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Title: War's Brighter Side - The Story of The Friend Newspaper Edited by the - Correspondents with Lord Roberts's Forces, March-April, 1900
Author: Ralph, Julian, 1853-1903
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "War's Brighter Side - The Story of The Friend Newspaper Edited by the - Correspondents with Lord Roberts's Forces, March-April, 1900" ***

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[Illustration: Badge specially made for the Editors of THE FRIEND.]

[Illustration: The editors at Work.

Photographed by H. Mackern, of "Scribner's Magazine."]


  The Story of =THE FRIEND= Newspaper
  Edited by the Correspondents
  With Lord Roberts's Forces,
  March-April, 1900 + + + +



  (_One of the Editors of_ "THE FRIEND")

  Author of "Towards Pretoria," "At Pretoria," "Alone in
  China," etc., etc.

  With 15 Illustrations

  C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.
  Henrietta Street

  [_The coloured reproductions on the cover of this book are
  fac-similes of a badge specially made for the Editors of_

  With his Kind Permission
  this History of his
  Unique and Historic
  Experiment in Publishing a Newspaper
  for an Army in the Field
  is Dedicated to




                                              _April 13th, 1900_.

     DEAR LORD STANLEY,--I understand that on Monday next, the
     16th inst., THE FRIEND will come under the new management,
     and it will, I hope, continue to thrive now that it has been
     established on a sound basis.

     The Army owe a deep debt of gratitude to the gentlemen who
     so kindly came forward, and who have given their services
     gratuitously in the management of the paper.

     That their labours are appreciated is evident from the
     eagerness with which the paper is purchased by officers and
     soldiers alike.

     On behalf, therefore, of the troops, I would ask you to
     convey my best thanks to all who have contributed towards
     making the paper such a success, especially to the following
     gentlemen, Messrs. Landon, Ralph, Gwynne, and Buxton.

     Believe me to be
                     Yours very truly,


Lord Roberts is the first General of whom I have heard who ever
recognised and acknowledged the Value and Power of the Press by
establishing a Newspaper as a source of Entertainment and Information
for an Army in the Field, and as a Medium for conveying such Arguments
and Appeals as he wished to make to the Enemy. This he did, as one
might say, the instant he conquered the first of the Boer Capitals,
almost simultaneously with his appointment of a Military Governor and
a Provost Marshal, and the establishment of a Police Force.

The story of Lord Roberts's experiment and the Experiences of the Men
he selected for his Editors must be especially attractive to all
Journalists, and they will find here set forth whatever is of purely
professional interest to them. To those details I have added the most
Notable Contributions with which each of the twenty-seven Numbers of
THE FRIEND was made up, and here this narrow limitation of the
interest in the book is broken wide asunder. These newspaper articles
are mainly the Works of Fighting Men, at rest between Battles, and of
others who were at the moment going to or coming from Engagements.
They hold the Mirror up to the Life of an Army, in Camp, on the
March, in Battle, and in a Conquered Capital.

In these Letters, Sketches, and Verses the Reader lives with the
Soldiers in camp. He sees what they work and play at. He hears of
their Deeds of Daring, Mishaps and Adventures. He catches their
strange Lingo. He observes what they Eat--(and what they do not get to
Drink). He notes how they speak of their Faring in Battle. In all the
Wealth of English Literature I know of no such a Mirror-reflection and
a Phonograph-echoing of Soldier Life as is here.

Generals, Colonels--in fact, men of every rank and grade contributed
their shares; of every rank down to "Tommy Atkins," who, in general,
sings his Songs in the background, in verse, like the Chorus in an
Ancient Drama.

To these features I have added many Personal Recollections, as well as
Anecdotes and Stories told by or about the men around me in camp, and
in the conquered Capital of the Free State, with Notes and Comments
upon a wide variety of subjects suggested during the editing of the
other Matter here collated.

In the Proclamations of the wise and great Field-Marshal, and the
Notices, Ordinances, and Camp Orders of his Lieutenants set to rule
Bloemfontein after its capture by us, are to be found an account of
the Methods by which a Triumphant Army establishes its own new rule in
a Conquered City and Territory. This peculiar and most interesting
history runs, like a steel thread, through the book from beginning to
end. I do not know where else it is told, or even hinted at, in what
has thus far been written of the War.

It was because each of the chief elements that make up this book of
THE FRIEND is equally fresh and impossible to obtain elsewhere, that I
undertook the labour of compiling this work.

It was my first intention to reproduce all the Reading Matter which
appeared in THE FRIEND during the period in which we managed it (March
16th to April 16, 1900) but this would have formed a ponderous book of
270,000 words--without including the Military Proclamations. Such a
work could not be produced for a price at the command of the general
reader, and, furthermore, the general reader would have found it too
tiresome to work his way through the many Technical Articles and
others which time has rendered stale or of little interest. Therefore,
not without regret, I felt obliged to select, as my best judgment
prompted, the matter of the Most Peculiar character, or of Widest
Interest for reproduction here.

As the former Editors of THE FRIEND have now formed themselves into an
Order to which none is eligible except he or she who tells the truth
without fear of consequences, the reader may as well prepare himself
to meet with that rare quality in some of the pages that follow.

                                                      THE AUTHOR.


  CHAP.                                                 PAGE

       I. THE BIRTH OF "THE FRIEND"                        1

      II. ITS INFANCY                                     12

     III. WE PUBLISH A "CURIO" NUMBER                     28

      IV. WE BEGIN TO FEEL AT HOME                        41

       V. TREATING OF MANY PEOPLES                        63

      VI. OURS WAS NO BED OF ROSES                        82


    VIII. LORD ROBERTS'S HEADQUARTERS                    112

      IX. "OH, HOW GOOD IT WAS!"                         131

       X. I VISIT MISS BLOEMFONTEIN                      160

      XI. OUR VERY MIXED PUBLIC                          182

     XII. "VIVE LA COMPAGNIE"                            200


     XIV. MY HORSE OFFERED FOR SALE                      237

      XV. GENERAL POLE-CAREW IN WAR                      248

     XVI. OUR LOSS AND THE ARMY'S                        258

    XVII. THE CENSOR AS AN EDITOR                        268

   XVIII. OUR CHRISTENING COMPETITION                    274

     XIX. FOOLED BY THE BOERS                            283

      XX. DR. A. CONAN DOYLE CONTRIBUTES                 305

     XXI. LOOT AND LURID CRAZES                          318

    XXII. IN THE SHADOW OF SANNA'S POST                  330

   XXIII. A COMPLETE NEWSPAPER                           346

    XXIV. FALSE HEARTS AROUND US                         350

     XXV. THE END APPROACHES                             361

    XXVI. WANTED, A MILLIONAIRE                          371

   XXVII. A NOTABLE NUMBER                               385

  XXVIII. OUR "FRIEND" NO LONGER                         398

    XXIX. ADIEU TO "THE FRIEND"                          410

   INDEX                                                 417


  THE EDITORS AT WORK                            _Frontispiece_

  JULIAN RALPH                                _Facing page_  42

  A CORRECTED "PROOF" BY RUDYARD KIPLING            "    "   99

  EARL ROBERTS                                      "    "  112

  MISS BLOEMFONTEIN                                 "    "  160

  MENU OF A NOTABLE DINNER                          "    "  202


  LORD STANLEY AT WORK AS CENSOR                    "    "  268

  A PAGE OF CONAN DOYLE'S "COPY"                    "    "  306

  THE CAPITULATION OF BLOEMFONTEIN                  "    "  320

  THE FRONT PAGE OF "THE FRIEND" OF APRIL 14, 1900  "    "  388




     _Showing how it was Fathered by a Field Marshal, sponsored
     by a Duke and three Lords, and given over to four
     certificated male nurses._

We reached Bloemfontein with men who had done extraordinary marching,
fighting, and feats of exposure and privation. Some of the troops,
notably the Guards, had walked more than thirty (more than forty, if I
am not mistaken) miles in one of the three days' continuous marching.
Many had fought at Jacobsdahl, Paardeberg, and Driefontein, not to
speak of lesser actions at Waterval Drift and Poplar Grove.

