive not
later than 10 A.M. to-morrow." Signed, "N----, Chief Staff-Officer.
_P.S._--Am afraid that De Wet will have taken your convoy."

_Brigadier._ "Was there ever a worse atrocity perpetrated than this?
If he had only been man enough to have done this twenty-four hours
earlier, when I implored him to do so, he might have been the greatest
hero of the war by this. But here, Uncle Baker (to the brigade-major),
just you send for that saucy fellow who commands the cyclists of the
Mount Nelson Light Horse, and tell him that he and his cyclists have
got to fight their way into Strydenburg by 10 A.M. to-morrow. Tell him
that if he gets a message off to Pretoria before 10 A.M. to-morrow,
it's as good as a D.S.O. for him. Tell him he must be prepared to
fight like h--l, only don't frighten him too much: just tell him
enough to keep him looking about him, otherwise his gang will get
captured in detail by the first Burgher they meet. He may start when
he likes. If I can get a message through to K. first, it won't matter
how much I mutiny afterwards!"


FOOTNOTES:

[31] Major (now Lieut.-Colonel) Bogle-Smith.



IX.

TO A NEW COVERT!


The cyclists of the Mount Nelson Light Horse trundled out of camp with
some show of bravery. They had left Cape Town 100 strong. The journey
from Hanover Road to Britstown had reduced their numbers by fifty per
cent. The bare fifty still with the brigade were the survival of the
fittest after a week of rain at Hanover and another week of struggling
with Karoo tracks ankle-deep in dust. But the men tried to show
something of a front as they pedalled out of camp. Their captain was
an enthusiast. He had, however, but poor material into which to infuse
his enthusiasm; and at any time South African roads are as
demoralising to wheel-men used to a macadamised surface as the
bouldered bed of a stream would be to a traction-engine. These same
cyclists were the men who had scorched up to the Picquetberg Passes
when ten men and a boy threatened Cape Town with invasion; and the
memory of the wave of military enthusiasm which convulsed the great
seaport from Greenpoint to Simon's Town was still worth something to
them as, over-weighted, they struggled with the Karoo.

"You may not think it," said the brigadier, as he wrestled with the
mutton, which is the staple food of the veldt breakfast-table, "but I
am anxious about those fellows,--d----d anxious. But it is no use
having cyclists if they are only to loaf about in camp. I use them
much in same spirit as an inexperienced pyramid player breaks up the
balls at the beginning of a game. I trust that out of the crowd just
one may get home. The captain is a hearty fellow, and will probably
make his way into Strydenburg; but he is about the only one that it
would be worth betting upon. I should be sorry to lose him, for I like
enthusiasts; but as for his gang, I would willingly present the lot to
'brother.' I had some cyclists down Calvinia way. I found that on a
down gradient they were terrors, but when any climbing came their way
they afforded 'brother' any amount of fun. The cyclist, to be any use
in war, must have roads and luck; otherwise, as Scout or messenger, he
is valueless. It is all very well for faddists to prophesy a future
for them. I like to see them working out their own salvation: pictures
of dismounted cyclists behind stacks of bicycles prepared to receive
cavalry fill me with delight. I like to anticipate the glee of the
cavalry which has forced them to dismount for action at some
disadvantageous spot, and then, while they are doubling up their
machines as a _chevaux de frise_, shoots them from the cover of a
hay-stack at a thousand yards."

_Brigade-Major._ "But surely, sir, there must be some use in cycles
for military purposes. The French, for instance, use them almost
exclusively for carrying messages in their manoeuvres!"

_Brigadier._ "True for you. But then in France they have roads. Though
even with the best of roads there is a limit to their utility. Behind
an army they are excellent; in front of an army their value is still
problematical. Even down in Calvinia, where Burghers were scarce and
main roads fair, they rarely carried a message as safely and as
quickly as a mounted Kaffir. They are vulnerable all round from other
causes than the hazards of war. Machine vulnerable, man vulnerable,
and in a country like this, where the roads are not masked by
hedgerows, they furnish a kind of 'running-deer' to every Burgher
observation-post, and, as far as I can judge, an observation-post is
to be found on every kopje!"...

It will be seen from the above that the brigadier had no intention of
undertaking the wild-goose chase which had been proposed to him. The
missive which he had sent to Strydenburg had been cunningly
constructed. It ran: "Local information indicates that the invaders
have doubled back to the north, evidently with the object of
recrossing the Orange River. I am moving with all reasonable despatch
upon Hopetown. I was in touch with scattered parties of enemy last
night. Have just sufficient supplies to take me into Hopetown." The
message was addressed to Chief, Pretoria, and repeated to the
lieutenant-general commanding the operations to suppress the invasion.
Knowing that the cyclists might draw blank at Strydenburg, a second
copy of the message was sent by the hand of a Kaffir, to be delivered
at the telegraph office in Britstown. As events turned out it was the
cyclists' telegram which went, and, as intended, upset the apple-cart
which the general subsequently tried to drive over the brigadier's
prostrate form. In the strict letter of the military law which, in so
many cases, subordinates individual initiative and sound judgment, the
action taken by the brigadier was indefensible. But as a matter of
fact the mutiny was not so terrible as it at first appears. Setting
aside the common-sense issue which ought to guide officers in senior
commands when accepting orders from a superior, it should be
remembered that the brigadier had only been directed to co-operate
with the officer who had now taken unto himself the position of
supreme command. Lord Kitchener himself, at the meeting on the De Aar
platform, had given the brigadier a roving commission, to be
controlled only by orders from Pretoria and the lieutenant-general at
De Aar. Consequently he resented his free action being clogged by a
senior whose only object seemed to be a desire to hug him and his
force as closely as possible for self-protection against imaginary
dangers. The brigadier, who was in every way as capable a soldier as
any in South Africa, had not spent eighteen months in following, or
being followed by, Boers, without arriving at a very shrewd estimate
of their tactics. The lore of the chase in which he was engaged, as he
read it, pointed to a break back on the part of the main body of the
invaders in the direction of the Orange River; and having balanced his
conception of the situation with his conscience, he considered that
the most serviceable move he could make was to place himself and his
brigade upon the railway at Hopetown. And so having sent the cyclists
to smell out the land of Strydenburg, the New Cavalry Brigade, working
in three parallel columns, fringed round the east end of the Beer Vlei
and struck north-east, with the backs of its rear-guard turned on the
Karoo for ever.

"How about Zwingelspan?" queried the brigade-major, remembering the
written instructions in the general's missive.

"Let it rip," was the laconic reply from the brigadier. "With this
crowd of Vermaas's hanging about I am not going to risk patrols other
than cyclists, and I am certainly not going to push on in force!" This
was final, and the extended front of the brigade opened out across the
veldt, throwing out its feelers like the tentacles of some slowly
crawling monster. Through highland and lowland it wound, rummaging the
isolated farmsteads, ploughing through ravine and mealie patch. But
though wild-fowl rose chattering, and, scolding bitterly, circled
round the scouts, though springbok trotted leisurely away from the
front of each several column, though sullen girls and gaping Kaffirs
peered from beneath the eaves of farmsteads, no sign of hostility was
to be found in all this life. It was the same old monotonous drudgery
of the veldt again. The same merciless sun, the same sapless and
parched surroundings. As the day wore on men longed for the crack of a
rifle to ease the burden of the monotony. The country, too, grew more
hilly, and fearing that he might be attacked in detail, the brigadier
reduced his front, till by four in the afternoon the brigade to all
practical purposes had concentrated. Then it was that the
advance-guard struck a great white road, ankle-deep in dust. This
veldt track was so rigid in its alignment, that for the moment it
might have been taken for a turnpike road fallen upon decadent days.
But the local colour of its surroundings did not support the
comparison, and the reason of its being loomed up gauntly in the
middle distance. A great square of whitewashed building, which,
strange to relate, was overshadowed by quite a number of trees, giving
it an appearance not unlike the first attempt which a Bengali merchant
makes at a country residence, when success in commerce renders it
imperative that he should improve the circumstances of his dwelling.
But though in the first instance the general appearance of the farm
was forbidding, yet, on examination, it presented several qualities
which are valuable to the soldier. An infant _barrage_ closing the
drainage slope in a depression formed an artificial water-pan of no
mean dimensions. A pair of zinc-fanned windmills worked two artesian
wells with such success that the purest drinking-water abounded; and
the result of all this moisture was the nearest attempt at a lawn that
any single man in the brigade has seen in the length and breadth of
South Africa outside Cape Town and its suburbs. A great stack of
forage added to the military assets of the locality, and the brigadier
just looked at the water and the lawn, and said, "A land flowing with
milk and honey,--this is where I shall camp. I could not resist
camping in such a spot even if I had old man De Wet dead beat a
furlong from home!" And it was indeed an entrancing spot to the
Karoo-worn warrior. Just one of those delightful oases which do exist,
but which do not abound in Cape Colony. Upon them stand the best and
oldest farms, for when the forebears of the present owners first
struck them, they had no need to good farther afield in search for a
desirable anchorage. If more of these enviable spots had abounded,
even the barbarity of British rule would not have driven the
_voortrekkers_ into wholesale emigration across the soapy waters of
the Orange River.

After the usual worries of settling into camp--mule-drivers leading
animals to water in the drinking reservation, and commanding officers
making themselves disagreeable--there was time to turn one's attention
to the inmates of the roadside mansion. The great whitewashed bungalow
seemed to be alive with inhabitants. The Intelligence officer went
about his business with the air of an expert, and in two minutes the
head of the house, a fine old specimen of the patriarchal Boer, and
his son, a poor slip of a man, were standing before him, hat in hand,
while women-folk of all ages and fulness of costume peeped from every
convenient crevice in the background. The general attitude of the
household was that of humility, in contrast to the usual reception
which the column had experienced in the majority of Karoo farms. And
presently the cause for the deference became apparent. The gaping
children in the main entrance were thrust aside, and a woman of
magnificent proportions pushed in between the two humble men. The old
man mumbled something about his daughter-in-law, while his callow son
looked, if possible, more sheepish than at first. The Intelligence
officer for his part could hardly keep his countenance. The lady had
donned her best. Her ample form was swathed in the rustling folds of a
magnificent silk gown which had evidently been cut in the days of the
crinoline attachment. Her hair, showing signs of the rapidity with
which its present gloss had been applied, was knotted somewhere
adjacent to the neck; and not satisfied with nature's adornment, this
prehistoric beauty had fixed a great white ostrich feather in her
well-greased tresses, which drooped down upon her neck and shoulder.
The Intelligence officer bowed deeply in order to keep his feelings in
due subordination. The lady was not slow to introduce herself.
Dropping one armful of a skirt that was so voluminous that it had to
be held in both hands, she limply took the officer's hand.

_Frau._ "Good morning. I am Mrs Van Herden; this is my man[32]
(_indicating the meek son of the house_). We are glad to see you. Will
you have some coffee?" (And as she spoke a microscopic Kaffir maid
appeared with the inevitable coffee on a tray.)

_Intelligence Officer._ "Thank you, madam, but I must first search the
house and outhouses."

_F._ "You are welcome to do that. We are perfectly loyal. Have you not
heard what the Van Herdens did in the Kaffir wars, and my grandfather
was Scotch."

_I. O._ "It is only a matter of form, madam. Any one could see that
you were loyal!"

_F._ "Are you a general, mister?"

_I. O._ "No; I ought to be if I had my deserts; but I am the next best
thing. I'm the general's secretary." (Thereupon the old man grunted
approval, while the chorus of gaping maids nodded an endorsement
behind him.)

_F._ "Can I see the general, Mister Secretary?"

_I. O._ "That depends upon the information which you give me now. Why
do you wish to see him?"

_F._ "My children have never seen an English general; besides, this is
the first time that the English have ever been to the house; we
should like to cook a dinner for the English general!"

_I. O._ "But your children have seen Burgher generals?"

_F._ "Oh, yes; they are nothing. We had Commandant Brand here
yesterday!"

_I. O._ "When did he leave?"

_F._ "Early this morning!"

_I. O._ "Which way did he go?"

_F._ "He went out on the veldt; they took the Strydenburg road. But
they were Free Staters; you cannot say where they were going. They
would tell us Strydenburg, and then go somewhere else. You see, they
knew that you were close!"

_I. O._ "How many men had he with him?"

_F._ "Only a few. It was a small horse commando, perhaps twenty. All
Free Staters!"

The old patriarch, who had been fumbling in his pocket, now produced a
slip of paper which he presented to the Intelligence officer. The
writing on the paper ran as follows:--

    "_O.V.S. Receipt for Property Commandeered._

    "Taken from Jan Van Herden, of Melk Kraal, Cape Colony, two
    sacks of mealies, 500 bundles of oat forage, two mules, four
    sheep, for the use of O.V.S. commando.

    "This receipt to be presented for repayment at the end of the
    war to the O.V.S. Government.

          (Signed)   "ADRIAN FISCHER,
                      _Corporal, O.V.S. Forces._

Dated "_February_ ----."

_I. O._ "Who is Fischer?"

_F._ "He is Brand's adjutant!"

_I. O._ "I thought that you said there were only about twenty in the
commando. They and their horses must have been hungry to eat four
sheep and 500 bundles of oat hay. I should say that there must have
been more like fifty of them!"

_F._ "That may be, we did not count them. But can we ask the general
to dinner?"

_I. O._ "That depends. First, I must go through your rooms."

Followed by the whole family, the Intelligence officer passed through
to the various rooms, furnished and upholstered in the stereotyped
Dutch fashion, till they came to the end of the long house. Here a
closed door barred their way.

_I. O._ "What is in there?"

_F._ "Nothing--it is only my daughter and her 'man'; they have only
been married a few days, so we let them live apart. (_Throwing the
door open._) You may go in, of course. We are jingoes, we have nothing
to conceal."

The Intelligence officer entered the room to find an overbearded young
man and a very touzled, plump young lady sitting sheepishly
hand-in-hand. They rose as he entered and stared vacantly at him. The
man was a mean specimen of the Dutchman, tall and thin, narrow chest,
and sloping shoulders. An aggressive red beard for one so young,
growing backwards after the fashion prevailing with the Sikhs. A
cadaverous wretched creature, yet doubtless with strength enough in
his forefinger to make the seven-pound pull of a rifle.

The Intelligence officer's eyes ranged the room, which was bare
enough to have satisfied the most ascetic of honeymooning couples.
Half a glance was sufficient to prove to him that the frau had been
speaking the truth, so he turned upon the pair and shot at the man a
question so sharply that he started, "Do you know the road to
Zwingelspan?" The man recovered himself slowly, and then affected that
look of imbecility which is invariably the Dutchman's effort at
self-protection when he is cornered by a question which he does not
wish to answer. But his new-found mother-in-law was evidently anxious
that nothing should occur to irritate the visitor, for she blandly
answered his question herself. "Of course he knows the way to
Zwingelspan. Why, he lives there himself!"

_I. O._ "Then he is the very man I want. (_To the man_) You must come
along with me over to my cart and wait there in case the general wants
a guide to Zwingelspan between this and midnight."