During at least the last week of this almost unprecedented military
performance the army had been reduced to less than half rations. We
were very short of food for beasts as well as men. We had lost a large
number of transport waggons, with their contents and the animals that
drew them, and we had put the torch to two great hillocks of food
which we could not take with us beyond Paardeberg. All our four-footed
helpers were spent, hundreds of horses were ill, hundreds of bodies
of others were lying along our wake upon the veldt, with flocks of
glutted, yet still gluttonous, aasvogels feeding upon their flesh.

Worse, far worse than all else combined, the dreadful microbes of
enteric had entered the blood of thousands of the soldiers, who had
found no other water to drink than that of the pestilential Modder
River which carried along and absorbed the bodies of men and horses as
well as the filth of the camps of both the Boers and ourselves.

We had done as the Boers had said we never would do--as only one man
of their forces (Villebois-Mareuil) had foreseen that a great general
like Lord Roberts must be certain to do: we had left the railway and
swept across the open veldt for one hundred miles, from Jacobsdahl and
Kimberley to Bloemfontein. For warning his brusque and opinionated
commander-in-chief, Cronje, that we would do this, Cronje insulted the
brilliant Frenchman grossly, and bade him keep his idiotic notions to
himself. But we had done it, and Cronje had lost his army and his
liberty for failing to heed the warning. At Bloemfontein we came upon
the steam highway once more, but to the south of Bloemfontein it was
wrecked at many points, while to the northward it was in the enemy's
country and control.

There was therefore nothing for us but to rest. Yet how heroically we
had worked to make rest necessary! How well we had earned the right to
enjoy rest if we had been of the temper to desire it! In one month
under the great Field Marshal we had gone further and accomplished
more than all the other British armies had done in nearly six months.
We had won over the eagles of victory to perch upon our standards. We
had freed Ladysmith and Kimberley, drawn the Boers away from the Cape
Colony border, captured the best army and leading general of our foes,
and were encamped around Bloemfontein with President Steyn's Residency
in use as our headquarters.

The manner in which four of the war correspondents first learned that
we were not to push on to the northward in an effort to seize the
Transvaal capital, but were to halt at Bloemfontein, was most
peculiar. It was so peculiar as to have led to the establishment of
the first newspaper ever conducted by an army for an army on the field
of battle. It was so unique an episode that this volume is published
to commemorate and explain it; and I trust that no one who reads this
will decide that it was not an episode worthy of an even more marked,
substantial, and valuable memorial than I possess the talent to

We entered Bloemfontein on March 13th. Two days later I was asked by
Mr. F. W. Buxton, of the _Johannesburg Star_, to attend a meeting of
some other correspondents and Lord Stanley in Lord Stanley's office on
that day. I had caught up with the army by a dangerous journey with
only two companions across the veldt from Kimberley, where an injury
to my leg had laid me up. I had reported myself to Lord Stanley, the
censor. I had previously carried on some correspondence with him, but
our personal acquaintance had not been of more than five minutes'
duration. I could not, therefore, know at that time that he was to
prove himself the most competent of all the censors appointed to
supervise the work of us correspondents. In saying that he was the
"most competent" I mean that he ranked above all the others in every
quality which goes to make up fitness for this unceasing and exacting
work. He had quick intelligence, great breadth of judgment, unfailing
courtesy, unbroken patience, and all the modesty of a truly able man.

Hardly can the average reader estimate the degree of satisfaction with
which we correspondents came quickly to realise the admirable
qualities of this first and only fair and considerate censor that most
of us had known in the war. At one place we knew a censor who read the
letters which came to officers and privates from their wives in
England, and who used to regale his chance acquaintances with
comparisons between the sterling virtues and deep affection of the
letters to Tommy, and the colder, more selfish, and even querulous
messages of the wives of officers.

At another place we had a censor who obliged us to hand to him our
letters to our wives and sweethearts unsealed, and in one case this
censor kept for twenty-four hours a letter I had written to my family.

Still another censor showered his contempt upon certain correspondents
who, in every way which goes to make up refinement, self-respect, and
dignity, were many times better men than he. It amused him to take the
despatches of a Colonial lad, who was doing his best to enter upon an
honourable career, and throw them in his waste basket daily for ten
days without informing the youth of their fate. It pleased him to
insult me by telling me that the only message I could send to England
must be a description of a sandstorm; while to Mr. E. F. Knight, a man
Lord Methuen said he "was proud to have with his army," this censor
said, "There is only one thing I will allow you to write--that is, a
description of a new Union Jack which has just been run up over the

With such ill-chosen, mistaken men had we undergone experiences, and
now, at last, we met with Lord Stanley, who had the most intense likes
and dislikes for those around him, yet never let these hinder or
temper his unvarying fairness; who was as firm as iron and yet always
gentle; a stout, strong, stalwart man in build, hearty and kindly in
manner; a man who took command as easily and exercised it as smoothly
as if he had been a general at birth.

I speak of him at some length not merely because his case proves that
the one well-equipped censor appointed in the armies on the west side
of the continent was a civilian, and not only because this one
competent censor gave equally complete satisfaction to both the Army
and the Press, but because he assumed a conspicuous and important part
in the story I am telling.

His office was as nearly literally a hole in a wall as a room in a
house could well be. It was in the corner of the Free State Post
Office building, facing the great central square of dirt, in the
middle of which stood the market, under whose open shed the mounted
men of the City Imperial Volunteers lived among their saddles and
bridles, and slept on the tables of the greengrocers, whose place this
once had been. On the Post Office side of the square was the Free
State Hotel, the best in the town. On the opposite side, an eighth of
a mile away, was the Club. Between the two ends ran a double row of
such shops as one looks for in a small village, and behind one of
these was the office of a newspaper called _The Friend of the Free

Lord Stanley's office was a wretched poke-hole of a room. It boasted a
door with glass panels and no window. Its floor was of bare boards.
Its walls were partly made of soiled plaster and partly of bare
boards. Opposite the door, in the corner, stood a kitchen table which
was never used, and in the other dark end of the room was another
kitchen table, behind which, on a kitchen chair, the ex-Guardsman and
Whip of the Unionist Party sat nearly all day, and some hours of every
evening, with one hand full of manuscript and the other holding the
little triangular stamp with which he printed the sign manual of his
approval upon nearly every despatch which was written by those
correspondents who kept within the law governing the cabling of news
to their journals. A kerosene lamp, an inkpot and pen, and a litter of
papers were the other appointments of the room. The censor was clad in
khaki like all the rest of us, but the collar of his tunic bore on
each side the short bit of red cloth which marked him as a staff

To this office, at the censor's invitation, came Perceval Landon,
correspondent of the _Times_, H. A. Gwynne, of Reuter's Agency, F. W.
Buxton, of the _Johannesburg Star_, and myself.

"Gentlemen," said Lord Stanley after the door had been closed and
locked to keep out the current of "Tommies" with telegrams which
flowed in and eddied before the desk all day, "Lord Roberts wants to
have a daily newspaper published for the entertainment and information
of the Army while we are here. I may tell you that we are likely to
stay here four weeks. You four are asked to undertake the work of
bringing out the newspaper. Will you do it?"

Three of us did not clearly see how we could undertake so laborious
and exacting a task and still do justice to our newspapers at home;
nevertheless, the censor's words had been, "Lord Roberts wants this."

"We must do it if Lord Roberts desires it," was the reply of one of
us. The rest nodded acquiescence, but said nothing.

"I am very glad," the censor replied.

Mr. Buxton, who knew South Africa and its Press very well, appeared to
have devoted some attention to the matter earlier in the day. From him
and from the censor we learned that two daily newspapers had been
published in Bloemfontein up to the time that we took possession of
the town. One was the _Express_, the property of the widow of one
Borckenhagen--a Boer organ of the most pronounced type, and notorious
for the virulence of its attacks upon the British, for its lying
reports, and its mischievous influence. That paper had been stopped by
Lord Roberts, and its machinery, type, and all else belonging to it
were for us to do with as we pleased.

The other paper was the little _Friend of the Free State_, owned, as I
understand, by an Englishman named Barlow, who was out of the country
and had left the property in the care of his son. This younger Barlow
had not conducted the paper in such a spirit toward us as one would
have looked for from a man of English blood; but, either for good
cause, worldly interests, or wholly despicable reasons, there was so
much disloyalty and so much more of fence straddling throughout South
Africa that a very lenient view was taken of this case, and we were
asked to find out what sum of money would satisfy Barlow for the loss
of income from his paper while we conducted it. He was to be told
that he could not be permitted to continue his editorship, and that
therefore it was necessary to settle on some figure covering any
shrinkage that might occur in his customary profits while the
newspaper was in our charge.

Mr. Buxton was appointed to confer with Barlow, and in a few hours we
all met again to hear that the dethroned editor would be satisfied
with a guarantee of £200, or £50 a week during the month of our

Mr. Landon had already approached Mr. Gwynne and myself with a
proposition that we should offer to make good any losses that might
occur during our management; but other ideas prevailed.

"No," said the censor, "you cannot be allowed to lose anything by your
kindness. Two hundred pounds will be the utmost cost, eh? Well, I
think that Westminster, Dudley, and I, can raise that between us."

We held our breaths for a moment as he said this, for it flashed upon
us that the heir of Lord Derby, the owner of the great Dudley estates,
and the greatest landlord of London, were to be our backers, that they
were high up among the richest men of England, and that one of them
was saying he was hopeful that among all three two hundred pounds
might not prove an impossible sum to raise.

"Yes, that's all right," Lord Stanley repeated; "I think that Dudley,
Westminster, and I can manage it."

The reader will not be prepared to hear that anything funnier than
that could grow out of this situation. But it was to be so. Weeks
after our singular editorial experience ended I received, while in
Capetown, a letter from an interested Afrikander asking me whether I
thought the three men who guaranteed Barlow against a loss of profits
from his paper were responsible men, and Barlow would be likely to get
his money.

I went away to nurse my injured leg, and the other editors went their
ways to arrange for getting out a new paper, which all of us agreed
should be christened with the now historic name of THE FRIEND. While
we are thus separated from them let me draw a pen picture of each.

Perceval Landon, representing the _Times_, is a university man, who
has been admitted to the bar, and who took up the work of a war
correspondent from an Englishman's love of adventure, danger, and
excitement. It can be nothing but his English blood that prompted him
to this course, for in mind and temperament, tastes and
qualifications, he is at once a scholar and a poet rather than a man
of violent action. Had the _Times_ so desired he would have charmed
the public with letters from the front as human and picturesque in
subject and treatment as any that were sent to London. His charms of
manner and of mind caused his companionship to be sought by the most
distinguished and the most polished men in the army, and all were
deeply sorry when, at the close of the army's stay in Bloemfontein,
illness forced him to return to London, though not until he had served
in the war as long as any man at that time on the west side of the

Mr. H. A. Gwynne, representing Reuter's Agency, is a veteran war
correspondent, though a young man otherwise. He is Landon's
diametrical opposite, being above all else a man of action and a born
soldier. As an author and as a mountain climber of distinction he was
known before he adopted the profession of journalism and took part in,
I think, ten campaigns: The Turko-Greek, the Omdurman campaign, the
Egyptian campaign preceding it, and others. It was Gwynne who, with
Mr. George W. Steevens, received the surrender of the town of Volo
from the Greek authorities before the Turks entered the town. Mr.
Gwynne has superabundant strength, health, and spirits, loves
soldiering and adventure, and is so shrewd in his judgment of men, and
practised in his observations of war, that more than one general made
it a practice to consult him upon what he knew and saw during the
South African campaign. How well he can write the pages of THE FRIEND

Mr. Buxton is a specialist in the interests which are uppermost in
Johannesburg, where, as a member of the staff of the _Star_, and as a
citizen of consequence, he has made himself intimately known to the
forceful men of South Africa, and has mastered the problems that lie
before the British in reconstructing the government and welding the
two leading races together. He had accompanied Lord Methuen's
unfortunate army from its start to its rescue by Lord Roberts, and
during all that time his knowledge of the country and of the Boers
might have been turned to good account had he been consulted. It was
fitting that the staff of the newspaper should have had upon it a
representative colonial of English stock, yet of long and masterful
local experience such as Mr. Buxton.

For a striking picture of the minor characters who figured as our
foremen and compositors in the newspaper office the reader will do
well to read Rudyard Kipling's "A Burgher of the Free State," one of
the short stories he wrote after his return from South Africa in the
early summer of 1900.

It showed us associates of the master storyteller how instantly,
broadly, and accurately he is able to imbibe and absorb the colour and
spirit, and even the most minor accessories of any new and strong
situation around him. It will show the reader better than any amount
of another man's writing the characters of our helpmeets and
neighbours, and the atmosphere in which they moved.



     _A little Thing, puling Great Promises in its Nurses' Arms._

On March 16, 1900, there glimmered (it cannot be said to have flashed)
upon the Army and the half-wondering, half-treacherous population of
Bloemfontein, the first number of THE FRIEND. It was produced in the
office of the former _Friend of the Free State_--an office that had
the appearance of having been arranged out of a dust-heap, and stocked
with machinery, type, and furniture that had been originally bought at
second-hand and left to itself through fifty years of frequent

Everything in it was either the colour of dirt or the tone of
type-dust--everything, including the window-panes and the printers. Of
the latter we never knew the number, names, or characters. Of two men
whom we got to know one was a gnomish figure who only now and then
appeared at large out upon the uncharted floor of the composing-room,
and he was elderly and silent--a man grown mechanical, and now making
but a feeble fight against the dirt and type-dust which was slowly
covering him in what was apparently to be another such upright tomb
as held the last of the wife of Lot. He sometimes came into the
editorial dust-hole--if we yelled and stamped our loudest and our
longest. He came wearily and softly, heard our orders, and vanished in
the type-dust as we used to see our army friends at Modder step out of
our tents into a dust-devil and disappear on the ocean of veldt and at
high noon.

The other printers lived in the little side alleys between the rows of
type-cases. They were evidently drawn there by the feeble, straggling
light that still shone faintly through the filth upon the
window-panes. I judged that they were older than the foreman, and too
feeble, too nearly entombed by the dirt, to be able to go out upon the
floor. We only got glimpses of them, and never heard one speak.