A complete silence overtook the whole group after the Intelligence
officer had delivered himself of this speech. It seemed as if he had
inadvertently upset some plan. But the only thing he noticed at the
moment was that the pale face of the bride, as she stood limply in
front of him, grew a shade paler, and that her great blue eyes filled
with tears, which poised a moment on her eyelashes and then trickled
down her cheeks. If, as the Intelligence officer was only too ready to
surmise, he had upset an elaborate ruse to shield one of Brand's
special envoys, then the girl was an accomplished actress; but if, as
possibly was the case, she was moved to weeping in anticipation of
peril to her husband or lover, then she had adopted a course most
likely to serve her purpose with the man about to place himself
between her and the man she loved. There are few British officers who
can persevere in a distasteful task in face of the reproach furnished
by a silent weeping woman.

_I. O._ (_softening the authoritative tone in his speech_) "You need
not be distressed. I promise you we will not take him farther than
Zwingelspan, even if we take him there at all."

_Weeping Bride._ "If you take him, how shall I ever know what you will
do with him? You say here that you are going to Zwingelspan; but we
know that you are not going there. You would not tell us if you were.
Besides, the British were at Zwingelspan this morning, and you are
following the Boers."

_F._ "Oh leave her, Mr Secretary, she is only a child, and she loves
her 'man.' She is afraid that you will take him, and that the Boers
will catch him with you and treat him as a traitor!"

The Intelligence officer led the man out to hand him over to the
Tiger, when the latter returned from "noseing" round the outhouses.
Though perplexed in his mind as to the real attitude of the inmates of
the farm, yet he had elicited something, namely, that information
would be sent to the nearest armed Burghers that the column was not
bound for Zwingelspan, and that a British force had been at
Zwingelspan that morning. The latter was important, since the only
force which could have been at the pan was the main force, which meant
that the general had been up to time in his advance on Strydenburg,
while the New Cavalry Brigade had failed in the tryst.

The brigadier's comments on the intelligence surmises were short and
quaint. "Quite so. But I am not here to sweep up De Wet's
red-herrings. The old man will probably strike half-a-dozen of Brand's
or Vermaas's men when he reaches Strydenburg, if my cyclists haven't
turned them out. We, crossing the trail to-night in our journey north,
may strike something big. Anyway, we will have the satisfaction of
knowing that we are playing the game every time. And that being the
case we will let the old fat frau cook us a dinner to-night!" The
brigadier, who had estimated De Wet's movements with consummate
foresight, did not of course know that the replenished Plumer had
picked up the guerilla's back trail from Strydenburg, and was, at the
moment that the New Cavalry Brigade was bivouacking, practically
running him in view....

It was, all considered, a very creditable repast which the good lady
of Melk Kraal prepared for the brigadier and his staff. But on
occasions such as this it is the custom of the hosts to sits round the
walls of the dining-hall while the honoured guests feed alone at a
table in the centre. In this case the ladies and children of the
household lined the walls, taking an active interest in the serving,
which was at the hands of a couple of Kaffir girls. There were no
courses. The whole of the dinner was put upon the table at once, and
it consisted of boiled mutton hacked into hunks and swimming in a
greasy slop; fowls so boiled that the flesh had lost its resistance
and become a mere pulp; a mess of ochre-coloured boiled pumpkin,
boiled mealie[33] cobs, and boiled coffee of the consistency of
treacle. In fact, everything boiled and boiled to death. A repast
truly characteristic of the Dutch, who are most carnivorous in their
choice of food, and far too feckless and lazy to spend time and
trouble over such a common function as eating. It was the meal of a
people devoid of imagination and artistic taste. None the less it was
the best that the house could produce; and as the guests had taken the
precaution to bring their own liquor, it was a change from the tinned
delicacies of the modern active service meal. The banquet closed with
a quaint incident. The Intelligence officer had brought in his pocket
a bottle of _crême-de-menthe_. The hosts were invited to drink from
the brandy-bottle, which they did with the relish of experts in the
art of neat spirit drinking. To the hostesses was shown the
consideration due to their sex, and they were offered the green
concoction of peppermint. There is little of that coyness in the Dutch
composition which is met with in the civilisation of the West: each
lady of the household received her glass demurely and tossed off the
contents, pouring it, after the manner of Dutch spirit-drinkers,
ungracefully far into the mouth. The old Frau smacked her lips. "But
it is good," she said naïvely, and then taking the bottle from the
table she poured out the whole contents into a tumbler and emptied it
with one gulp down her capacious throat.

The brigadier was equal to the occasion. Raising his glass, he said,
"Madam, may I be permitted to drink your health and to thank you for
your hospitality." Madam smiled blandly, in no wise inconvenienced by
the severity of the potion which she had absorbed!...

But the good-humoured revelling of the dinner-table was shortly to be
changed for the stern reality of war. The brigadier and his staff had
barely bid farewell to their happy hostess and returned to their
bivouac when the voice of a tired and excited man was heard calling to
be directed to headquarters. It was the captain of cyclists who had
started that morning before daybreak for Strydenburg. The man's face
was a study when, having flung himself clear of his machine, which was
clanging like a _teuf-teuf_, he presented himself in the solitary tent
which during halts served the headquarters of the little column as a
living and sleeping apartment. In the dim light of a flickering
candle, it seemed that he was swathed in a sheet, so thick and white
was the crust of dust which covered him from head to foot. He
staggered into the mess-tent, swayed a moment, tried to salute, and
then dropped in a heap on to the camp chair offered to him.

_Brigadier._ "Give him some brandy."

After a long drink from the brandy-bottle the little captain of
cyclists recovered sufficiently to smile at his own weakness.

_Brigadier._ "Well, have you been fighting--where's your crush?"

_Cyclist Captain._ "Fighting--there never has been such fighting in
this war, it has been simply bloody!"

_B._ "Sanguinary, my boy; well, are you the last survivor? You rather
remind me of the last man of the poet's imagination."

_C. C._ (_dejectedly_) "It has been a long, sad, and terrible day.
Harvey of Damant's is mortally wounded, and I have had a man wounded!"

_B._ "The devil you have. I thought at least that you must have been
annihilated. Where are the rest of you, then?"

_C. C._ "Lost or captured, I am afraid. Seventeen were captured in
succession at the top of one rise. I only got through by the skin of
my teeth and the luck of there only being three Boers at the top of
the hill."

_B._ (_unconcernedly_) "Horrid adventure! What luck there were not
four Boers! But give me a detailed story. Have you been into
Strydenburg? have you seen any of the staff of the other column?"

The following is a paraphrase of the story which was eventually
elicited from the cyclist captain:--The cyclists, who broke down on
the heavy roads at the rate of about four an hour, kept up a steady
pace until they were some five miles from Strydenburg. Here going up a
steep rise they tailed out somewhat, and seventeen were captured in
rotation by three burghers ensconced in the nek over which the up
gradient passed. The captain and five others all came up together, and
in the scuffle he and three of his men succeeded in getting through.
Later on they were fired at by Boers just outside Strydenburg, into
which town they rode simultaneously with an advance-guard of Damant's
Guides. The Boers, who, with the exception of the rear-guard under
Vermaas, had left and gone north on the preceding day, just as the
Brigadier had surmised, had destroyed the telegraph office, but the
local operator, who had hidden away an instrument, by attaching the
broken wire to a piece of garden fencing was able to get through to De
Aar, and in half an hour the brigadier's "Clear the line" message was
ticking off in Pretoria. This all happened three hours before the
co-operating general entered the town. In the meantime the
advance-guard of Damant's Guides, as soon as they heard that the New
Cavalry Brigade was not on the road, pushed out to occupy the
Tafelkop Hills outside the town. Harvey took the cyclists with him.
And a very gallant little fight they had, in which three of the
Guides, though sorely wounded, held up and captured the five men who
had wounded them. Owing to his lust for blood it was late in the day
before the cyclist captain was able to find the general. This officer
had a despatch ready for him to take back to his own brigadier. The
return journey had been effected without other mishap than that of
extreme fatigue, which difficulty the captain alone had been able to
surmount: the rest of his cyclists, if not prisoners, were
spread-eagled over the veldt at such spots where death had overtaken
their machines.

Now what was written in the despatch which the cyclist officer had
brought is not known to the chronicler of the adventures of this
brigade. But it was evidently couched in not over friendly language,
for the brigadier's face worked with annoyance as he read it. Having
read it he tore it up into very small pieces and sat for a moment or
two staring steadfastly at the candle.

"Anything serious, sir?"

_Brigadier._ "No; the old man is peevish,--says that my disobedience
of his orders has caused us to lose De Wet. That he has washed his
hands of me, and that it only remains to report me to a higher
authority. To be philosophical, he has some grounds for his
peevishness if he really believes that he has ever been nearer to De
Wet than the latter gentleman desired. But you get no return in an
argument with seniors--they have the whip hand of you every time; so
here, ole man Baker, bring out your stilus and tablets and write out
brigade orders. Two hours hence we march direct on Hopetown. Mr
Intelligence, mark out a route, and mind you have a good guide.
Everything on a night like this will depend on your guiding." Such is
the history of a transformation scene which is of common occurrence
when men make war. A camp sleeping heavily and peacefully at midnight,
in a couple of hours may have disappeared, to be found sorrowfully
toiling along in the dark on some venture bent....

The Intelligence officer had reason to congratulate himself that he
had already got his guide held by the ear by the Tiger, as it is a big
undertaking to conjure up guides on notice only given an hour before
midnight. The guide himself was not best pleased, and aped that air of
imbecility which on occasions similar to this is the Dutch form of
passive resistance. But the Tiger took him in hand, primed him with a
few simple truths and the history of some imaginary executions, so
that he waxed more communicative when he found himself in the centre
of the advance-guard of twelve dismounted dragoons with fixed
bayonets,[34] with which the brigadier when night marching was
accustomed to head his advance-guard.

There is a limit to the fascinations of a night march if you have to
make many of them, especially if it is undertaken without the definite
promise of a fight on the following day. Men and horses dog tired,
yearning for sleep; the hundred and one irregularities which would
find no place in daylight. The weary waiting that intervals may be
corrected, the hitch with the advance-guard, the difficulty of
loading the supply-waggons. The irritability of the chief, growing in
intensity as he strikes match after match against his watch dial.
Semi-mutinous resistance of orders on the part of Irregulars;
lamentations from the major of the battery, whose horses have been
standing hooked-in for the last half hour. How impossible it all
seems,--how heartbreaking; yet everything shakes down eventually, and
the great dark caterpillar, bristling with armed men like a
woolly-bear, creeps forward into the veiled uncertainty of night.

The advance-guard has moved off, the brigadier is just waiting to see
the baggage fairly started, when a sudden spark gleams out from a
knoll above the camp which the falling-in night picquet has just
evacuated. A bullet whirrs noisily overhead. "Martini," conjectures
the brigadier. "I wonder what that means!" Two minutes later another
spark flashes out from the same spot, and a leaden messenger buries
itself with a skirr and a thud, within ten yards of the little group
of officers.

"Not bad for a chance shot--we'll see if they are going to
persevere!" Swish, came a third shot singing away harmlessly overhead.

"Sniping!" said the brigadier. "I would hang that beast if I could
catch him. Look here, gallop down to the officer in command of the
rear-guard and tell him to send a couple of quick-witted fellows to
stalk that sniper. I will give five pounds if he is brought in alive."

The messenger galloped out into the darkness, and as the last of the
waggon transport turned into the right track, the staff cantered
northwards in the direction of the head of the column, reckless of the
solitary bullets which at intervals whistled through the still night
air.

Considerable tension attaches to the head of a night-marching column,
especially when moving through an unreconnoitred country. And in spite
of the little text-books with smart covers, it is more often in
unreconnoitred country that the soldier is called upon to operate than
otherwise. Consequently the Intelligence officer forgot all about the
sniping incident, and busied himself with being ready to answer the
many queries of an imaginative major in command of the advance-guard.
Five miles of the journey had perhaps been made--at least it was at
the third halt that word was passed up that the brigadier wanted to
see the Intelligence officer. The brigadier had dismounted at the head
of the battery.

"Hulloo, Mr Intelligence, we have got the sniper--and it would beat a
very Solomon to give judgment in a like case. Strike a match."

The little flame burned up and declared to the astonished view of the
Intelligence officer the face and figure of his guide's weeping bride.
There was no sign of tears now. The girl stood with her hands clasped
behind her back, her mouth firmly closed, and looked her captors full
in the face. It was a fine figure, seen for a moment in the uncertain
light of the lucifer shaded from the wind. _Cappie_ blown back behind
her head, ill-concealing the wealth of glistening hair, pale
determined face, full of defiance, and thrown-out chest across which
the leather bandolier still hung in damnatory evidence. How different
to the limp and weeping woman of the afternoon. A second and the
little slip of pinewood had burnt out.

_Brigadier._ "What do you make of it?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "Magnificent woman--damnable undertaking."

_Bystander._ "Magnificent she-cat!"

_Prisoner._ "You steal my husband, and because I would do my best to
stop you, when the men were afraid to attack and offered you food
instead, you call me names. Give me back my husband and let me go, or
if you would shoot me, shoot and be finished with it."

_Brigadier._ "My dear young lady, no one will hurt you or call you
names. You shall have your husband back as soon as we have finished
with him. Until that time, I am afraid that you must stay with us, but
you shall be properly looked after. I cannot afford to let you again
be as naughty as you have been to-night. Hand her over to the supply
officer,--he's acting provost-marshal, is he not? (_Then turning to
his staff_) What a little vixen! That gives you a very considerable
insight into the temper of these loyal Cape colonists: to think that
while we were supping with this young lady's mamma she was planning a
little sniping party, as a revenge against us for breaking in upon her
honeymoon!"...


FOOTNOTES:

[32] Dutch method of describing a woman's husband.

[33] Maize.

[34] British cavalry at this period of the campaign were armed with
rifle and bayonet.



X.

JOG-TROT.


True to that instinct which finds the Boer the most insanitary race
laying claim to a civilisation of any standard, the squatters who
settled upon Hopetown as a site suitable for a village chose a
situation as insalubrious as any to be found on the fringe of the
Karoo. In a cup-valley of mean dimensions, the little collection of
shanties which group round the church and town-hall lay tucked away in
the folds of the bare dusty hills, so that if tracks did not converge
upon the village with consistent regularity there would be no evidence
outside a narrow radius of its existence. It was not until the
advance-guard covering the New Cavalry Brigade topped the actual bluff
above the hamlet that the temporary importance of Hopetown was
realised. The dip in which the village lay was black with the
transport of many columns, and the dust and smoke raised by the
thousands of animals and hundreds of cooking fires formed a heavy haze
which, covering the township as with a pall, hung half-way between the
level of the valley and the overhanging brae where the advance-guard
stood halted. It was not an inviting picture. The dust and vapour
seemed unable to face the perpendicular violence of the midday sun;
the only perceptible movement in the middle distance was the shimmer
of the atmosphere, squirming as it were under the relentless heat;
while the great pall of dust and smoke, as if ashamed to raise its
head, mushroomed out against the hillsides with undecided edging.

As we stood gasping for some breath of air to relieve the burden of
oppressive heat, it seemed that the valley was some great stew-pot of
the _inferno_, and that Hopetown was simmering at its bottom.

The brigadier cantered up to the advance-guard, and throwing his reins
to his orderly, made a brief survey of the topographical approaches
to Hopetown.