Out in the back yard, behind Barlow's stationery shop, the sun glared
fierce and hot upon a strip of desert ground, a blue gum-tree, and a
preternatural boy. He lived out there, refusing to be drawn into the
dust-heap until the awful sentence of serving as a printer should, at
last, be read out to him. We had a fancy that each of the old men
inside had begun like that boy, clinging as long as possible to the
region of air and light, that each in his turn had been sucked in at
last, and that it was this last boy who went in at lunch time and led
the old fellows out of their solitary, silent cells, and gave each a
push in the back to start them toward their homes.

How Messrs. Gwynne, Buxton, and Landon managed to get out the first
paper, which they forgot to mark with what a great man once said were
"the saddest words ever seen in print," that is to say, "Vol. I., No.
1," I never asked them, though I wondered. They did produce it,
however, and called it

    Playing Cards.  }   THE FRIEND.   { Cue Tips and
  All Qualities at  }                 {   Wafers
      Barlow's.     } 3d.         3d. { at Barlow's.

  VOL. IV.                             No.  1,027.

Its sheet was of the size of two copies of the _Spectator_ laid side
by side. Each of its four pages measured twenty inches long by fifteen
wide. Far more striking than its title was this sentence, in blackest
type: "If you once use Vereeniging coal you will never use any other."
All the advertisements, except the very many scattered about for
Barlow's stationery business, and for which I hope he was made to pay
at the highest rates, were old notices carried on from the days of
Boer rule.

Upon the second page two advertisements were brand new. They were
proclamations signed "By order, G. T. Pretyman, Major-General,
Military Commandant, Bloemfontein." One was in the Taal language, the
other was in English, and both announced that a market would be held
daily, near the town, for the sale of such local produce as butter,
eggs, milk, poultry, and vegetables. The prices to be charged were
laid down by this sapient and enterprising general, who declared eggs
to be worth two shillings a dozen, milk fivepence a bottle, turkeys
five shillings and sixpence and higher, butter two shillings a pound,
&c. The English proclamation was headed "Notice." The Dutch copy bore
the title "Kennisgeving," and was signed, "Bij order, G. T. Pretyman,
Majoor-Generaal, Krijgs-Kommandant van Bloemfontein."

On the third, or editorial page, was another military notice entitled
"Army Orders," which I reprint in full, as showing how almost
instantly Lord Roberts established his own rule in the conquered
capital. General Pretyman's market notice was dated the day we took
the town, and we knew that on that day a local police force was
established, headquarters and quarters for all the branches of the
military rule were at once set up, and here on the 15th there had been
found time to arrange and prepare for publication a directory of the
new arrangements.

       *       *       *       *       *


                                  BLOEMFONTEIN, _March 15, 1900_.

I. _Civil Population to be unmolested._

It being desirable and in the interest of both the British Government
and the inhabitants of this country that all residents should be
assured that so long as they remain peaceably disposed their civil
rights and property will be respected, it is strictly forbidden that
any private property should be compulsorily taken possession of by
other than the authorised Supply Officers.

All articles required by the troops must be obtained and paid for in
the ordinary way, and no trespassing or interference with the
inhabitants will be permitted.

These instructions apply to detached bodies of troops as well as to
the Force generally, and it is specially the duty of all officers to
put a stop to all attempts to infringe them.

  By order,
            J. W. KELLY,
                         A.-G. for C. of Staff.

       *       *       *       *       *

6. _Office of Departments._

The offices of the various Departments are situated as shown below:--

  Military Secretary      }
  Chief of Staff          } At Government
  G.O.C. Royal Artillery  }     House.
  Chief Engineer          }
  Director of Transport   }
  Director of Supplies    } At Government
  Provost Marshal         }    Buildings.
  P.M.O.                    3, Maitland Street.

The office of the Press Censor is established next door to the
entrance to the Telegraph Office. All telegrams except official ones
must be censored. Office hours from 7 to 8 a.m., 10 a.m. to 12 noon, 3
to 5 p.m.

7. _Supply Department._

As soon as the Supply Park arrives, a Supply Depôt will be established
at Mr. Beck's Store, on Baumann's Square.

8. _Divisions, Brigades, &c., where quartered._

The following units are quartered as shown below:--


  Headquarters--Club, Market Square.
  1st Brigade--About 2 miles W. of town.
  2nd Brigade--Bloemspruit, about 3 miles east of town.
  3rd Brigade--Rustfontein, about 1 mile N. of town.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. James Collins, under State Secretary to the late O.F.S.
Government, has been appointed Landdrost of Bloemfontein.

The period for handing in arms and ammunition by burghers and
residents of this town and district has been extended to March 26th.

       *       *       *       *       *

After a notice that Major Hamilton, the Carabineers, would like to
receive two £5 notes, a Mauser pistol, a pair of Zeiss glasses and a
grey gelding, all lost by various persons in and near the town, we
published our editorial announcement that the paper was established by
and for Lord Roberts's army:--


     The events of the last few days have rendered it expedient
     that an official organ should be published in Bloemfontein
     during the period of Military Governorship. With that end in
     view, and also to provide for public requirements, a small
     committee formed from the corps of war correspondents with
     Lord Roberts's Field Force has been entrusted with the
     control and management of the long-established paper
     hitherto known as THE FRIEND OF THE FREE STATE.

     In future this will be issued under the style and title of
     THE FRIEND, and will be a daily publication, containing
     military intelligence and orders for the general information
     of the troops now quartered here, and other matter.

     We are glad to be able to announce the immediate publication
     of contributions from the pens of such well-known writers as
     Rudyard Kipling, Julian Ralph, Bennet Burleigh, and other
     distinguished journalists. We congratulate our readers upon
     the happy chance which has enabled us to offer the public
     the voluntary services of such a staff of writers as cannot
     be paralleled elsewhere in South Africa.

     In conclusion we wish to state briefly the simple policy
     which will be adhered to in these columns.

     The maintenance of British Supremacy in South Africa and
     Equal Rights for all white men without respect of race or

     These two principles in our opinion embody the essentials of
     sound government, the prosperity of this country, and the
     happiness of the people.

     For the Committee of Management,

                                             P. LANDON,
                                          E. W. BUXTON,
                                          H. A. GWYNNE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Buxton explained to me, with unnecessary but commendable delicacy,
that only three of our four signatures were appended to this notice
because I was better known as a writer than as an editor, and it was
deemed best not to give me the double credit of serving in both

The first editorial in this new and unique journal was entitled,
"Sulk or Duty," and was written by Mr. Buxton. It was an appeal to all
Afrikanders not to sulk, but to "buckle to the work of making their
country become what it shall be, a great and glorious home for
countless millions yet unborn." The remainder of the page was given
over to a report of the letter of Kruger and Steyn to the Marquis of
Salisbury, insisting upon the independence of the two Republics, and
Lord Salisbury's reply that his government was "not prepared to assent
to the independence of either republic." To us of the army this was
great news. It stirred the camp, and was well suited to attract the
widest attention to our journalistic enterprise. But Lord Salisbury's
answer seemed to us the only answer he could make, whereas the comment
upon it by our Colonial editor in THE FRIEND showed a feeling of
relief and of delighted surprise which was born of the bitter
disappointments the loyal men of Africa had suffered in the past.
"Now, at last, we know the foundation upon which we shall build. The
unhappy issue of Lord Wolseley's promise at Pretoria in 1879 is still
fresh in our minds ... late, indeed, but still, to the letter, that
solemn undertaking shall be fulfilled. At last we see the one obstacle
vanish that has for these long years stood between South Africa and
her prosperity."

Whoever can feel the spirit of that cry of satisfaction needs not to
be told how just and necessary was the war we were waging. Few of us
in the army could probe the sources of the war to their depths.
Comparatively few men in England thoroughly grasped the situation. It
is all revealed in this shout by Mr. Buxton in THE FRIEND. The
long-protracted feud between the two races, the injustice of Boer
rule, the sufferings of the British, the threats of the semi-civilised
men in power, the past troubles all ending in broken promises or
shameful neglect by the British Government--these are all apparent in
that cry of delight. The war had not produced such satisfaction. There
had been war before, and nothing but humiliation of the loyal
Uitlander had come of it. But a decided, firm declaration that the war
could only end in British sovereignty--that was news that thrilled the
heart of every Anglo-Saxon colonial in the republics and the adjacent

Other articles and official notices of the first interest or
importance were as follows:--


     War is grim and fearsome and horrid as we know, or rather as
     we are being continually told, but nobody seems to have
     noticed that there is a humorous side to it, and sometimes
     the spectre Death wears the cap and bells. Up to the present
     the campaign has not been without its little amusing
     incidents. In the camp they have been quite numerous, and
     even on the battlefield itself they have not been
     unfrequent. The story of a private at Paardeberg who lay
     behind one of those ever-to-be-blessed antheaps, and
     contemplating a shattered tibia, exclaimed, addressing the
     injured member, "Well, you ain't done me badly after all.
     You 'elped to carry me 'ere, and now you've got me a life
     pension and free baccy from the parson," has the merit of
     being true. One cannot refrain a smile at the soliloquy of
     another private who wished to exhibit a bullet-riddled
     helmet to his friends at home. He was firing from behind a
     big boulder on which he placed his helmet. The inevitable
     shower of bullets followed, but, as has been so often the
     case with Boer marksmen, not a single one touched the
     helmet, but one "fetched" its owner in the shoulder,
     whereupon he took the helmet from its exposed position, and,
     looking at his bleeding shoulder, remarked, "that comes of
     cursed pride and nothing else."

     The removal of all badges of rank from officers has been the
     source of many amusing mistakes. On the march from Poplar
     Grove here, it is related that a certain general officer was
     returning to camp after a terribly hard, dusty, dry day. A
     subaltern of the A.S.C. sat under his canvas awning, and
     thus addressed this distinguished general, "Now look here,
     if this happens again I'm d--d if I don't report you. For
     the last two hours you have been away, and heaven knows what
     the mules are up to." It is true it was dusk, but that was
     hardly a sufficient excuse for mistaking General ---- for a
     conductor. "I say, old cocky," was the remark made once by a
     captain to a full colonel, "hadn't you better see about
     getting some grub?" Apologies followed, of course.

     Then who can resist laughing at the tale of woe unfolded by
     one of our most distinguished correspondents who dined one
     night with the ---- Guards and slept in the tent of his
     host? The next morning he walked into the mess hut and sat
     down to breakfast. But imagine the trembling horror which
     seized hold of him when he looked round at his hosts of the
     night before and failed to recognise a single one of them.
     Was it a failure of memory, or was it incipient paralysis of
     the brain?--it could not, of course, have been the whisky.
     And so he sat in a bath of hot and cold perspiration,
     thinking that the blow which had so often attacked and
     destroyed fine intellects had reached his. But sudden as a
     straw is whisked past the drowning man by the fast current,
     so there passed through his brain one ray of hope. He
     remembered the name of his host, and turning quickly to his
     neighbour, fearing lest his brain might again fail him and
     he should forget the name, asked, "Where is ----?" The
     answer was a relief and yet a horror, "---- is having
     breakfast in the mess tent of his battalion,"--and, pointing
     through the door, "there it is over there." It was with
     slow, sobered steps that our correspondent left the table
     and made his way to the hut of his host. He had made what,
     after all, was not an uncommon error, and had mistaken the
     S---- Guards' hut for that of the C---- Guards.

       *       *       *       *       *


Mr. Arthur Barlow has resigned his position as Editor of THE FRIEND.

               *       *       *

Original contributions and correspondence are invited from all ranks
of the Field Force.

               *       *       *

As in all probability the territory hitherto known as the O.F.S. will
in the near future be designated by a different title, the Committee
of Management offer a prize of £5 for the best suggestion for renaming
this country.

       *       *       *       *       *


On the afternoon of Monday, the 26th February, the 6-in. howitzers
bombarded Gen. Cronje's laager at Paardeberg with Lyddite shells. The
effect of the salvos viewed from a distance of 3,000 yards was
terrific. What the occupants of the laager felt cannot be told, for
the reason that no truthful account is obtainable. The explosions in
appearance were not unlike the great dynamite explosion in
Johannesburg in 1896, only the great cloud of smoke was
greenish-yellow instead of grey. An air of expectancy pervaded the
British camp, every one knowing that the morrow was Majuba Day, and it
was thought that something decisive would be done. Early next morning,
about 3 o'clock, the silence of the night was broken by the softened
spit-puff sound of the Mauser rifle, and immediately after the firing
became a fierce fusillade, the sharp crack of the Lee-Metford joining
in. The crackling concert lasted about an hour, rising and falling
with sudden acute crises like a passage of Wagner's music. Bullets
were falling around the camp at distances up to 3,000 yards, from the
Boer laager, and it was evident that the firing was wild.

At first streak of dawn a ride to the advanced trenches of the
Canadians on the river bank enabled one to learn the wherefore of the
night's disturbance. The ambulance waggons were already proceeding
quickly up the south bank of the river. A pontoon ferry was plying
from bank to bank bringing across wounded Canadians, nearly all
suffering from bullet wounds, but some few had by accident been struck
by the bayonet.

The Canadians occupied trenches on the both banks of the river, and
were within about 500 yards of the enemy. On their left--that is some
distance north of the river--were the Gordons, and further to the
south the Shropshires. The orders were that the four companies of
Canadians on the north bank should advance under cover of the darkness
and try to gain the enemy's trenches, or at least get nearer. They
advanced in two lines of two companies each, the front line having
bayonets fixed and the second carrying rifles slung with picks and
shovels in their hands to dig an advanced trench, should it be thought
advisable to go right to the trenches.

When the Canadians left the Gordons were to occupy the left of their
trenches, and the Shropshires placed in advance in a position to
command the Boers, should they rise in their trenches to fire on the
Canadians. They were told to hold their fire until the Mausers first
spoke. The Canadians and Gordons were not to fire at all. The
operation was one requiring coolness, nerve, and pluck, and the
Canadians did it magnificently. They advanced as quietly as possible
about 400 yards, and then halted, the order being conveyed by pressure
of the hand from one to another. Every one thought that the second
line would now dig the trench, but another pressure ordered a further
advance. Five paces had been covered when Mauser bullets hissed past,
and the men, as ordered, fell flat, just in time to avoid the terrific
fire that was immediately poured from the Boer trenches. A minute or
two elapsed, and the order came to retire. Not a shot was fired by the
Canadians, and they quietly crept back, gaining their trenches with
comparatively little loss. Meanwhile the Shropshire men, who had
carefully taken the range and direction before dark, opened fire on
the Boers, and at the end of an hour put them to silence. A bugle
sounded "cease fire," and all was still again. That morning (Majuba
Day) Cronje surrendered.

       *       *       *       *       *



The British troops under my command having entered the Orange Free
State, I feel it my duty to make known to all Burghers the cause of
our coming, as well as to do all in my power to put an end to the
devastation caused by this war, so that should they continue the war
the inhabitants of the Orange Free State may not do so ignorantly, but
with full knowledge of their responsibility before God for the lives
lost in the campaign.