_Brigadier._ "Well, there is not much of De Wet left in this corner of
the world. All the commandoes[35] of the Hunt seem to have forgathered
here and to be having a day off. What a hole of a place--ideal, no
doubt, from the Dutchman's point of view. Why, the smell of it reaches
up here. But here comes a robber in a pink 'beaver'; we shall soon
know all about it."

A diminutive boy in staff kit cantered up and demanded information
about the column.

_Staff Officer._ "What column is this?"

_B._ "The New Cavalry Brigade."

_S. O._ "Never heard of you. Who told you to come in here? Who
commands you?"

_B._ "Steady, my fledgling, one question at a time. You are given to
heaping matters, I see, which is a bad habit in one so young. I will
answer one of your questions, the last one. I command this column: and
now you will answer me. What columns are in Hopetown?"

_S. O._ "Sorry, sir, but----"

_B._ "Don't apologise. I know I don't look like a general, but it
doesn't help you out of your difficulties to say so. You only slip
into it worse every time; now, then, to the columns?"

_S. O._ "Knox's, Pilcher's, Plumer's, and Paris's."

_B._ "Good; and what is the latest news about De Wet?"

_S. O._ "He has broken out east across the railway; half his force
went up north and half crossed by Paauwpan or Potfontein."

_B._ "Who are on him?"

_S. O._ "I am not quite sure; but I hear that Haig, Thorneycroft,
Crabbe and Henniker are either following him or trying to cut him
off."

_B._ "And what are four columns doing halted here in this _dorp_?"[36]

_S. O._ "They are all stone cold."

_B._ "The price of losing De Wet. Now, young feller, just you hie back
to _your_ general, Charles Knox, I suppose, and tell him that the New
Cavalry Brigade is coming right in here, but will not worry him long,
as it has orders to be off to-night. (_The youth salutes and goes to
the right-about, while the brigadier continues to his staff_) Just as
well to let Knox know that I am on my own. I must invent a special
mission from Pretoria, otherwise he may seize me like the last fellow,
and the future state of this column might then be worse than the
first."

In the meantime the brigade led down into the noisome basin which
holds Hopetown, and took up temporary quarters on the first patch
against the water into which it could squeeze its long line of
transport. It wedged in between two columns, and the bad condition of
both gave evidence of the severity of the work in which they had
recently been engaged. As columns, when they had first entered upon
the chase after De Wet, they had each been five or six hundred strong;
now, perhaps, between them they could count five hundred mounted men,
while of this number not more than a third were fit to do a
twenty-mile trek at a better pace than a walk. Yet each, three weeks
earlier, had started from the railway newly equipped with remounts.

If any are sufficiently interested to cast about for a reason for the
hopeless state of the columns in the Colony at this period, they may
possibly find in the experiences of the brigade a solution of the
remount question which has so puzzled the more intelligent students of
the war. The column newly equipped at the railway was generally worse
off for horse-flesh and less mobile than the force which had not been
within reach of the Remount Department for months. The procedure was
in this wise. The column commander struggled gasping into the haven of
relief afforded by the railway. He had barely issued to his men and
horses a full ration when the telegraph began to talk. Down came the
brief little order from Pretoria, "You will entrain for Cypher Ghat
without delay. Trains will reach you by three this afternoon." In vain
would the column commander plead for rest for man and beast. The fiat
had gone forth. All protest was met with a single reiteration of the
original order, with perhaps the adjunct, "Remounts will be awaiting
you to replace casualties." What chance had the horses which had been
overridden and under-fed for the last twelve days? Those which could
hobble were thrust into close, dung-blocked trucks, and whirled away
any distance from fifty miles to a thousand. Water they got when the
railway officials saw fit to arrange the necessary halt in the
necessary place, rest for them there was none. But the column
commander who was new at the job could plume himself that he would be
restocked and start with a new lease of life at his destination. Vain
thought! He found awaiting him at the end of his journey either the
sweepings of the country-side--such animals as had been rejected as
unfitted for military service by marauding Boer and pushing column
leader in turn, and finally collected by the zealous "crawler" and
duly reported in the "weekly bag" as captured from the enemy. Or if
sweepings were not available, he would find waiting for him absolutely
soft and raw importations, which had cost the taxpayers £40 apiece a
few weeks previously,--the one as useless for the purpose required as
the other. Rejection by a not over-fastidious enemy disposes of the
one; of the other it was as mad a proceeding as taking a horse
straight off grass and backing him to win you a stake at even weights
with trained horses. The millions of the public money which lie
wantonly strewed over the South African veldt would appal even the
most phlegmatic of financiers. The waste in horse-flesh is
inconceivable; and the man with the stiff upper lip who refused to
realise that it takes gentle breaking to bring the troop-horses to the
perfection which enables them to cover for six consecutive days thirty
miles a-day with 20 stone on their backs, has added pence to the
present burden of the income-tax. The taxpayer is naturally upset. He
has cause. He seeks mental relief in philippics against the cavalry
officer,--the man to whom he owes so much. He damns his intelligence
and damns his breeding, and then, having railed sufficiently, pays
cheerfully, with heavy self-satisfaction that some one has at least
been put in his proper place, and that a lesson so necessary has not
really been so dearly purchased at the price. Poor innocent fools! the
British taxpayer brings to mind that dear fat smiling millionaire,
denizen of a West End club, to whom every day impecunious
fellow-members would propose a game of _picquet_ or _écarté_, well
knowing that it was the quickest way in London to earn a certain £200.
Your Commissions may sit upon the educational standard of your
officers, upon the sequel to your own folly in remount purchase: but
will your inquiry ever reach the foundations of this edifice that you
have condemned? I think not. One or two scapegoats will satisfy the
British public upon those few occasions when it rises up in a thirst
for blood. Willingness to pay rather than interfere will do the rest.
And the spirit of apathy which is characteristic of the nation, in
spite of the occasional outbursts of interested indignation, will
prevent a true disclosure of the horrid facts as long as the war is
unfinished. Once a peace is ratified the national interest in both the
present, past, and future state of its army will be as abruptly and
effectually severed as the magazine charge in the Lee-Enfield rifle
when the cut-off is snapped home, forgetful of the fact that our next
enemy may not be as merciful as the Boer; that he will not stand by
and reap no benefit from our failures; that in a few brief hours a
situation may arise in which no wealth of bullion can save us. It
will take just one disaster such as this--a disaster which will carry
annihilation with it--to cause the British nation too late to take
just stock of its limitations. Then in grief it will remember that he
whom it treated as a mad _fakir_ was indeed a true prophet.

The state of the New Cavalry Brigade, as it wedged itself in between
the two ghosts of mounted columns, was in itself an object-lesson.
Those who have followed the interests of this little command through
the foregoing chapters will have seen that it had not been called upon
to make any exceptional effort to sap it of its reserve forces. In
fact, it had simply been marched and countermarched along dusty tracks
at the whim of a superior officer. Yet under this mild usage the
column had arrived back at a base with 25 per cent of its animals
useless and an equal proportion whose days of usefulness were
numbered. The sole reason for this was the fact that the animals had
never been trained to long distances in a trying climate with 20 stone
on their backs. The care of the brigadier or the watchfulness of the
squadron officers availed nothing when the green remount was put to
the twenty-mile test. But you will say, How, if this is really the
case, was it to be avoided? An intelligent anticipation of events
should have told those who started their campaign with the advantage
of the three months' failure of their predecessors what would be the
approximate remount requirements. The British nation would have backed
the demands of this intelligent anticipation, not in thousands, but in
millions, and by so doing would have saved not thousands but millions.
If the original remount depots had been other than "Siberias" for
incompetent officers from the outpost line, or if the recommendations
of the senior cavalry and remount officers had been listened to, we
should have had less of the saddling of raw horses straight from the
train and ship,--less of the stupidity which expected them to do the
work which can only be done by a system of gradual and careful
training and acclimatisation. It is as suicidal and expensive to put
green horses into the field as it is to put untrained men. Yet at this
period of the war we were practising both these expedients, and
wondering why the Burgher was not subjugated, and why the income-tax
steadily increased.

The stories of sinful waste and incompetent groping for a means out of
the tangle do not connect themselves intimately with this history. But
no doubt remains that the system which was at this period in practice
was vicious in the extreme. In a word, the whole of the British mobile
strength in South Africa was directly based on the railway
communication. This gave a column at the utmost a twelve days' lease
of life, which meant that the troops must keep within a six days'
march of the permanent way or starve. This limited the area of
effective operation; and while we were wasting our energy and
horse-flesh against the enemy's raiders, the bulk of their resistance
was calmly ploughing beyond the reach of castigation. The convoy may
be slow and may be vulnerable, the fortified post may be isolated and
invite attack; but as military expedients in a large country both are
superior to the base-bound column.[37]

The brigadier left the brigade-major to settle the column into its
quarters, and taking the Intelligence officer with him, made straight
for the hub of Hopetown's universe. The hotel and the telegraph-office
stood close together. Outside the former a little scarlet flaglet
fluttered, its double point showing that the general officer who
sported it claimed divisional rank,--a quaint claim at this period of
the war, when lieutenant-generals were parading the theatre at the
head of little _paarde kommandos_[38] three to four hundred strong.
The brigadier spotted the flag, and then edged off to the
telegraph-office. "We will first make things straight with K. Then we
will consult this new horror with the oriflamme that we have stumbled
into!" Three tired clerks, two soldiers and a civilian, were trying to
cope with the telegraphic efforts of five columns. The brigadier
dictated his message to the Intelligence officer. It was a bare
announcement of arrival, duplicated to Pretoria and De Aar.

_Telegraph Operator._ "There is no chance of any private wires going
through for at least forty-eight hours; post would be quicker!"

_Brigadier._ "Then you will just have to clear the line."

_T. O._ "Can only do that for general officers."

_B._ "That is all I ask you to do,--so here you are!"

_T. O._ "Beg pardon, sir; but are you a general,--you are not like
most generals. Yes, sir, it's nice and short. I can get this off in
about five minutes. They clear the line, of course, at De Aar; we are
only working to De Aar. I have quite a lot of messages for you, sir;
they have been coming all last night." (The operator handed out the
bundle of telegraphic jetsam.)

The telegrams contained the usual proportion of hysterical nonsense
from the De Wet expert and various intelligence and departmental
centres; also a direct order from the general at De Aar to proceed
without delay to Orange River Station and there entrain for
Jagersfontein Road in the Orange River Colony. This at least was
satisfactory, as it meant without fail good-bye to the hated Karoo.
The news telegram was interesting reading, though a little indefinite
in its wording. In the light of subsequent knowledge the information
which it conveyed was much as the brigadier had anticipated. De Wet,
after the sack of Strydenburg, had doubled north,--in fact, had almost
retraced his original line. He had thrown a feint up in the direction
of Mark's Drift, and thus drawn the pursuit temporarily off the true
line, but had as suddenly swung to the east. Here he had again been
struck by the indefatigable Plumer, temporarily renovated and with
sufficient steam up to take him a short spurt. That spurt was
sufficient to rob De Wet of his last impedimenta, to cause him to
bifurcate in his flight. Part of the pursued rabble went north, half
hurled itself across the Cape Government Railway in the vicinity of
Paauwpan. Plumer's spurt was just too short to bring about the
definite result required, and he crawled into Hopetown to further
revive his energy. In the meantime it was learned from prisoners and
other sources that the group of fugitives trying to cross the Orange
River north of Hopetown was Judge Hertzog's and Pretorius's party.
Brand had made the passage at Mark's Drift, while De Wet, with the
ex-President, was still in the Colony heading for Philipstown. Then
hope ran high. The Orange River was in flood, while stops were in
front of and south of the harried guerilla. Thorneycroft and Henry in
the vicinity of Colesburg; Crabbe and Henniker on his tail; Grenfell,
Murray, and others strung out in an ever-decreasing circle! Swollen
river in front, desperate Englishmen behind, what chance had the
residue of the invaders now! But the brigadier shook his head as he
pricked out the positions on the map. "There is no mention of troops
moving down from the north. What does Napoleon say about rivers as
barriers in war?--he classes them as negotiable obstacles, after
deserts and mountains, right low down on the scale. Flood or no flood,
ole man De Wet will cross that river just wherever and whenever he
pleases; and if we have no one north of it either to pick him up or to
head him while crossing, he will get clear away, and we shall have let
slip another opportunity, by crass stupidity and failure to make use
of the very signal advantages which circumstances have placed in our
way. Plumer and my brigands get to Orange River Station to-night. Even
if they have truckage waiting for us, we shall not march clear of
Jagersfontein Road until the day after to-morrow. That will give ole
man De Wet twenty-four hours' clear lead. I must say that I cannot see
the hand of genius in the fitting of this plan to the map. This is the
line that both Plumer and I should take--Orange River Station, Ramah,
Luckhoff, Fauresmith. One of us halt at Luckhoff; Kimberley send a
column to Koffyfontein; Bloemfontein another to Petrusburg and
Abramskraal; while Fauresmith and Jagersfontein form bases for
columns sent to them from Springfontein; and then with a consistent
and strong line of outposts we might have stopped his main road north,
although we should be too late to man the river. But, anyhow, I'll
have a try at convincing them at headquarters that I am a better man
outside than inside a cattle-truck. So here goes. Mr Intelligence,
paper and ink and take it down, and mind it is to go in cipher!" The
brigadier then roughly drew a comparison in the saving of time
involved by a direct march upon Fauresmith from Orange River Station
and transport by rail, closing the message with a promise to be in
Fauresmith the second day after leaving the railway.

It then became a question of a square meal at the caravanserai. The
concentration of five columns had taxed the capabilities of the little
hostel beyond endurance. All that they could furnish was milk and
butter. But they were prepared to cook any food that was brought, so
with an effort it was possible to arrive at a meal. There was no lack
of entertainment, however. One of the columns had sent out 300 men and
a pompom in pursuit of Hertzog's fugitives, and the force had just
returned with quite a haul of prisoners. They had come across the
rearmost of them as they were in the act of crossing the river in a
rickety punt, which vessel had been scientifically rendered
unseaworthy by a well-directed belt of pompom-shells. Examination of
the bushes on the near bank of the river showed that dozens of Boers
had literally gone to earth. The river approach was full of
rain-fissures and water-cracks, and the men spent the whole morning
actually bolting burghers from cover, much in the same manner as a
pack of beagles is well used to aid sportsmen to shoot a
rabbit-covert.

It was not until you found opportunity to see these prisoners that you
realised what this war meant to these farmer guerillas, and the
influence which the failure of De Wet's invasion must have made on the
subsequent operations. Amongst the whole 200 prisoners that were
brought in that day, there was only one man--a man who called himself
Hertzog's secretary--who was completely dressed. The majority had
neither coats nor boots; and their remaining costume was in the last
stage of decay. Nor had the inner man been nurtured any better than
the outer. They were emaciated and drawn with hunger and hardship.
They rose out of their holes with their hands above their heads like
great gaunt ghosts with saucer eyes. They were in such a state that
surrender brought to them no pangs of remorse. They welcomed it as a
means to live, and their ravenous supplication for food was not the
least pathetic setting to the scene. They are a strange paradox these
people. One could not help admiring the patriotism--or is it magnetic
power of their leaders?--which kept in the field, in spite of all its
dismal horrors of death and suffering, men who had but to surrender to
return to their share of the comfort of living. If it is true
patriotism, then you feel inclined to raise your hat. But if it is
only fear of the knout, then hanging is the best end you could wish
the leaders, who are able to control such suffering, and who, in the
hope of personal advancement, refuse to alleviate it. But what is more
humiliating than anything else, is the realisation that these
miserable creatures are an enemy able to keep the flower of England's
army in check, to levy a tax of six millions a-month upon this
country, and render abortive a military reputation built upon
unparalleled traditions. This is indeed a bitter reflection, a painful
reminder that the advance of science has placed the athlete and the
cripple almost upon an equality in armed encounter.