Before the war began the British Government, which had always desired
and cultivated peace and friendship with the people of the Orange Free
State, gave a solemn assurance to President Steyn that if the Orange
Free State remained neutral its territory would not be invaded, and
its independence would be at all times fully respected by Her
Majesty's Government.

In spite of that declaration the Government of the Orange Free State
was guilty of a wanton and unjustifiable invasion of British

The British Government believes that this act of aggression was not
committed with the general approval and free will of a people with
whom it has lived in complete amity for so many years. It believes
that the responsibility rests wholly with the Government of the Orange
Free State, acting, not in the interests of the country, but under
mischievous influences from without. The British Government,
therefore, wishes the people of the Orange Free State to understand
that it bears them no ill-will, and, so far as is compatible with the
successful conduct of the war and the re-establishment of peace in
South Africa, it is anxious to preserve them from the evils brought
upon them by the wrongful action of their Government.

I therefore warn all Burghers to desist from any further hostility
towards Her Majesty's Government and the troops under my command, and
I undertake that any of them who may so desist and who are found
staying in their homes and quietly pursuing their ordinary occupations
will not be made to suffer in their persons or property on account of
their having taken up arms in obedience to the order of their
Government. Those, however, who oppose the forces under my command, or
furnish the enemy with supplies or information, will be dealt with
according to the customs of war.

Requisitions for food, forage, fuel, or shelter, made on the authority
of the officers in command of Her Majesty's troops, must be at once
complied with; but everything will be paid for on the spot, prices
being regulated by the local market rates. If the inhabitants of any
district refuse to comply with the demands made upon them the supplies
will be taken by force, a full receipt being given.

Should any inhabitant of the country consider that he or any member of
his household has been unjustly treated by any officer, soldier, or
civilian attached to the British Army he should submit his complaint,
either personally or in writing, to my Headquarters or to the
Headquarters of the nearest General Officer. Should the complaint on
enquiry be substantiated, redress will be given.

Orders have been issued by me prohibiting soldiers from entering
private houses or molesting the civil population on any pretext
whatever, and every precaution has been taken against injury to
property on the part of any person belonging to, or connected with,
the Army.

                                                   Field Marshal,
                                    Commanding-in-Chief, South Africa.



     _Also a Kipling Poem, a Bogus Love-letter, and other

  Cue Tips and   }  THE FRIEND.   {  Playing Cards.
     Wafers      }                { All Qualities at
  at Barlow's.   } 3d.        3d. {    Barlow's.

  _(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)_

The above was hereafter to be the wording of the full title of the new
paper. It was again of the small size, necessitated by the infirm and
petty possibilities of the dust-heap in which it was produced.

In this second number appeared a verse of a poem by Rudyard Kipling,
who, unknown to us and unsuspected by himself, was soon to be so
closely connected with our enterprise. As soon as we agreed to take
control of the new paper, Mr. Landon had wired the news to Mr.
Kipling, then in Capetown, with a request for a contribution for the
first number. The fact that the poetic reply reached Bloemfontein
twenty-four hours later was a matter of delight and surprise to all of
us, for the chained lightning of the wired highway of correspondence
loses its chief characteristic of speed where the military make first
use of it in time of war.

I should not like even to imagine the disgust with which some of the
lower order of censors, at terminal and junctional points, viewed this
bit of poetry as it crawled along and they were called upon to approve
it, perhaps, as "unseditious matter not calculated to give information
to the enemy." But then I do not like to think of that breed of
censors under any circumstances. It wrinkles my temper.

Mr. Landon's journalistic enterprise not only turned the eyes of all
the Kipling collectors of the world upon our newspaper, but, because
our printers left the date line "March 16" unaltered on an inside page
of this number of the 17th, that issue became a curio among our
readers. On the next day copies of the first hundred papers, which
were issued before the mistake was noticed, fetched five shillings
each. Within a month their price was twenty-five shillings. But that
is only a twentieth part of what an odd and not specially
distinguished number of THE FRIEND sold for at a bazaar in London last
summer (1900).

Mr. Landon wrote a notable and brilliant editorial on "The Collapse of
the Rebellion"; General Smith-Dorrien replied to the remarks about the
Canadians at Paardeberg in the previous day's issue; Lord Roberts's
congratulation to the Army was published in this number; and there
also appeared my "love letter to Miss Bloemfontein."

As this love-correspondence attracted great interest then and was
peculiar in its commencement, continuation, and end, I will tell,
briefly, what the facts are concerning it. I was invalided and
confined to my bedroom in the Free State Hotel, and, being advertised
as a contributor, bethought me that it would be a graceful and
pleasant thing to act as spokesman for the army in praising the
pretty town, and acknowledging the gratitude we felt to the people for
their friendly behaviour to us conquerors.

I did not know at that time that the town was a pestilential,
bacillus-soaked headquarters for disease, or that far too many of
those who smiled upon us hated us bitterly, and were even then engaged
in encouraging the Boers, conveying information to them, and sneaking
out at night to fight with the enemy or to snipe our outposts. In a
word, though I had studied the Boer more closely and longer than any
other London correspondent, I had not measured the breadth and depth
of his contempt for truth, honour, and fair play. Therefore I wrote
the letter to Miss Bloemfontein which, with certain other
contributions to that day's paper, is herewith republished.

On this day the advertisements for what were then called "lost" horses
already numbered three, and, already, we published a communication
headed "Loot News" in which was stated the fact that the
horse-stealing had become so bold that a horse had actually been taken
from in front of the Club.

"Please note the following," the reporter wrote, "Section I, clause 1,
of the newly promulgated constitution of the city without a Steyn--A
man may kill a man and live, but a man who steals a horse may not
live." Whether there will occur an opportunity in this book to explain
how the neighbourhood of the Boers affected the moral atmosphere and
demoralised our earlier views of property rights, especially in
horse-ownership, I cannot yet say, but whenever the tale is told it
will be discovered to be extraordinary.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)



MARCH 17, 1900.


  Oh! Terence dear, and did you hear
    The news that's going round?
  The Shamrock's Erin's badge by law,
    Where'er her sons be found.

  From Bobsfontein to Ballyhack
    'Tis ordered by the Queen,
  We've won our right in open fight
    The wearing of the Green.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Loot News._

Absent-minded beggars please note following intimations displayed at
the Club House, Market Square:--

Taken from a boy in front of the Club on 15th inst., about 7 p.m., a
bay gelding, about thirteen hands, star on forehead, white patch on
top lip, tick marks on hind quarters, long tail trimmed square,
branded R G off forehoof. A 15 near forehoof.

Will the gentleman who took a brown pony _by mistake_ from a boy at
the door of this Club-house on March 15 kindly return it to manager?

Also please note following:--

Section I, clause I, of newly-promulgated constitution of the City
without a Steyn--A man may kill a man and live, but a man that steals
a horse may not live.

       *       *       *       *       *


The official Headquarters of Field-Marshal Lord Roberts and his staff
are at the Residency.

       *       *       *       *       *



Come, little Miss Bloemfontein, sit down beside me and let me hold
your dimpled hand and look into those eyes which have caught the
wonderful blue of these heavens, and the tints of your gardens and
your bowery streets. I think our whole army likes you, you belle of
the Boer aristocracy. You certainly change your lovers easily and
lightly, but soldiers are reported not to mind a little coquetry when
they are far from home. You have tripped out to meet us so enticingly,
you have so led us into your bower with your warm little hand, and you
have spoken so kindly to us, that we dislike to think you were quite
the same to your earlier beaux in their homespun suits, their flapping
hats, and their lavish indulgence in whiskers and beards, which, as
you must know, are the cheapest of luxuries--prodigalities in which
misers indulge to make a show and save a barber's bill.

You might have been hateful to us and we could not have blamed you,
for we came too nearly, as certain other soldiers came to the Sabine
sisterhood, with blood in our eyes and weapons in hand, fancying that
you would cling to your old love, and never dreaming that he would run
away and leave you unprotected in this placid and pretty little
boudoir that you have set up here. You won't forget that little
episode, will you, Miss Bloemfontein? And you did take note, didn't
you, my dear, that when we found you deserted, all forlorn, we changed
from lion to lamb, from blustering warrior to soft-spoken wooer? We
spoke no harsh word to your people and did their goods no violence.
Even now, we stand aside in our own place, crowding none of your
servitors, but smiling back the smiles you bathe us in, and breathing
our admiration softly--for you are a pretty miss and gentle--and we
are not so stupid as to fail to see that you are no Boadicea, but a
lover of peace and concord, if ever one has lived on earth since the
Muses took to the clouds. Sweetness of loving sighs its soft song of
delight in every breeze that rustles the leaves of your tree-garlands.
Domesticity asserts its command, by your order, in the aspect of every
cottage in your park-like nest. Homely comfort radiates from the
hearths and the faces of all who live under your delightful rule.

I never anywhere saw a prettier or a more astonishing scene than I
witnessed in your market-square on the second night of the stay, which
we hope you will invite us to prolong to eternity. We sent a few
greasy and stained melodists with pipes and drums to play in the
square, partly to show you that we had dethroned Mars and substituted
Pan in the best niche in our hearts, and partly to set our own
pleasure tripping to gay tunes. And lo! out you came with your maidens
and their lovers, your old men and matrons, and the children within
your gates. And we all forgot that we had quarrelled with your
cast-off favourite, that each of us had shed the other's blood, and
that we had come to you with an anger that we supposed you matched
within your own fair bosom. Your people and ours touched elbows and
laughed and sang together. For one I was amazed. Of all the sharp
contrasts of strife I know of none so bold and strong as that scene
when it was compared with the scenes of only a few days back at
Paardeberg and Driefontein.

It was your magic, your witchery, your tact that brought it about, you
South African beauty. Without these helps we never could have enjoyed
that evening as we did, and that evening was the bridge that spanned
the gulf between the angry past and the happy future in our lives,
little miss.

Draw closer, Miss Bloemfontein. Let our arms touch, and the thrill of
ardent friendship vivify our new relation. You do like us British,
don't you, dear? You don't have to be British yourself, you know. You
can stay on being Dutch and piously Presbyterian and all the rest. We
will respect whatever you admire, and we will promise to make you
richer, freer, happier and even more beautiful--with the ripened
charms of a long-assured content, if only you will let your chief
predikant publish the banns next Sunday--or sooner, if you will.

                                               JULIAN RALPH.

       *       *       *       *       *


A recent experience of Mr. Bennet Burleigh and his colleague, Mr.
Percy Bullen, of the _Daily Telegraph_, affords a fitting illustration
of the dangers to which those attached to Field Forces are exposed.
These two gentlemen left Poplar Grove last Saturday with the object of
reaching General Kelly-Kenny's column, which had preceded them by
several hours travelling along the high road running almost parallel
with the Modder River. Near Abrahamskraal they caught sight of the
central division fighting the Boers along the kopjes lying to the
right. Mr. Burleigh, who was travelling in a Cape cart drawn by four
horses, stepped down to survey matters, and while looking through his
glasses along the high road he saw a party of Boers digging trenches.
Some of them wore khaki, others were dressed in a style of the
country, which betrayed their identity to the experienced eye. It was
decided to return by the same road, further progress being obviously
very hazardous, as the enemy was within a distance of 500 yards. The
two carts occupied by the correspondents had barely turned round when
a shower of bullets was sent in their direction, several striking Mr.
Burleigh's vehicle, and others falling immediately in front of Mr.
Bullen. A desperate race followed over a distance of several miles, in
the course of which a convoy of several mule waggons was met. The
officer in charge ordered the convoy to return immediately, and his
instructions were quickly followed. Meantime a messenger was sent
across to the central division to ask for assistance, as the Boers,
though a considerable distance behind, were still shooting. By dint of
hard work and much lashing of horses and mules, every one got safely
away, but one of Mr. Bullen's team fell a victim to the enemy's fire.
Fortunately the shot came from across the river, and the remaining
animal, though sorely tried by the boulders and sluits of a bad road
over which the whole of the convoy and escort had likewise proceeded
at a break-neck pace, was able to pull the cart out upon the veldt and
so elude further damage. By this time some of Rimington's scouts
appeared, and one of the number kindly lent the correspondent his
horse, by means of which he was able to rejoin his colleague at Poplar
Grove, where the entire party passed the night. It was an exciting
chase extending over several miles, and the safety of the
correspondents and convoy was largely due to the zeal of the native
drivers, who worked as if life as well as liberty depended on the
result. The huge column of dust thrown up by the carts and horses was
sufficient to baffle even the most expert riflemen, and the Boers who
pursued were certainly not good shots even at close quarters. In order
to assist his flight Mr. Bullen jettisoned a large quantity of horse
fodder, whereas his experienced colleague, Mr. Burleigh, arrived in
camp with all his goods intact, including a live sheep. It transpired
subsequently that the messenger despatched for assistance, as well as
two others who followed him, were captured. The correspondents state
that the skill displayed by their drivers in avoiding the huge
boulders which lined the high road, and especially in descending and
ascending the banks of a very precipitous sluit with a twelve feet
dip, was a most creditable performance, reminding one of the wonderful
exercises of our artillery drivers at the Islington Military

       *       *       *       *       *




BLOEMFONTEIN, _March_ 17, 1900.

_To the Editor of_ "THE FRIEND."

DEAR SIR,--I have read your account of "The Canadians on Majuba Day"
in your issue of yesterday. It is correct up to a certain point, but
the last part of it is quite erroneous.

In justice to this gallant corps, and to the Company of Royal
Engineers who were with them, I trust you will publish this
letter--which recounts what actually happened from the moment the
Royal Canadians advanced from the trench, 550 yards from the enemy,
until they established themselves and made a new trench within 93
yards of the Boer trenches.

At 2.15 a.m. (on the 27th February), the Royal Canadians with 240 men
in the front rank, the latter with rifles slung and entrenching tools,
and about 30 officers and men, Royal Engineers under Lieut.-Colonel
Kincaid forming the right of the rear rank of the Canadians, moved
steadily from the trench, shoulder to shoulder in the dark night,
feeling their way through the bushes, and keeping touch by the right.

At 2.50 a.m. they were met by a terrific fire from the enemy's trench,
now only 60 yards in front of them.

The line was forced to fall back, but only a very small distance, the
right of it under Captains Stairs and Macdonell, Royal Canadians, some
twenty yards, where they lay down in the open and returned a steady
fire--mostly volleys--for the next one and a half hours; the left had
had to fall back rather further.

Under cover of these two Captains, Lieutenant-Colonel Kincaid and his
R.E. officer and men, and the Canadian working party in that part of
the line constructed trenches in spite of the galling fire, and by
daylight had completed a most admirable work which gave grand cover
against fire in all threatened directions, and was so well traversed
with banks and sand-bags that not a single casualty occurred after it
was occupied.

As day dawned a ruined house was noticed on the opposite bank of the
river, from which this work could be enfiladed, and a party from the
reserve was sent up the left bank to occupy it.