It was an interesting gathering that partook of dinner in the quaintly
boarded little dining-room of the Hopetown tavern. Four column
commanders and their staffs filled the tables, which betimes were the
mess-boards of the bank clerks and shop-walkers of the village. The
soldiers, however, had some right to be in temporary possession, since
the viands were their own. The two little serving-maids, daughters of
a Dutch proprietress, were alive to the unusual importance of their
duties, and had carefully prepared for the part. Print dresses were
dispensed with, and they stood arrayed in their Sabbath frocks,
covered with the becoming apron-pinafore which the country affects,
and with carefully braided hair. Quaint little maids--why should we
quiz them?--they were there dressed and determined to do their best.
At the first table sat a middle-aged major-general, a man of kindly
face and habit. As a soldier--a fierce, intrepid leader--can you not
remember the day when he lay amongst the scrub of the Modder bank with
his chest laid bare by a raking bullet, and refused to be carried to
hospital,--even entreated the doctors to let him carry out the mad
effort, worthy of a Marshal Ney, which had been intrusted to him, and
which all but cost him his life. Yet, so strange is the complex nature
of the Englishman, this man, whom the breath of war could rouse to a
courage almost superhuman, spent his leisure in the toils of artistic
photography, and evinced more demonstrative pleasure over a successful
plate than in a battlement of arms made sweet in victory.

At the next table sat a leader of another kind, or rather a different
development of the same type of quiet unassuming English
gentleman,--the gallant, thrusting, never-tiring Plumer. Small spare
man of dainty gait and finish, yet moulded in a clay which hitherto
has shown no flaw in the rougher elements of the soldier. It is no
inconsiderable tribute to his sterling qualities as a leader that he
gained both the confidence and devotion of the rough Bushboys from the
Antipodes, with whom he was associated. But however dainty and
unassuming the shell, it is the spirit which fashions the man, and he
who would continue in the shade of Plumer's banner must ride with all
the cunning he may possess to prove himself worthy of the lead he
follows. At another table sits Pilcher, the man on wires. Hot-headed
he may be, yet withal crafty in war: worthy representative of the race
of young soldiers which the Nile has bred. Then there was our own
brigadier, as buoyant in spirit and as light of heart as any of his
ancestors who played the gallant in the Court of Versailles, yet
possessing beneath the veneer of gaiety a steadfast tenacity of
purpose, which favoured the quartering added from the north of the
Tweed. The room was full of men--men who for eighteen solid months had
been engaging in the stern realities of war. The leaders who had
exercised the balance of life and death, the juniors who had looked a
thousand dangers squarely in the face. If success in war was only made
up in the excellence of fighting men, then England could stand out
pre-eminent. Unfortunately, success lies in business-soldiers _plus_
fighting men. It is in her business-soldiers that England's weakness
lies.

It is only when the intention is to do something desperate that one is
able to appreciate the obstructive temperament of military
officialdom. The whole system teems with "wait-a-bit" thorns; and in
such rare cases when difficulties do not exist, some jack-in-office is
certain to arrive with the sole object and intention of inventing
them. Now, the brigadier had put forward a simple and rational
plan,--so simple and rational that the lieutenant-general at De Aar
had willingly acquiesced, for this general was at least a man to whom
his juniors might look and be certain of support. But after the
general there arose a pack of snarling juniors, whose only energy
seemed to be expended in an endeavour to frustrate the plans of
others. The brigade had orders to march by night the six miles which
separate Hopetown from Orange River Station, but long before it took
the road the departmental spirit of opposition had commenced to make
itself felt.

First came a "clear-the-line" message from the transport officer,
ordering the brigadier to hand over his mule-transport to another
column commander. It is true that he promised to re-equip him with
mule-transport at the destination of his railway journey; but the
brigadier had had experience of the director of transport's promises.
This was an impediment which it was possible to ignore; but it was
followed by another more serious. The supply people appeared to have
been hurt on the score of the short notice which had been given to
them, and raised a host of difficulties. But the climax was reached
when the Intelligence Department volunteered the information that it
would be useless for the brigade to apply for maps, as they had none
in stock; but they added, "As a substitute we are sending the best
local guide procurable."

The brigadier had met the first of these hindrances with equanimity,
but the last burden upset the camel's load. "Did you ever see such
fellows? they are bent on thwarting me every time. I shall ignore them
right through; the only attention the man who has the audacity to
offer me a low horse-thieving local expert as the substitute for a
gross of maps deserves is to be court-martialled and stamped out of
existence on sight. You need not telegraph all that, Mr Intelligence;
but you may send a message to the general in De Aar to inform him
that, having received his orders, I shall leave no stone unturned to
carry out the scheme he has sanctioned, in spite of local obstruction.
That is to be the sense of the message, and it ought to cover any
subsequent act of disobedience which we undertake. Don't make answers
to any of these subordinate fry; we will just march at nine o'clock
to-night to Orange River Station, raid the place of such rations as we
can lay hands on, and then, maps or no maps, take off our caps to Cape
Colony for ever."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was just as well that the brigadier had made his own arrangements,
for both Plumer and Pilcher forgathered at Orange River that night,
and the stationmaster, with the bonhomie bred of a long period spent
in disappointing everybody with whom he came in contact, informed each
column commander in rotation that the best he could promise them was
truckage sufficient for one squadron on the following day, two
squadrons perhaps on the second day, and the whole of the mounted
troops ordered by rail certainly not before a week or ten days. We
just ask you to make a short study of this situation. The episode
which is here related was not a farce--far from it: it was a serious
endeavour on the part of the British army in South Africa to capture
or destroy a noted brigand called De Wet. A possibility of bringing
about this desired result was certainly within view, and the British
army was straining every nerve to avail itself of a unique
opportunity. To the humble subaltern, who was but a microscopic atom
of that huge British army, this herculean effort partook rather of the
nature of burlesque than of serious war. But it was nothing to the
burlesque which was shortly to be enacted on Orange River Station
platform.

As day broke other columns concentrated on the station buildings,
until the inartistic surroundings of the little centre became black
with men and animals. In appearance it might well be likened to a
swarm of bees in temporary possession of a window-frame. Amongst the
troops waiting for rolling stock was a wild company of over-sea
Colonials--men of independent character and fine physique, who had
already done their year in the country, and to whom the sight of a
permanent way and the smell of a station-yard brought memories of
homes in a distant land, and transports tossing on Table Bay, and a
promise that had been made to them by some one, that they should
return home the next time they touched the railway. Their dash after
De Wet had been undertaken rather in the spirit of a favour. And now
they were on the line again, rumour had it that their belated truckage
had been ordered to convey them back to the Orange River Colony. They
accepted this rumour as a breach of faith, and feeling ran high in the
contingent--ran so high that it overlapped and swamped the tiny pillar
of discipline which thirteen months of campaigning had built into the
constitution of the corps. The climax was reached on the morning of
the concentration at Orange River Station. The colonel commanding the
over-sea Colonials stood chatting with our brigadier. We were waiting
for the shoddy platform buffet to open its hospitable doors, when
suddenly we were aware of the whole of the Colonial contingent
marching in correct files on to the platform. A full private was in
command. He issued his orders clearly. "Halt!"--"Pile arms!"--"Stand
clear!"--"Fall out!" And then a deputation of three advanced towards
us. They saluted their colonel with all military punctiliousness, and
stood as stiffly to attention as is possible with the irregular.

_Colonial Colonel._ "What does this mean, men?"

_Spokesman._ "If you please, sir, we have mutinied" (_the supporting
deputation gravely nodded their assent_).

_C. C._ "The devil you have!--but do you realise what it means when
you mutiny on active service?"

_S._ "Well, you see, sir, it is putting it rather strongly, perhaps,
to say that we _have_ mutinied. But you see, sir, our time is up, and
we have determined not to go on the trek any more. Our last trek was a
favour. We were promised that we should be sent home the next time we
struck the railway, and we hold by this promise."

_C. C._ "Men, don't be fools. Go back to your camp. You have no need
to believe that faith will be broken with you. But think of the
example you are setting to the rest of the troops here! Think of what
the people at home will say! You don't realise what you are liable to
for mutiny."

_S._ "Well, sir, we don't exactly mean this as mutiny. This is just a
protest against being kept out here against our will and agreement.
You will accept it, sir, in the spirit that it is given--a protest,
sir!"

_C. C._ "Very good. Go back to your lines!"

The deputation saluted, returned to the fallen-out contingent, which
gravely unpiled its arms and marched back to its lines, amid a little
desultory cheering from some few by-standers who realised what was
taking place.

The brigadier turned to the Colonial colonel and said, "Well, that is
the quaintest attitude that I have ever seen taken up by a body of
men. Do they often treat you to these protests?"

_C. C._ "Sometimes. They are children in many respects. I can tell you
they need gentle handling. They have made their protest, and for a
week or so will be quite satisfied. I even fancy that I shall be able
to get them to do yet another trek if the authorities insist; but it
makes it devilish hard for us to deal with these fellows, when faith
is so constantly broken with them. They are as quiet as mice when I
get them away from the railway. But once they see metals they smell
sea-water, and it upsets them. They are fine but quaint fellows!"

The brigadier acquiesced. He would have been just the man to have
commanded these men. And he would have improved a situation such as
the one we had just witnessed. Yet it would be impossible to overrate
the delicacy of that situation. A tactless man, full of the power
which long generations of military discipline has built round the
sanctity of a commission, in a few short sentences would have
converted the scene of incipient mutiny into open intractable
rebellion. As it was, the mutiny was taken in the spirit in which it
had been made, and terminated to the satisfaction of all
concerned.[39]

The New Cavalry Brigade became almost complete at Hopetown, as the
brigadier was able to collect his last missing squadron of the 21st
King's Dragoon Guards, which hitherto had been taking part in the De
Wet hunt with another column. A portion of the Mount Nelson Light
Horse, however, was still missing; but the brigadier did not worry
about them, and felt himself complete, as he took the precaution to
issue orders that he was about to proceed by rail to Jagersfontein
Road. But, as the narrative of the next forty-eight hours is to show,
the military system prevailing in South Africa was such that it was
only by a miracle that the most sagacious of leaders were able to
accomplish any exceptional result by strategy. The brigadier had
schemed to bring about a result which could only be arrived at by the
most rigid concealment of plan and direction.

It must be borne in mind that the Boers at this period of the campaign
had the most perfect system of intelligence. There was not a district
in the Transvaal or Orange River Colony which was not under the
command of a local commandant, who with a following of fifty to a
hundred men maintained a system of observation-posts throughout the
length and breadth of his district, and who apparently had the means
of conveying to some central organisation early intelligence of the
movement of every British column. This may appear to the casual
observer as an enormous undertaking, but in reality it was nothing of
the kind. It was absolutely essential to the Boer cause that a
considerable portion of their less valuable fighting material should
thus be distributed over the length and breadth of the guerilla area.
Owing to the great distances to be traversed in South Africa, every
Dutchman had a local knowledge of his own district which could never
be acquired in a country of rapid communication such as England. To
local men were apportioned the network of observation-hills in which
the country abounds. They lived upon the hill-tops all day, and
returned either to farms or other places of security during the night.
Their method of inter-communication was either by Kaffirs or mounted
messengers, and in this way news could travel by relay as easily and
rapidly as it is carried by a similar system amongst the natives of
India. Any Kaffir will dog-trot ten miles in two hours; consequently
without much effort Boer information would travel a hundred and twenty
miles in twenty-four hours. Added to this, every woman remaining upon
a farm was of the nature of an intelligence agent, and after the women
had been removed, for the most part to the concentration camps, the
majority of Kaffir kraals served the same purpose. It was this means
of information which made the Boer resistance possible: it was to this
system of espionage that De Wet owed the success of his meteor-like
career.

The Intelligence centre at De Aar being unable to furnish the
requisite maps, took upon itself to supply "the best local guide
procurable." It is mainly to the services rendered by this local guide
that De Wet owes his escape on this particular occasion. The brigadier
was fully alive to the existence of the Boer local espionage; but it
must be said with truth that he had not realised to what extent De
Wet's _clientèle_ included the men who possessed the confidence of
the De Wet expert and the intelligence faculty at De Aar. If he had
realised this he would have been content to have made his dash,
trusting to the almost supernatural instinct of the Tiger. As it was,
to the general regret, the Tiger was allowed to sever his connection
with the column, to be replaced by one of the many "sitters upon the
fence" who have for months conduced to the prolongation of the war.

The latest information with regard to the movements of De Wet had been
signalled by Haig, who appeared to hold the view that he had the
arch-guerilla hemmed in against the unfordable flood of the Orange
River in the immediate neighbourhood of the Colesberg waggon-bridge.
Now the brigadier, as has already been shown, did not believe in the
unfordability of rivers. Moreover, the Orange River in front of us was
falling, and further information, which had been arrived at through a
rather peculiar channel, furnished us with the details of a letter of
instruction which had been sent by De Wet when at Strydenburg to
Field-cornet Botmann, then commanding the local commando in the
Fauresmith district, instructing him to collect as many horses and
Cape-carts as possible, and to keep them in readiness at Philippolis
in order to expedite his (De Wet's) journey north. Basing his plans
upon this information, the brigadier determined to place himself on
the line Jagersfontein-Fauresmith just at the moment when De Wet
halted to catch his breath at Philippolis. He would then detach half
his force to cover his right, facing south, leaving it to Plumer or
other troops despatched from the railway at Jagersfontein Road to
cover and close his left flank. To frustrate the vigilance of
Botmann's observation-posts it was the brigadier's intention to make
Fauresmith by forced marches. It had to be considered that there was
only a small margin in which it would be possible to arrive at
Fauresmith with advantage. Too early an arrival would have warned and
headed De Wet before the flank-detached column was in position to
effectually co-operate; while dalliance on the line of march would
have missed him altogether. It was a manoeuvre which could not have
been successful without some element of luck, but which was destined
to be rendered still more difficult by the co-operation of the local
guide.

As it was, the man was not taken into the brigadier's confidence until
he issued his marching orders to his force, a bare two hours before
the column was destined to take the road. The guide had joined the
command with all the pomp and dignity attaching to a following of five
mounted native retainers. He was an Africander of a most marked type,
and opened his connection with the Intelligence officer with the
information that he was not an ordinary guide, that he only took his
instructions from the officer commanding the column, and that he
reported alone to him. The brigadier smiled at his pedantry, remarking
that if he did his job it did not matter much to whom and by whom he
made his reports.

In order to facilitate the early movement of the brigade, it had moved
across the now historic railway-bridge at Orange River and camped in
the Herbert district, with the report that Kimberley was its
destination. For the sake of precaution the brigadier had thrown out
a strong outpost into the hilly country covering the road to Ramah.
Shortly after midnight, the Intelligence officer was sent out with the
final instructions to this outpost. As he stumbled amongst the rocks
he saw in the dim light which the young moon diffused a mounted native
moving along a track below him. The native would have remained
unrecognised, as the distance was considerable, if his horse had not
been a piebald of peculiar marking. The mounted native "had the legs
of" the Intelligence officer; but as he disappeared in the shadows of
night the Intelligence officer's apprehensions were allayed by hearing
the man challenged by a picket from the outpost. In five minutes the
Intelligence officer reached the picket to find the native gone, and
the corporal in charge stated that the man had shown a pass signed by
the Intelligence officer, Orange River Station. This hardly appeared
to be satisfactory; but the corporal, like so many young British
non-commissioned officers, had had no directions concerning native
scouts and passes, and not being trained to take upon himself
precautionary responsibility, had been duly frightened and coerced by
the scrawl of a hieroglyphic on a remnant of blue paper.

The Intelligence officer considered the whole affair with great
suspicion, and when he returned to the headquarters bivouac he walked
down to the new guide's _entourage_ and took stock of his "boys" and
animals. One of the five "boys" was missing, also a piebald pony which
had caught his eye earlier in the day. The Intelligence officer held
his peace, but, armed with this information, determined to watch
future developments, and flung himself down on the roadside to snatch
half an hour's sleep before the forward march should commence.

It was the brigadier's intention to seize Luckhoff--a little hamlet
situated half-way between Orange River and Fauresmith--that morning by
a _coup de main_. To accomplish this he detached half his force
without baggage, under the command of the colonel of the 21st, to move
as rapidly as circumstances would permit, and to occupy and hold the
town until he himself arrived with the main body later in the day.
The newly acquired guide was detailed to accompany the advance column.
By nine o'clock in the morning this advanced column was in position to
bear down upon the little prairie township. The colonel of the 21st,
well versed in the tactics best suited to surprise a village on the
open plain, extended a squadron into a horn-like formation, and
galloped, as he imagined, to the surprise of the inhabitants. The
sequel was very different to what had been expected. Save for women,
the village was deserted, while from the high ground and hills to the
north-east, a fully prepared posse from Botmann's commando opened a
heavy rifle-fire on those cavalrymen who had been detached to occupy
the farther approaches. Our Intelligence guide, who by some means had
disappeared during the later progress of the advance, was at once in
evidence as soon as the town was entered. He rode straight as a die to
a small store which ornamented the main street. Ultimately it proved
that he was the owner of this store.

The first comment of the intelligent reader will be that the action of
the guide was clumsy, both in design and execution, and that a column
thus duped deserves to meet with ill success. The guide's action was
undoubtedly clumsy, but it must be remembered that he had had long
experience of the British: he knew as well as every other man of
similar calibre in South Africa how far he could afford to play with
their forbearance. As far as the staff of the New Cavalry Brigade was
concerned, once the guide was admitted to the confidence of the
general the possibility of checking his further machinations was
beyond their reach. The fault lay with those who had given him his
credentials. Yet there was no proof against the man: he allowed that
the store was his, he admitted that he had sent one of his natives on
ahead of the column, claimed that he had permission thus to use the
native, who, he assured us, was one of the most trusted and loyal
scouts that the British had. For what reason had he sent him? The
answer was simple enough. He had only sent him with a message to the
man who was looking after his store, with instructions not to open it
after daybreak lest it should be looted by friend and foe alike. It
was a pity, as it subsequently proved, that we failed to make him
produce this loyal boy.

The only remark in the way of comment made by the brigadier was to the
effect that "One only learns by experience." He refused, and doubtless
rightly, to accede to the wishes of others on his staff that the man
should be executed out of hand. He promised to send him back to Cape
Colony, where, doubtless, he would give a satisfactory explanation,
and return again to some position of trust and honour in the British
service.

People in England, and those who have had experience of this
extraordinary campaign, will never realise the extent to which the
British army in South Africa has reposed confidence in knaves and
scoundrels. For one man that may have been shot or hanged, there will
have been a hundred who have gained the confidence of the British to
betray it either to their own use or that of the enemy. No one could
ever know or assess the extent of the knavery which has arisen,
flourished, and grown fat in this long-protracted war. And what a
field for sharps and knaves! Was not the control of the whole country
in the hands of straightforward and fair-thinking English
officers,--men whose word was their bond, and who never thought to
distrust their fellow-men, until their fellow-men thrust their
barefaced iniquities upon them. Believe me, that under the Southern
Cross it is not the Dutch who are vile.

But although we could not hope now to fall upon the arch-guerilla with
the full weight of first surprise, yet from the nature of the
situation in which he had been engaged during the last three weeks his
theatre and resources were of necessity circumscribed. The situation
even yet presented possibilities, and the brigadier settled to remain
longer in Luckhoff than he had originally intended, sending a patrol
to reconnoitre the Orange River. This patrol met with some success. It
was commanded by the same pessimistic subaltern who had commanded the
advance-guard from Richmond Road. Again it was his fortune to chaperon
the Intelligence officer in a quest for information. It was a
fifteen-mile ride to the nearest portion of the river, consequently it
was late in the afternoon when the patrol entered the hilly tracts of
country which covered the immediate approaches to the yellow stream.
As the advance-guard of the party topped a little nek, they rode into
a group of five burghers. The British dragoons had the advantage, as
the burghers had only that moment emerged from the river, which they
had crossed with the aid of rafts manufactured from drift-wood and
rushes. Not a shot was fired, and the men surrendered gladly the only
two rifles remaining to them.

One of the most curious traits in the burgher character has been
displayed in the manner of his capitulation. He will always tell you
that he is pleased to surrender, that it is an end he has been longing
and praying for for months, and yet until the actual moment which
necessitates surrender he will strain every nerve to avoid capture,
will suffer every privation and hardship; endure hunger, thirst,
disease, and sickness, rather than walk the few miles which separate
him from the British outposts. Take the case of these men who were
just captured: after a most harassing campaign, they had gone to the
risk and pain of crossing a rapid river in full flood; having crossed
at infinite peril, they welcomed the advent of the hostile patrol
which deprived them of their liberty, and far from making expression
of resentment, availed themselves of the opportunity to surrender, in
an attitude which ill disguised their eagerness.

Moreover, they were loquacious. They had crossed the railway at
Paauwpan with the remnant of De Wet's fugitive commando. In the
neighbourhood of Philipstown the guerilla had ordered a general
break-up of the whole of his remaining commando. At certain points
along the Orange River it was said that boats were hidden for the
purpose of effecting a crossing. But this particular party, having
been unable to find one of these boats, and having been shot at by
various patrols from pursuing columns, had effected the passage of the
river in their own original way but to fall into our hands. As far as
De Wet and President Steyn were concerned, these men professed to be
able to speak with authority. Reduced to a single Cape cart, they had
determined to cross at Botha's Drift. Their crossing was to have been
covered by a commando collected by Botmann at Philippolis, and they
themselves, in common with all the dispersed burghers, had orders to
concentrate within four days at Philippolis, where supplies, horses,
and ammunition would be awaiting them. All this, as it coincided with
previous knowledge, was valuable information, and the patrol hurried
to make the return journey to Luckhoff.


FOOTNOTES:

[35] Jocular term borrowed from the Dutch for small British columns.

[36] Dutch village.

[37] It is interesting to note that eventually this reasoning was
brought home to the direction of operations in South Africa. After
practically a year of the unsatisfactory groping referred to in the
text, the conception of the blockhouse system enabled mounted troops to
operate far into the vital interior of the country without returning to
the railway. It must be understood that the main use of the
blockhouse-line was not to stretch an impassable _chevaux-de-frise_
from point to point, but to furnish a series of posts, which ensured
the safety of the convoys that followed their trend. By this means it
was possible to keep columns operating in the interior supplied with
food and forage. So much so, that towards the end many columns had not
been near a town or railway for weeks. The conception of the "drives,"
which ultimately brought the peace movement to a head, was an
afterthought, which is commonly attributed in South Africa to the
sagacity of that intrepid and versatile young cavalry leader, Colonel
Mike Rimington.

[38] Dutch mounted columns.

[39] This very contingent continued to serve with distinction for quite
a considerable period after the little episode narrated above.



XI.

FULL CRY.


Luckhoff, in normal circumstances, has little to distinguish it from
the many rural villages scattered over the South African veldt. If
anything, it is more squalid than the general run of fourth-rate
hamlets. But when the New Cavalry Brigade went into billet there, it
was more or less a deserted and plundered village. The inhabitants may
have totalled a hundred souls, the large majority of whom were women
and children; and we should not have found these in possession if our
Intelligence guide had been able to give earlier notice of our coming.
As is the case with all these hamlets, the inhabitants who had escaped
the clutches of the "clearing-up" columns were in the possession of
_caches_ in the neighbourhood, where they hid away as soon as the
dust-clouds on the horizon forewarned them of the near approach of a
British column. Many columns had already "been through" Luckhoff, from
Clements in the early days, to Settle moving in stately magnificence
with thousands of cattle and hundreds of women in the preceding
spring. Each marauder in turn had left something of a mark, but none
had left so bare a skeleton or had stamped so plainly the impress of
horrid war as a column of somebody's bushmen. The brigadier had
planted his little red pennant in front of the villa of the absconded
Predikant. It was the only house in the place which had any pretension
to decorative finish. But when the staff took possession it was a
sorry pigsty. In its halcyon days a part of the house had evidently
been in the possession of a young mother, for two of the apartments
were knee-deep in a disordered heap of female apparel, intermingled
with the tiny garments which mothers store away--small socks and
bonnets tied with pink and blue. The ruthless hand of man had
ransacked each drawer and crevice, and all that calls forth the
sacred care of women lay tossed and tumbled in the dirt of floor and
passage. To those who had time to think, a sad, heart-rending sight,
pitiful evidence of the degrading influence of war. During the first
year of the struggle there was not a man in the British army who would
have pushed a woman aside to ransack the sacred corners of her
chamber. But war's brutal influence in time blunted the finer
instincts. How could it be otherwise? The longer a struggle is
protracted the fiercer and more bestial it will become, until at last
familiarity with the final arbitration of the beast deadens the better
influences of human reasoning. As one saw upon every hand the ruin of
these homes--many of which showed evidence of refinement bred of
wealth and education--one felt the pity of it all, and cursed the
leaders who in their spirit of tin-pot patriotism had pushed a
struggle, already hopeless, to its most barbarous issue.

Looting was not allowed. That is true, but how was it to be
prevented?--where can you draw the line between legitimate requisition
in war and brutal plunder? Can you punish the men who in the morning
followed you without flinching in the face of death, because in the
evening you find them searching in a deserted house for a 'kerchief,
waist-band, or baby's sock to send as a memento to the mother or
sweetheart waiting patiently at home? Is there not some extenuation
for the man whose "pal" has been ambushed and butchered, when he
gleefully places a match to the murderer's byre or dwelling? Place
yourselves in the position of the fighting man before you consider
actions which are inseparable from partisan warfare, and bear in mind
that if the leaders of the enemy had capitulated when it was first
evident that they were a beaten people, there would not have been a
tithe of the brutality and suffering which marked the final phases of
the struggle. The story of the Predikant was strange. Himself a
firebrand of the most dangerous nature, he had preached an
anti-British _jehad_ with all the force of his ecclesiastical
rhetoric. Yet his three sons were of other clay. One, a staunch
trooper of Thorneycroft's, had died a soldier's death on Spion Kop's
shell-swept summit; another, an athlete of no mean order, had served
in Lord Robert's bodyguard; while the third was still fighting against
the people of his kind as an officer in some other British corps. The
two daughters, both married to _veldt kornets_, were already widows it
may be, for the irony of fate is infinite, by their brothers' rifles.

We found one Britisher in Luckhoff, and he was a Scotsman. His story
was plausible; but though it had satisfied other column commanders, it
did not find the same credence with our brigadier. According to the
man's statement he was neutral. Had been neutral since the outbreak of
war. He was an engineer in the Koffyfontein mines, and since these had
closed down he had come to Luckhoff and made a living by
market-gardening. Two circumstances conspired against the continued
freedom of this so-called Scotsman. The first was the fact that he
quoted our Intelligence guide as a reference for his good conduct; the
second, that we had found a steam flour-mill at work in the vicinity,
and circumstantial evidence pointed to our market-gardener as the
_mechanicien_ in charge. This being given as the real reason for his
presence in the hamlet, there was no need for his sojourn to be
continued, as we had closed down the safety-valve until the boiler
burst, and wrecked the mechanism of the engine. Flour-mills, even when
worked by market-gardeners of doubtful neutrality, can be of service
to a starving enemy.

The brigadier determined to halt a little in Luckhoff to procure if
possible more definite information. About midday this information
came, from both ordinary and extraordinary channels. As the
headquarters sat at lunch a mounted messenger arrived from Orange
River,--a small spare Hottentot or Griqua, who weighed about five
stone, and who had been put upon a horse and told to cover fifteen
miles an hour until he found us. The message he brought was in point
of fact a confirmation of the information which we had gleaned already
from our prisoners of the preceding evening. "De Wet, and with him the
President," ran the message, "crossed the Orange River at Botha's
Drift at three o'clock to-day (yesterday). By mistake gap in circle
let him through. Crossed without transport and with smallest
following. Presumedly will go north. Plumer cannot leave Springfontein
until early day after to-morrow (to-morrow). Must leave you to act
exactly as you think right. Co-operate if possible with Plumer!"

_Brigadier._ "Presumedly will go north! Well, that is the most
ingenuous expression of opinion that I have ever heard. A man crosses
from the south bank of a river to the north, and by an extreme effort
our friends of the Intelligence are able to conjecture that he will go
north. He certainly has the northern field open to him. It is worthy
of the information slips issued by our friend the D.A.A.G. for
Intelligence at Bloemfontein for the guidance of the columns in his
districts: 'Everything in this shop window sixpence halfpenny; take
your choice every time.' As usual, we shall have to work out our own
salvation. Mr Intelligence, the map!"

The map was duly spread upon the Reverend Predikant's mahogany board,
and with the aid of a slip of paper the distances measured off. The
brigadier sat back in his chair, drawing meditatively at the bent
stem of his Boer pipe. When the measuring was over he remained silent
a moment and then gave his opinion of the situation.

_Brigadier._ "They evidently have no one operating down from
Bloemfontein, otherwise they would not quote Plumer. It is just as
evident that De Wet slipped across the river at some spot where it is
not precisely convenient for any of our Colony brigands to pursue him.
That is, we are their only hope and the only mobile people within
reach. De Wet crossed the Orange River yesterday afternoon, therefore,
according to our information, he should have slept at Philippolis last
night. As a rule De Wet never sleeps in the same place on two
consecutive nights. But his arrival at Philippolis was in rather
peculiar circumstances. He didn't arrive a successful swashbuckler
cocking his hat with all his plans made, but a washed-out fugitive
with all his plans to make. Therefore the chances are that he won't
have got very far on his way from Philippolis to-night. Probably he
won't make a start until to-morrow morning. He knows that his right
is clear. He knew last night or early this morning that we had arrived
at Luckhoff. He will have information by this that we have halted this
morning, and that the Riet River is in flood. Therefore it is plain
that he, taking us as an average British commando, can leave
Philippolis at daybreak to-morrow, cross the Riet, and destroy the
Kalabas bridge behind him without inconvenience from us. At least that
is the map reading of this picnic. It is a short fifty miles from
Philippolis to Fauresmith; we are thirty miles from Fauresmith. A
British commando halted to-day would not reach Fauresmith until
evening to-morrow; a Boer _paarde kommando_ will have done its fifty
miles by the time one of our 'crawlers' outspans for breakfast. Now,
old man Baker, get out orders. For public guidance, we march at four
o'clock for Koffyfontein and Kimberley, going d----d slow; for private
information, as soon as it is dark we will change direction and be in
possession of Fauresmith as soon after daybreak as possible. Whoever
is in possession of Fauresmith will be in possession of the bridge
over Riet River. Mr Intelligence, it will be your business to make it
sufficiently well known in this metropolis that our destination is
Koffyfontein for Kimberley. Don't make them suspicious by being too
emphatic about it."

_Brigade-Major._ "Very good, sir; but we shall have to cover at least
forty miles!"

_B._ "True for you; what's the odds?"

_B.-M._ "Only the ox-transport. It can't reach Fauresmith by daybreak,
night-marching. There ain't anything of a moon--in fact it's going to
be devilish dark with all these clouds about."

_B._ "True again: but we will dodge all that. As soon as we have
changed direction to our true line, we will leave the transport to
come along as best it may: it can follow us to Fauresmith."

_B.-M._ "What escort shall I give it?"

_B._ "How many dismounted men are there? It can have just as many
cripples as we possess. I am not going to worry about transport. If I
am wrong in my calculations and De Wet attempts to cross behind me, I
want that transport to deceive him. He would never dream of it being
unprotected. He cannot be in any strength; besides, I shall want every
mounted man I have got for my scheme. The transport, ox and mule, must
take its chance. But see that it doesn't straggle. The mule can keep
up with us as long as possible, but it must keep together. Likewise
the ox-transport, taking its own time, must keep closed up. I assure
you the only object of these people on this journey will be to get
away. Two blocks of moving waggons will mystify them, not attract
them. Right away,--not a word about the change of direction until
after dark--not even to C.O.'s. Tell 'em any story you like."

The Intelligence officer had barely got outside when a tall and even
good-looking native attracted his attention by raising his battered
hat and murmuring "kos." The man, a magnificent specimen of the Basuto
savage, was quivering with emotion, and he pointed to a great
grey-white weal which showed across his neck and open breast.

_Intelligence Officer._ "Sjambok?"

_Basuto._ "Yah, Boss!"

_I. O._ "How did you come by this?"

The native, who was of more than average intelligence, then told the
following astounding story. He was one of the five native scouts
employed by the new Intelligence guide. The morning that the New
Cavalry Brigade had left Orange River Station, he had been sent
forward by our friend with a letter to Commandant Botmann, and,
finding that he was not at Luckhoff, the Basuto had warned the acting
landrost[40] there of the approach of the British, and had then ridden
on to Philippolis, and was there when De Wet and Steyn arrived; and in
the truly expressive language of the native he told of their dejection
and the dispiriting nature of the speech which the ex-President had
made to the assembled burghers. He also furnished the valuable
information that De Wet had issued instructions that all stray
burghers and Brand's, Wessel's, Akermann's, and Kolbe's commandos
should concentrate with him at Petrusberg, whither he was proceeding
on the following day with his personal bodyguard under Theron. As the
brigadier had anticipated, De Wet was halting a day to allow his
stragglers to concentrate. In all he would have about 300 men and
forty Cape carts. But at Petrusberg they would concentrate to about
1200 or 1500. The Basuto had ridden through from Philippolis that
night, and had arrived back at Luckhoff only half an hour ago. The
blow which was responsible for this disclosure of his master's perfidy
and the Boer plans was by reason of a favourite horse. In order to
ensure the safe delivery of his message, and not dreaming that it
would go all the way to Philippolis, the Intelligence guide had
mounted the Basuto on his best horse. This best horse had caught the
eye of a Winburg burgher in Philippolis, and he had relieved the
Basuto of it, leaving him to make his way back upon some scarecrow.
_Hinc illæ lacrymæ_.

The Intelligence officer smoothed over the Basuto's ill-will with
fair-mouthed promises, and led him to understand that if he went back
to his master and suffered in silence for a short period longer he
would be handsomely rewarded. But, said the dignified savage, "he bad
man--always bad man, telling d----d Dutchmens always. Boss give me
gun, no more telling Dutchmens!" The Intelligence officer pacified the
man by promises of an execution in the near future, and then went to
the brigadier with the information and an earnest conspiracy against
the guide's life. However, the evidence was not conclusive enough for
the brigadier. "What proof have you that it is not all a plant on the
part of your friend, Mr Intelligence? Besides, I would never hang a
white man on the evidence of a black. I am bad at the 'black-cap'
game, but I'll tell you what I will do. I don't want any more of this
guide; tell him that we are going to Kimberley, and that he can go
back to Orange River at once; write a letter to the De Aar
Intelligence coves, and tell them we are bound for Kimberley, seal it
heavily with sealing-wax, and then, if your 'pal' is the bandit you
represent him to be, he will read it and send it to De Wet to-night.
If he is not a knave he will deliver it some time to-morrow night,
when we shall be out of the ken of the De Aar folk, and the lie won't
matter." And so it was arranged....

It has been pointed out earlier in this narrative how often De Wet has
owed his freedom, and incidentally his life, to the leaning of the law
of chances in his favour. Times without number a sequence of
extraordinary circumstances has conspired to defeat the best-laid
plans which have been made to enmesh him. It is not intended to deny
that the man was possessed of a peculiar genius which constantly of
itself freed him from the dangers to which he was exposed. But beyond
this there were instances, not so rare as the world would believe,
when his genius failed him, and it was upon these occasions that
Providence stepped in and furnished a balance against which it was
impossible for human endeavour to prevail. It will never be maintained
that in the present case the brigadier had divined an infallible
scheme. But, as will be seen, the operation of circumstances so
dovetailed with the brigadier's appreciation of the situation, that
though no certain opportunity was foreseen of seizing the arch
guerilla in his bed, yet there was every promise that he would be
forced to play a hand with the cards against him,--a circumstance
which no Boer--not even De Wet--liked or understood. One such a chance
had presented itself before, when a senior influence intervened and
kept the New Cavalry Brigade from falling upon Strydenburg. In the
present case the intervention was to be made by the elements, and even
then the energy and wit of the capable soldier who was in command
brought the brigade within an ace of a success which would have made
all concerned famous in the history of this war.

At four o'clock the advance-guard opened out on the plain north of
Luckhoff, and drew the fire of the observation post on the hills
through which the trail to Koffyfontein passes. There would have been
no necessity to caution the advance-guard to slowness; and the main
body just sauntered on, while commanding officers were asking
themselves whether the brigadier was mad or inebriate to plunge into a
night march of this character when his object was only to get to
Kimberley. The good ladies of Luckhoff watched the last of the
transport disappear over the nek into the darkness of gathering night,
and then sent their eight-year-old sons or Kaffirs to recall such of
their men-folk as lay hid in the neighbouring _caches_, while the
observation post sent a galloper to the next point, that the news
might be patented that the column had taken the Kimberley road. By
sundown the head of the column had made about six miles, and a halt
was called to allow the baggage to close up. As soon as it was
sufficiently dark the change in direction was made, and the head of
the column left the road and plunged into the trackless veldt, it
being estimated that a compass bearing due east would bring it by
daybreak within easy reach of the parallelogram of hills in which
Fauresmith and Jagersfontein lie. But the favour of Providence was
withdrawn: the night, which had been born in suffocating heat,
suddenly changed to piercing cold, and great zigzags of white
lightning, clutching at the heavens like the claws of some gigantic
dragon, heralded a tempest of unwonted fury. And presently it came
preceded by a blinding sandstorm, which told how much the burnt
surface of the prairie yearned for moisture. That night it drank its
fill, for when the flood-gates burst asunder a very deluge was loosed
upon the earth. The great storm voided its burden in such rivers of
water that in a moment, in spite of waterproof and oil-skin, every man
in the force was as drenched as if he had plunged into a stream. Nor
was it a passing downfall of temporary duration. It deluged in
unbroken stream for the best part of an hour. Automatically the whole
force came to a standstill: checked, bedraggled, and miserable, it
stood it out. To advance was impossible; each depression in the veldt
was a sheet of water, in places inches deep. The whole crust of the
earth had become a sticky sodden morass, and in this mire the column
lay bogged and helpless. Guns and waggons sank axle-deep, their
drunken alignment proving that for the time being they were immobile.
Horses, mules, and oxen struggled and floundered for a foothold,
sinking with terror-stricken sobs and distressful moans until their
bellies were level with the slush. A hideous scene!

There was nothing that man could do: until such time as the natural
drainage of the plain and the parched substratum absorbed the
superfluous moisture, the brigade was as helpless as a steamer with a
broken screw-shaft. Mercifully for the staff, the catastrophe had
overtaken the brigade within a mile of a fair-sized farm; and
eventually, after much labour in the mire, the brigadier and his
immediate following were able to claim its hospitality. Luckily it was
occupied. A smiling good-natured _frau_, on the stout side of thirty,
with a bevy of girls ranging from two to twelve, was endeavouring to
cope with an inundation of sodden troopers from the advance-guard. It
was a nice farm, and to our astonishment Madam Embonpoint proved to be
an English Africander. Her husband was in St Helena, and since the
outbreak of war she had worked her husband's property single-handed.
Madam was anything but hostile; but she prayed that we would not break
into her slender store of provisions, since she had ten mouths to
feed, and the pinch of war was near at hand. Otherwise we were welcome
to such hospitality as her roof would afford us, and she was prepared
to cook and prepare for us any food we might have with us. It chanced
that the officer of the advance-guard was a captain of the Mount
Nelson Light Horse. He was one of the few in that corps who had
impressed himself favourably upon the brigadier, consequently the
chief did not burst into abusive satire when he discovered this
officer in the act of boiling a turkey in the farm kitchen. Now, in
spite of the wet and disappointment, the brigadier had lost none of
his usual gaiety of nature. It is often the case with the best
soldiers, the more adverse the circumstances the lighter their
spirits.

_Brigadier_ (_commencing to divest himself of his wet clothes in front
of the fire and pointing to the turkey_), "Honestly come by?"

_Captain_ (_closing the lid of the pot with a snap_), "Yes, sir; the
last of our tinned food, sir!"

_B._ "Seen the tin for the first time to-day, I should think. But what
are you going to do with it? You have got to clear your robbers out
of this. This is my booth for the night!"

_C._ "I realised that, sir, and I said to my subaltern that as it was
a cold night we would just open our last tin and offer it to the
general as a sign of affection, arguing that if he accepted it in the
spirit in which it was given, he would ask us both to dinner."

_B._ (_now in his shirt_), "Hearty fellows both. No man born of woman
would like a boiled turkey for dinner more than I should, in spite of
the fact that it was only killed an hour ago by a captain who should
have known better. You are both asked to dinner. Madam, had you not
better withdraw?" (_This to the lady of the house who had just
entered._)

The scene was indeed a strange one. A rough Boer kitchen lit by a
dingy dip. The light of the yellow flame impeded by "truck" suspended
from the rafters--a side of mutton, some _biltong_, strings of onions
and beetroots. In the corner a more or less modern fire-range, in
front of which stood a group of officers, comprising the brigadier,
his staff, and the two officers of the advance-guard, all in various
stages of _déshabille_, some trying to get warm, some to dry their
wringing clothes, and others to stoke the fire and boil a pot. Add to
these the plump hostess and her tribe of all-aged daughters, whom no
exposure of masculine limbs and under-dress seemed to terrify. This
did not look like catching De Wet--but then much may take place
between midnight and daybreak.

A chapter could be filled with the miseries which the troops suffered
that night, and this being the case, it would be ungracious to dilate
upon the sumptuous nature of the feast within the farmhouse. Let it
suffice that during its discussion the brigadier cast over the
situation and was ready, with the coffee which Madam Embonpoint
contributed to the entertainment, with his plan to amend the chaos
which the elements had made of his original undertaking.

_Brigadier_ (_stirring his cup thoughtfully until the hostess was out
of the room_). "Mr Intelligence, what do you make the distance between
this and the pass this side of Fauresmith?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "Three- to five-and-twenty miles, sir."

_B._ "Have you any one who knows the way?"

_I. O._ "Yes, sir, there is a man in the Light Horse who has done some
transport riding in the Southern Free State, who says he knows
something about it."

_B._ "Better and better (_turning to the captain of the
advance-guard_). Now, I am going to put you in the way of a very big
thing. You are senior captain in your corps, are you not?"

_Captain._ "Yes, sir, senior captain, adjutant, and second in command;
we have got no majors!"

_B._ "That is all right then. Well, I want you to start on at once
with two squadrons, and to push on to Fauresmith. I fancy that you
will find it has dried up a bit now, and as these storms are usually
local, it is quite possible that you may strike better going as you
get along. When you get into the hilly country about Fauresmith, go
cunning, try and get as close as you can without being seen, and find
a position from which you can hold the road leading from Fauresmith
to the Riet River. Come over here and look at the map. Now, if you get
off by midnight, you ought to make two miles an hour until daybreak.
That is twelve miles; the remaining ten you will do inside two hours.
If you are sniped, push on; but if opposed in force, do your best,
only let me know. Now, these are my plans (_pointing on the map_). You
see the parallelogram? well, you go slap-bang into it. I shall come
along as fast as I can with the ground in this condition. I shall, if
you come into touch with the enemy in force, send two squadrons and
two guns direct to the bridge over the Riet north of the
parallelogram, and two squadrons and two guns south of the
parallelogram, while I come on with the rest in your direction. Now,
your business is, first, not to let yourself be seen; secondly, so to
arrange yourself that if De Wet and his crowd get to Fauresmith before
we are up, to manoeuvre and keep him there until we arrive. It is a
difficult job, I allow; but I know that you are the man to make the
best of it. Get your men to understand that now they have the
opportunity of making a reputation. The brigade-major will give you
all this in writing. You may pick your squadrons. Now, get along, and
don't waste time!"

While the two squadrons of Mount Nelson Light Horse were picking their
way out of camp that night, and while the rest of the brigade was
turning into its miserable bivouac, the staff "bedded down" in the
drawing-room of the farmhouse. With so large a family of girls, good
Madam Embonpoint could only arrange one spare bedroom, and that was
reserved for the brigadier; but the rest dragged their sopping valises
into the parlour and trusted to get five hours' sleep before a
daylight start....

To add to the chagrin of the brigade, and to further demonstrate the
singular Providence which ever seemed to attend De Wet in his
movements, even unto the eleventh hour, it was found that the force
had bivouacked on the very fringe of the storm. As is so often the
case with these South African storms, the rigour of the downfall was
local, and while the brigade had been so badly caught that it was
practically impossible for the teams to move the guns without the aid
of drag-ropes, half a mile away the surface of the veldt was
unaffected and the going good. This discovery caused the day to dawn
with brighter prospects, and as soon as the sodden column, free of its
transport, felt the sounder bottom, it shook itself as would a
retriever after a swim, and settled down to a swinging drying-trot.
The brigadier had theories on the methods to be employed in the kind
of war-game with which he was confronted; and he determined, if
possible, to be in front of the Boer pickets and observation-posts,
realising that two circumstances were in his favour. The concentration
ordered for Philippolis should have reduced the strength of the Boer
watchmen, and the rain of the preceding night, while rendering
sentinels less inclined for the bitter vigil of early morning, had
laid the tell-tale dust, which, as a rule, is the greatest impediment
to secret movement. He threw out a troop to go very wide on either
flank, in order to serve the double purpose of capturing any shirking
Boer pickets which might chance to be alarmed at the later arrival of
the transport column, and of guarding against De Wet's commando
slipping past across the back trail. As the daylight strengthened, and
showed that the going improved, everything pointed to a successful
ride on the part of the two squadrons which had been pushed forward in
the night. By seven o'clock the men had begun to dry, and as the
object of the hunt leaked out, a general improvement was apparent in
the spirits of the force.

The first information which came in to headquarters, as the whole
force moved rapidly forward, came from the Basuto scout, whom the
Intelligence officer had relieved of his obligations to the
Intelligence guide as soon as the latter had been dismissed. His
information was serious: he reported that a party of twenty-five Boers
had crossed our trail just about eight o'clock, and, travelling fast,
had gone in a north-easterly direction. The brigadier cross-examined
the man closely, and seemed satisfied as to the truth of his story.

_Brigadier_ (_turning to his staff_) "We shall be fairly in it, if we
have any luck, I don't think that these fellows who have passed behind
us are De Wet's actual advance-guard. They are probably a patrol that
he has thrown out to look after his exposed flank. He knows that we
were at Luckhoff, and he would not have moved without telling off some
one to watch us. Now, these people have seen us and passed behind us;
but as we have luckily struck and covered the trail of the advance
squadrons, they don't know that we have a force six hours ahead of us.
Probably they have sent back to De Wet, who will be from one to two
hours'[41] distant from them, to inform him, if he puts a spurt on, he
can be through the Fauresmith passes before us. If only the Mount
Nelsons can hold him, we shall get even with him yet."

By nine o'clock the Fauresmith hills began to loom up above the dead
level of the veldt, and as the trail of the advance squadrons was
still steady and we had no news of them, there was every reason to be
satisfied that they had successfully made their goal. The situation at
least was increasing in interest. A little after ten the column had
reached the foot of the Fauresmith hills, and the brigadier wisely
called a halt, determined not to commit his troops to the hilly tracts
until he had heard something from his advance squadrons.

But the next information regarding the enemy was not destined to come
in from the advance-guard. The column had just off-saddled when a
dishevelled trooper with a blanched face galloped up to the tiny group
of trees beneath which the brigadier and his staff had dismounted.

_Brigadier._ "Hullo, here's a man who has seen his own ghost. We shall
have some news now. Who are you?"

_Trooper._ "Please, sir, I belong to Mr Crauford's patrol--it has been
annihilated!"

_B._ (_soothingly_). "Now dismount, and tell us all about it. What do
you belong to!"

_T._ (_dismounting_). "Mount Nelson Light Horse, sir."

_B._ "I thought so; now let us have the story."

_T._ "Well, sir, there was Mr Crauford, and Sergeant Mullins, and----"

_B._ "Never mind their names. How many men had Mr Crauford with him?"

_T._ "About six, sir; and I am the only one left alive to tell the
tale!"

_B._ "How truly awful! and if you don't get on with it your tale will
outlast all of us as well. (_Roughly_) Now, throw it out,--what
happened?"

_T._ "Well, sir, you see that farm over there (_pointing to low seam
of grey hills about four miles distant on our left flank, at the
bottom of which nestled a homestead_), we were riding up to it
quiet-like, when suddenly, as we were passing a kraal, up jumps about
fifty Boers and calls us to ''ands up.' We wouldn't ''ands up,' and
they shot us down to a man, and----!"

_B._ "Wait--how did you get away from the general battue?"

_T._ "I don't exactly know, sir; I kind of found myself galloping for
all I was worth, and the bullets just 'umming that thick and awful,
that I kept on asking myself the whole way home 'ow it was I managed
to escape!"

_B._ "You may go. Stop! where's your rifle?"

_T._ (_for the first time realising that he had not got a rifle_). "I
must have dropped it, sir, in the scrimmage--it was awful 'ot, sir!"

_B._ (_brutally_). "Off you go; you ought to be ashamed to talk to
honest men. (_Then turning to the brigade-major._) Look here, Baker,
though I don't believe the man's story _in toto_, or would believe any
man who in panic had thrown his rifle away, yet something has
happened, and either our men on the left have fallen in with the party
of Boers who crossed our trail this morning, or we have let slip the
whole 'bag of tricks,' and De Wet is through us. Just you take another
squadron of the Mount Nelsons and see what has happened on the left.
You can also take the pom-pom. Unless the enemy are in strength don't
stay out there long, as I shall probably move on before you are back.
Anyway I shall leave a signal-station on the hill above us!"

_Brigade-Major._ "Very good, sir."

_B._ "Wait a moment. As the rain-storm has dished my original plans, I
shall probably, as soon as I hear from Fauresmith, send half my force
direct to the Kalabas bridge, and take the rest to support the Mount
Nelson squadrons. But I can make no definite statement until I have
some idea of De Wet's force. Gad! I wish I knew where Plumer might be
at this moment, or whether there is any one behind De Wet. Without
information or maps, this is an uphill game!"...

In half an hour the brigade-major's little command was within a
thousand yards of Liebenbergspan farm. Here they met five woe-begone
men tramping wearily towards them. They were Crauford's patrol,
stripped of most of their clothing, and desired by the Boers to make
their way back to their column with all compliments of the season. The
subaltern was very dejected, for he was a boy of the right spirit; and
it is a strain upon one's dignity as an officer to be turned loose on
the veldt with only a flannel shirt as a dress, and a pair of putties
tied round the feet in the place of boots. It was not his fault: he
had sent on a man to reconnoitre the farm. This man was our friend who
had come in in the morning. As he failed to search the kraal, the
Boers had let him past, and had waited for the main body of the
patrol, which they had "held up" at short range. The scout, who had
passed through them, heard the shouts of "Hands up!" and galloping for
dear life, had been able to get clear and pitch the brigadier his
terror-bred fable. Apart from taking their clothes, the Boers had
treated the prisoners well. They were a party of fifteen men, very
poorly clad but well mounted, under a commandant of the name of
Theron. Crauford, who was a young English Africander, had, while a
prisoner, made good use of his time. His captors did not realise that
he understood Dutch, and he had gleaned from their conversation that
they were, as the brigadier had anticipated, part of De Wet's screen.
They were very much upset at the size of the British column, and had
not been prepared for its presence so close to De Wet's line of
advance. But as they discussed it among themselves they considered
that De Wet would be in front of the column, proving that they had no
knowledge of the two squadrons detached during the night. All this was
such valuable information that Baker dismounted a man and sent
Crauford back to the brigadier as fast as he could gallop. He himself
kept on, as Theron's party was still in occupation of the farm.

The farm stood at the foot of a low brae. It was only a rise, and as
the Boers appeared to take no notice of our approach, not even
troubling to efface their presence, the brigade-major determined,
under cover of his pom-pom, to gallop over it. Half a squadron on the
right, half a squadron on the left. He called up the captain
commanding the squadron and gave him his instructions. The man at once
began to make difficulties, and suggested a different mode of attack.

_Brigade-Major_ (_severely_). "I have told you what I want you to do.
Kindly go and instruct your troop-leaders. As soon as you are
extended, canter, and improve your pace when you get sufficiently
near. That knoll on the right and the rise on the left both command
the farm, and you will find that the enemy won't stand. Good Heavens!
man (_as the captain again began to demur_), there are only about
twenty of them; surely you are not afraid!"

The man did not mean going, neither did his squadron. They dallied
over extending, and it was quite a quarter of an hour before they
began to move forward. The brigade-major dashed to the head of the
right half-squadron and tried to infuse some little enthusiasm into
them. But no; it was the very worst squadron of the Mount Nelsons, and
when the brigade-major commenced to gallop he found that he was only
followed by four men. But this even, added to half a belt from the
pom-pom, was sufficient for the Boers: they ran to their horses, which
were grazing by the kraal, mounted, and galloped over the rise,
without firing a shot. As vultures swoop down upon carrion, so the
Mount Nelsons, as soon as it was seen that the rise was clear of the
enemy, swarmed down to the looting of the farm. The brigade-major's
face was a study when he and the Mount Nelsons' captain met in the
verandah. All that he said would not add to the artistic sense of this
narrative; but he closed his remarks with the following: "If I catch a
man of your regiment touching a single article in this farm I will
shoot him myself. Get your men back to their positions, sir. They
won't fight; I'll be d----d if they shall loot!"

In war situations develop rapidly, and the brigade-major had barely
dismissed his now sulking junior, when a silver glitter from above the
halting-place of the brigade brought the laconic message, "Return at
once without delay." Precisely at the same moment a messenger came
dashing down from the rise above the farm, and excitedly reported that
a long line of Cape carts was rapidly crossing the left front. The
brigade-major started the squadron back at a trot, and stayed behind
for a few moments to make an investigation of the new development. It
was quite true, six Cape carts and about thirty men were crossing his
front from right to left at a good pace. They were a long way off, and
even if he had not had peremptory orders to return, it would have
been hopeless to have attempted to pursue them with such material as
he had in hand.

_Brigade-Major_ (_snapping his glasses back into their case_). "You
may put it down, Mr Intelligence, in that voluminous diary of yours,
that our quarry has escaped. They have slipped us. Come along; we must
canter on and see what the brigadier has in pickle for us!"

But, as subsequent events were to prove, the brigade-major for once
was in error....

We found the brigadier impatiently awaiting us, with half the battery
hooked in, and the 20th Dragoons standing to their horses. He did not
wait for rest or explanation; but as soon as we cantered in with the
pom-pom, gave the order for the column to advance. The mule-convoy had
come in in our absence, and it had orders to follow us as best it
could.

_Brigadier._ "Look here, you fellows; I really am sanguine for the
first time since I have been engaged in this kind of 'follow your
leader.' Just about half an hour after you left, our friend the
turkey-expert of last night sent in a red-hot man with a message that
he had held up the main body of a Boer commando in a pass just west
of Fauresmith. He wasn't in position to stop the advance-guard, which
went through with about six Cape carts; but he had since captured the
Boer picket on the pass and had turned the main body--consisting of
about thirty Cape carts and 400 burghers--back, and when he wrote they
were halted in Fauresmith."

_Brigade-Major._ "We have seen that advance-guard. But is there no
other way by which the enemy can get to the Riet: by swinging round
between Fauresmith and Jagersfontein, for instance?"

_B._ "We can't hope that he will stay and wait for us in Fauresmith.
Of course there will be a way round; but he may delay, he may try and
force his way past the turkey-expert, and then we may be there first.
I sent Goven on with the 21st and two guns at once to strike a
bee-line for Kalabas bridge--to reck for nothing, only to get there.
But we have neither guides nor maps that can give one any idea of the
true lie of the country. I could only furnish him with the direction
and the ordinary inaccurate sheet-map."

_B.-M._ "And what do you intend doing yourself, sir?"

_B._ "We will just push on hell-for-leather for the position which the
turkey-expert is holding; and then if he is being attacked, and wind
and tide will allow it, we will just hurl ourselves into ole man De
Wet, smother him, or perish in the attempt."

The hills about Fauresmith differ little in formation from the general
character obtaining in South Africa. They divide the veldt into a
series of rough parallelograms. The brigadier had estimated that we
were distant from Fauresmith only about four or five miles, while the
inaccurate map showed that when the 21st Dragoon Guards had started,
they only had about eight miles to cover before they would reach the
Kalabas bridge over the Riet. Therefore the brigadier was satisfied
that if he was able to stop the bridge with the 21st and get touch
with De Wet's main body before dark, he could deal with it with the
force he had kept in hand. But it would be absolutely essential to
gain touch that night, and once having gained it, to push through to a
conclusion at once. The interior of the first parallelogram allowed
the force to advance with an extended front, and six miles of smart
trotting brought it to Brandewijnskuil, where the Fauresmith road
passes over a stream tributary to the Riet. To the east of this drift,
between it and Fauresmith, rise the glacis-like slopes of Groen
Kloof--well named, for the whole country here is green, and the
immediate neighbourhood of the drift is not unlike many rural spots to
be found in Surrey. Bushed as with a hedgerow, the road sinks into the
drift, to appear again on the far side, cutting its way between a
rough-edged turf upon which geese and goats are browsing. To the left
stands a whitewashed cottage, with a corral of stunted shrub and a
tree or two. Beside it, in a creeper-grown shed, are the appliances of
a blacksmith's craft--yes, just for the moment it might well be
Surrey. But we have no time to stay and admire or to soliloquise over
scenery. There is men's work ahead. A mounted messenger is dashing
down the track in front of us, as if hell and a thousand devils had
been loosed behind him. He hands a scrap of paper to the
brigade-major, and then throws himself from his horse, which stands
motionless with heaving sides and dripping flanks.

_Brigadier._ "Read it. Who is it from?"

_Brigade-Major._ "From the officer in command of the two squadrons of
Mount Nelsons. He says: 'Groen Kloof, 3.15 P.M.--Boers about 200
strong demonstrated against me, while the convoy made a circle round
out of range to north-east. I was unable to prevent this. Convoy is
going as fast as it can due north. You could cut it off. Am holding
this until you reinforce. No casualties; have six prisoners.'"

_Brigadier_ (_taking out his watch_). "It is now 3.40. Goven started
at 1.30; he ought to be at the bridge well in front of those coves. If
he is, we've got 'em. Here, Baker; take the rest of this crush
straight for the north-east corner of this sheet of the map. As soon
as you reach the corner, make a right angle, steer north-west, and you
ought to come out just on the tail of Brother and his Cape carts. Now,
off you go; report to Colonel Washington, but I shall expect you to
keep the show going. Gad! it's the chance of the campaign, if the
Riet is still in flood!"

_B.-M._ "Very good, sir. But where will you be?"

_B._ "I shall be here. This is where the transport will outspan
to-night. I shall keep the turkey-expert up on the top of Groen Kloof
all to-night, in case Brother tries to break back that way! But
wherever you find the enemy, go for him bald-headed: it is the only
chance!"

_B.-M._ "But if I find that he has crossed the river? If the other
column should not be in position?"

_B._ (_deliberately_) "If he has got across the Riet, come back at
once with your tail between your legs. Pursuit in those circumstances
would be useless. But use your own discretion if it comes to a near
thing. Tell Freddy that you've my instructions to fight; you and
Freddy ought to be able to convince Washington, and Twine, his second
in command, is fighting stuff. Good-bye, and good luck to you; spare
neither man nor beast. (_As the brigade-major rode off, the brigadier
turned to the Intelligence officer._) Now, Mr Intelligence, I want
you also to make yourself useful. I want you if possible to get to
Goven and acquaint him of the situation. It is of vital importance
that he should know how the force behind him is distributed. Even if
they are attacking him at the bridge, do your utmost to get to him:
the best of forces present flanks that are possible to single men.
Just tell him that Washington with half the force is bearing down upon
the bridge from the north-east; that Groen Kloof is held by our own
coves; that I am here with the baggage, and its escort of sick, blind,
halt, and lame; that if Washington gets into them, he is to leave just
enough men to make the bridge secure, and hurl his hoplites in to the
help of Washington. Now, ride cunning; you may have a difficult job. I
should keep well to the left. Good-bye, and good luck to you. Ride
cunning!"...

The Intelligence officer rode out on his lonely mission. Luckily he
had changed his horse after the affair at Liebenbergspan, and being
well mounted, he felt fairly confident. He first steered north-west,
hoping to strike off the _spoor_ of Goven's column. But when after
four miles he failed to find it, he opined that he was making a detour
which, if persevered in, would not bring him to his destination by
nightfall. He therefore changed his direction to due north, and put
spurs to his horse. He was working along the inner edge of a great
veldt-basin, and getting a little uncomfortable as to his direction;
and alarmed that he saw no traces of the column, he dismounted in a
kloof, and climbed to the top of the edge of the basin. Beneath him
lay a track, standing out white against the veldt. There was just a
short breadth of veldt, and then the country became very broken and
hilly. Within two hundred yards of the spot which he had chosen for
his reconnaissance stood a small farmhouse. But it was not the
farmhouse that attracted his attention; it was a pillar of dust which
showed to the north along the track. He took out his glasses. There
was no doubt about it,--it was a body of mounted men and some
transport going away from him. They were not more than a mile away;
and if it had not been for the dust, he could almost have counted the
force. "It is De Wet," he inwardly reflected; "he is going right into
Goven's arms; and for Boers to make all that dust, they must be
travelling fast." He turned his glasses down to the south; there he
could find no sign of living thing upon the track. He was just
debating in his mind what would be the right course to pursue, when he
heard a voice behind him, "Beg pardon, sir, but them is Boers; they
have just all gone past here!" He turned round to find a British
dragoon standing stiffly to attention behind him.

_Intelligence Officer._ "Who are you? and where the devil have you
come from?"

_Trooper._ "Please, sir, we belongs to a patrol that was sent out by
Captain Charles, and we got lost."

_I. O._ "Where are the others? where are your horses?"

_T._ "I have got the three horses down in the nullah there. The
corporal and the other man are down in that farm, sir; at least that
is where they went before the Boers came."

_I. O._ "In that farm? Why, the Boers will have got them; they must
have passed quite close to the farm!"

_T._ "They did that, sir; but I never seed them get them. I expect
that they was under the beds when the Boers passed."

_I. O._ "Did you see all the Boers pass?"

_T._ "Yes, sir; there was about a thousand, two waggons, and a lot of
carts. Some was riding horses, and others riding in the carts."

_I. O._ "Were they going fast?"

_T._ "Yes, sir; just as fast as they could, shouting and swearing and
calling to each other. They seemed dreadful pressed for time!"

_I. O._ "We had better see if those other fellows of yours are still
in the farm. Have you got your rifle loaded?"

The Intelligence officer and trooper walked down to the little
homestead, and as they approached the door out stepped the two most
scared and astonished dragoons that South Africa has ever seen. They
were escorted by a bevy of smiling girls. When they saw their comrade
safe and sound in the company of an officer, they became absolutely
nonplussed. But the Intelligence officer got the following history out
of the corporal:--

_Corporal._ "Well, sir, we were sent off as a patrol on the right
flank, and somehow among the kopjes we lost touch, and about an hour
ago we reached this place. I left the horses under cover with Smith,
and I took one man and went to reconnoitre the farm. We found this
nice old lady inside, who speaks English; and she told us that she
hadn't seen any English troops, but that a small party of Boers had
passed in the morning, who had stopped and had some coffee, but who
seemed to be in a hurry. The good lady asked us if we would have some
coffee. Well, sir, we were very thirsty and hungry-like, so we sat
down, and they gave us some coffee and cake and things; and just as we
were eating, the old lady rushed in and said the Boers were coming,
and hustled us into a small bedroom. Well, sir, we looked through the
window, spy-like, and there, sure enough, were about ten Boers on
horses galloping past the house. They were mostly quite young boys,
but there were some greybeards amongst them. They seemed in a great
hurry, for only one just stopped at the house, and he only stayed a
moment. Then more and more passed, riding along in no formation, and
all seeming in a hurry. Just one or two turned aside and had a word
with the people of the house, but none of them got off their horses.
Then an ambulance-waggon came by, and quite a string of Cape carts:
the last cart had four horses in it, driven by a nigger, and it
stopped quite five minutes at the farm. Two men, who kept on shouting
orders to the passing Boers, were sitting in the back of it----"

_Intelligence Officer._ "What were they like?"

_C._ "One was a stout man with a long black beard; the other had a
grey beard and puffy eyes. The people here now tell us that they were
Steyn and De Wet."

_I. O._ "Why the devil didn't you shoot them?"

_Trooper_ (_coming to his comrades aid_). "How was we to know, sir, as
how they were generals? they just looked two comfortable old civie
blokes. Besides, we had left our rifles standing in the next room!"

_I. O._ "How many Boers would you say went by?"

_C._ "I should say four or five hundred, sir; they was going by in
driblets for the best part of half an hour."

_I. O._ "Who are the people in this house? I can't understand their
attitude in screening you here. You have had the most remarkable
experience. What an opportunity!"

_C._ "The lady, sir, is an Irish lady, and she is a very good friend
to her countrymen!"

The Intelligence officer then cross-examined the owner of the farm,
and she corroborated all that the corporal had said. Both De Wet and
Steyn were in the four-horsed cart. They asked her if she had seen any
kharkis recently; about the state of the Riet River, and the distance
to Kalabas bridge; and before driving off impressed upon her the
necessity of putting any of the English off the scent who might be
following. As they drove away De Wet shouted back, "They are close
behind." This information raised the Intelligence officer to a high
standard of excitement, for he now felt sure that the brigade was
well in upon the right scent. Already he found himself listening for
the sound of Goven's guns. Collecting the three troopers who had been
nearer to the person of De Wet than other armed Britishers had for
some time, he turned back into the veldt basin and pushed forward
northwards. The sun was now nearly down, but that was nothing: buoyed
by a great excitement, the Intelligence officer was possessed of only
one idea, which was to be in at the death. But a bitter disappointment
was in store for him.

_Corporal_ (_pointing to the left rear_). "Please, sir, there is the
column."

The Intelligence officer could scarcely believe his eyes--the thought
was too appalling, too ghastly to be true. It was true, nevertheless.
Instead of arriving at the bridge, the column had lost direction, and,
without an adequate guide or map, had become entangled among the
hills. Lost, without forage or food, beast and man weary beyond
expression, while De Wet was crossing the Riet over Kalabas bridge,
the stop which should have been there was endeavouring to retrace its
steps back to camp. As the Intelligence officer realised the truth
great tears welled up to his eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was midnight before the mess servants could turn out a meal at
Brandewijnskuil for the staff. Two doleful candles but added to the
depression bred of the hour and the disappointment which was uppermost
in every mind. We had had our chance and failed. The brigadier alone
was philosophic: his natural gaiety would not allow of depression: his
manly spirit would not collapse against the ruling of the laws of
chance.

_Brigadier._ "Wake up, you coves, and come and have some dinner. We
have lost ole man De Wet; but that is no reason for you all to behave
as if we were in for a funeral. Thank Heaven that you are alive. You
would probably have all been scuppered if we had got up with the ole
man. He would have fought until he was blue in the face!"

_Brigade-Major._ "I've got the orders out, sir. Start at 3 A.M.!"

_Brigadier._ "That's all right, but we won't see any more of De Wet.
We were too hot on him to-day. All we shall find when we cross the
Riet at daybreak to-morrow will be _spoor_ leading in every direction.
They will dissolve to a certainty. But though we have failed, we have
had a run for our money, and finished a d----d good second. But no
maps and no guide are big things as penalties go, and, all considered,
I think that the 'crush' has run devilish well. What have your
prisoners got to say, Mr Intelligence?"

But Mr Intelligence, having drunk his soup, was sound asleep in his
blankets....


FOOTNOTES:

[40] Another curious episode in this strange campaign can be observed
here. We had been in nominal possession of the Southern Free State for
many months, during a considerable period of which the local
administration had been administered by British agents. Yet throughout
this period Boer landrosts were also appointed, and whenever a commando
strong enough to assert the Orange Free State authority was in the
vicinity, immediately took over their duties. Often, it is believed,
the same men acted for both belligerents. When Judge Hertzog made his
tour of the South-Western Free State immediately before entering upon
his invasion of the Colony, he reinstated the Boer administration in
all the southern townships.

[41] De Wet never moved without an advance-, flank-, and rear-guard,
removed from him to a distance of about six to eight miles. This screen
always gave him ample notice of any British troops in the vicinity,
thus enabling him to change his direction and suit his action with
calmness and deliberation. These screens were always composed of picked
men.



L'ENVOI.


With the crossing of the Riet the history of this De Wet hunt ceases,
for everything came to pass precisely as the brigadier had foreseen.
The brigade arrived at Kalabas bridge before daybreak, prepared, if a
tangible enemy was still in front, to take up the running again and
pursue the line to an end, no matter the cost.[42] But the soft ground
on the far side of the river gave evidence of thirty trails. The
commando had scattered to the winds, and as, with cunning foresight,
De Wet and his following had removed every living soul, Boer or
Kaffir, from the vicinity of the bridge, no evidence of his presence
remained. To pursue a fugitive in a solitary Cape cart with a brigade
would have been absurd, and so, when five miles on at Openbaar there
was no sign of the solitary tracks again converging, the chase was
abandoned, and the brigade halted to await the arrival of its mule and
ox convoy. That evening Plumer, who had detrained at Jagersfontein
road, crossed the Kalabas bridge and reported Haig to be in rear of
him at the Spitz Kopjes. It will be seen therefore that Plumer was
twenty-four hours too late,--through no fault of his, be it said, but
simply because he made the journey from Orange River station by train.
Plumer pushed on upon the conjectured De Wet trail, which he still
considered hot enough to follow. He lost it, as the brigadier had
foreseen, in the vicinity of Abraham's Kraal. The new cavalry brigade
moved more slowly into Bloemfontein by way of Petrusburg and the
historic field of Driefontein.

At Bloemfontein some changes took place in the staff and composition
of the brigade, and the writer of this narrative, to his infinite
regret, severed his connection with the brigade. He had been promoted
into a new battalion which was being raised at home, and after twenty
months his turn had come to say good-bye to the veldt. As the
brigadier bade him farewell in the Bloemfontein Club he clapped him
good-naturedly on the back, saying, "I believe that it is all a hoax
this story of yours about instructions to proceed home by the first
transport. I don't believe that you will ever get farther South than
that farm at Richmond Road!"


THE END.


FOOTNOTES:

[42] The orders issued this night to the brigade were very instructive,
and showed what a real soldier the brigadier was. If he considered that
the circumstances demanded an effort he was prepared to take any risk
and to make every sacrifice. The orders stated that if it became
necessary to pursue, the convoy would be sent back by the shortest
route to the railway, that the mounted men would have to live on the
country without supply, and such men whose horses gave in would have to
walk east against the course of the sun, which line, after 20 to 25
miles, would bring them to the railway, where they could stop the first
passing train.


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PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.


       *       *       *       *       *



        BY "LINESMAN."

      WORDS BY AN EYEWITNESS:
      THE STRUGGLE IN NATAL.

      Eleventh Impression. With a new Preface.
      Crown 8vo, 6s.

    "Among the many books which have found their birth in the
    campaign against the Boers, this one stands out, not merely on
    account of the author's literary merits, keen power of
    observation, and attractive phraseology, but in its unprejudiced
    sentiments and clever handling of battle impressions hitherto
    unattempted by contemporary writers. It is the work of an
    artist."--_Times_.


      THE MECHANISM OF WAR.

      Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.

    "The new writer best worth talking about is 'Linesman.' He comes
    with no tricks of style to entrance mercurial critics. A style
    he has, but lit is inseparable from his matter, and that is his
    own. It is a satisfaction to find a new writer who has something
    to say and says it in a manner that cannot be imitated by the
    rapt connoisseurs of cake-walk writing; but it is not a
    surprise, for 'Linesman's' theme is War, and he is equal to
    it."--_Academy_.

    "Throughout the book we recognise a mind which seizes on the
    essentials, and sees things in their true proportion,--a mind
    which, while it never loses sight of the whole, knows which
    details to enforce so that the reader may grasp that whole
    too."--_Spectator_.


WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH AND LONDON.



          NEW SIX-SHILLING NOVELS.

    THE ADVENTURES OF M. D'HARICOT. By J. STORER CLOUSTON, Author
        of 'The Lunatic at Large,' &c. Second Impression.

    EPISODES OF RURAL LIFE. By W.E.W. COLLINS, Author of 'A
        Scholar of his College,' 'The Don and the Undergraduate,'
        &c.

    A WOMAN AND A CREED. By H. GARTON SARGENT.

    THE COLONEL SAHIB. A Novel. By GARRETT MILL. Second
        Impression.

    MONSIEUR MARTIN: A Romance of the Great Swedish War. By WYMOND
        CAREY.

    "Deserves to be called a great novel.... A book of sterling
    merits, wholesome human interest, and adequate
    learning."--_Guardian_.

    THE PRINCE OF THE CAPTIVITY. By SYDNEY C. GRIER, Author of
        'The Kings of the East,' 'Peace with Honour,' &c.

    "This clever novel. It is well worth reading."--_Outlook_.

    THE MOST FAMOUS LOBA. By NELLIE K. BLISSETT, Author of
        'Wisdom of the Simple,' 'Brass,' &c. With a Frontispiece.

    "Told with a grace and simplicity truly exquisite.... The
    intricacies of the story cannot be traced here, still less is it
    possible to suggest its incommunicable charm."--_Daily
    Chronicle_.

    JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES. By HENRY LAWSON, Author of 'The
        Country I Come From,' 'While the Billy Boils,' &c.

    "A volume of realistic stories of Bush-life.... Will be eagerly
    read by men and women who have experienced the loneliness and
    the roughness of the needy emigrant's part."--_Spectator_.

    BUSH-WHACKING. By HUGH CLIFFORD, C.M.G. Second Impression.

    "The stories reach a masterly level of vivid colouring, wide
    sympathy, and genuine insight."--_Athenæum_.

    DOOM CASTLE. By NEIL MUNRO. Second Impression.

    "Since 'Catriona' and 'Kidnapped' there has been no Scottish
    novel of more unmistakable genius."--_British Weekly_.

    LORD JIM. A Tale. By JOSEPH CONRAD. Second Impression.

    "A most original, remarkable, and engrossing
    novel."--_Spectator_.


WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH AND LONDON.



       *       *       *       *       *



    +-----------------------------------------------------------+
    | Typographical errors corrected in text:                   |
    |                                                           |
    | Page 195: Dewetsdrop replaced with Dewetsdorp             |
    | Page 257: directy replaced with directly                  |
    |                                                           |
    | On page 321, the word battue is not a typographical error.|
    | A battue is a hunt in which beaters force the game to     |
    | flee in the direction of the hunter.                      |
    +-----------------------------------------------------------+





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