To cover the early morning attack as soon as the fire opened at 2.50
a.m., the Shropshires, in order to hold the enemy in the main laager,
engaged them with long-range volleys, whilst the Gordons remained
partly in the open and partly in the most advanced flank trench, which
latter they lengthened and enlarged, ready to move forward in support.

Shortly after daylight a white flag was flying in the Boer trench,
which was 93 yards from our newly-constructed trench, and soon the
Boers came trooping into our line. They stated that they had no orders
from General Cronje to surrender, but that they heard he intended to
give in on the 28th February.

The result, however, of this gallant operation was that General Cronje
altered his date one day earlier.

Your account says that our losses were comparatively small; so they
were for the results gained, and considering the heavy fire which
continued for nearly two hours at 80 yards' range. They only amounted
to 45 casualties in the Brigade--thus, 12 N.C.O.'s and men Royal
Canadians killed, 30 N.C.O.'s and men Royal Canadians wounded, and 3
officers wounded, Major Pelletier and Lieut. Armstrong, Royal
Canadians, and Lieut. Atchison, King's Shropshire Light Infantry--a
fold in the ground exactly covered the spot where the party was
working, hence the absence of casualties in the Royal Engineers, and
the slight losses in the working party of Royal Canadians.

  Yours faithfully,
                                            H. L. SMITH-DORRIEN,
  Major-General, Commanding 19th Brigade.

(We are glad to be able to supplement our contributor's account of the
gallant action of the 27th by General Smith-Dorrien's categorical
letter, which supplies details which could hardly be obtained
accurately at second-hand.--EDS. FRIEND).

       *       *       *       *       *


While scouting at Makouw's Drift, two troopers of Rimington's Guides
were fired on from a small kopje at close range. One had his horse
shot, and the other, young Ewan Christian, son of Mr. H. B. Christian,
of Port Elizabeth, rode back to bring him away. As he was bending down
to help his comrade up behind he was himself fatally shot, the bullet
passing through his back and out through his chest. He rolled off his
horse and told his comrade to mount and ride away. Shortly afterwards
Major Rimington and more men came up and heard the last words of the
dying hero: "Tell my old governor I died game." On retiring the party
were under a hot fire, several horses, including that of Major
Rimington, being shot. Mr. Christian was buried with military



     _A Strange Editorial Adventure--Lord Roberts's New
     Government under Way--The Sin of Horse Theft._

Once, far along the Grand Canal in China, where the people were all
afraid or hostile at the first sight of me, a beautiful girl of
sixteen or seventeen ran along the bank of the canal after my boat,
beckoning to me and to Mr. Weldon, the artist, who was with me, to
disembark and visit her home. She was out walking with her mother.
There was no doubt when one considered how far from any big town she
was, and the fact that she was large-footed and willing to be seen of
men, that she was a poor peasant girl, a farmer's daughter, either
curious to see us strange men, or anxious to prove herself a Christian
convert and to repay the hospitality and kindness she had received at
the hands of Christian missionaries.

That was what I thought, at any rate, and in that view I told of the
happening in _Harper's Magazine_. At once a cry arose, in the
companies of men I met and even in some newspapers as well, against my
introducing so _risque_ a subject in my account of my adventures.
Until then I had no idea how prone to evil-thinking is the world, how
anxious to twist impurity out of innocence even though it required
violence to do it.

Once again, and here, I am going to tell of an incident equally sweet
to memory and the reflection of wholesome minds; equally delicate in
the perfume of innocence which it exhales. After the second issue of
THE FRIEND, Sunday gave us a day of rest. We had known and seen no
women for months. They were to us as our homes were, as civilisation
itself was--mere memories, vague and shadowy, beside the substantial
realities of fighting, marching, thirsting, and going hungry in the
company of men--of men by the tens of thousands, but of no women.

There was in Bloemfontein a very blond young woman of sixteen who
served behind the counter of a shop in the main street--a slight,
sunny-haired, blue-eyed miss, sparkling with fun and excited by the
novelty of waiting upon British soldiers and living in the middle of
what had changed from a dead-and-alive Boer village to a great armed
British camp. The soldiers had noticed her as well. Generals and
colonels compared notes of what gossip she and they had exchanged, and
sent their friends to the shop to see her. The appearance of a few
unattractive women among the soldiers in the village streets had made
a mild sensation; but the discovery of a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked
girl of English blood was the talk of the camp.

[Illustration: _Julian Ralph._]

Among the first men in Bloemfontein and the first to make the
acquaintance of this maiden was Mr. Gwynne, of THE FRIEND. Foreseeing
Sunday, and scenting a chance to revive the best memories of
civilised life, he proposed to gather two army friends if she would
invite two of her feminine friends for a drive and a luncheon on the
veldt on Sunday. He invited James Barnes, the talented American
correspondent, and myself. In two Cape carts we called for the young
ladies at their homes. They proved to be the very blond young woman, a
fourteen-year-old friend, and a little girl of ten or eleven years of

I confess that I never would have asked mere children upon such an
outing; but it is equally true that I could not have experienced
either the same or as great and peculiar pleasure with others of older
growth. They were frank and free, and merry as grigs. They came as
near to having us killed or captured by the Boers as I wanted to be,
and from them we learned most interesting and valuable information
about the enemy and about the town as it was before we captured it. We
proposed to visit the home of one of the girls, a farm which the girls
said was "quite close." It proved to be miles beyond the British
outposts in a country that seemed to us to be uncomfortably peopled
with Boers and which proved afterwards to have been alive with them.
Of the danger to us which lay in such a situation the girls took no
account. They had been born there. They had seen nothing of war, and
did not understand it. The Boers were their lifelong neighbours. And,
in a word, they were going to visit friends and to have fun, and
nothing else entered their minds.

When we were miles away and among some very suggestive little kopjes
we discovered that our friends had lost their way and that we were
adrift on the veldt. Boers dashed up to the crests of the hills, saw
us and disappeared. Boers were on every hand. Why we were not gobbled
up and sent to Pretoria none of us can explain. Eventually, with only
one mishap--the overturning of one of the carts--which seemed for a
moment more terrible than capture by the enemy--we reached the
farm-house, and aided by several tiny boys and the farmer and his
wife, spent a happy hour and a half. We made our way back to
Bloemfontein in the evening, and within a day or two Colonels Crabbe
and Codrington and Captain Trotter were wounded and the Honourable
Edward Lygon was killed, at the Glen--a rifle shot from where we had

The adventures and hairbreadth escapes in war are apt to take only
three or four well-ordered forms. This adventure was in no way like
those of the stereotyped kinds.

Monday came, and, with it, the third number of THE FRIEND. It was now
of the enlarged size, which it retained to the end--a sheet 19 inches
wide by 32 inches in length. We continued to do the editorial work in
the old dustbin, as at first, but we had discovered that the _Express_
works were more modern and capable of turning out a paper of the size
we preferred. The _Express_ works were two blocks away from our little
den, in a side street behind the main thoroughfare of the town. They
belonged to Frau Borckenhagen, but had been seized by order of Lord
Roberts and sealed up. The printing office and engine and press rooms
were afterward made over to us, the bindery was used by the military,
and only the office of the departed editor, whence had proceeded the
most mischievous reflections of Krugerism and the policy of the
insidious Afrikander Bond, remained sealed. Frau Borckenhagen sent
her agents to the military to ask leave to recover some of her
husband's private papers. By this means she showed us that, like all
other Boers, she put the very lowest valuation upon our intelligence.
But in this case she only succeeded in turning the attention of the
military to her husband's papers without getting the shading of a
degree nearer to the possession of what must have been--and I think I
have heard, really proved--of the utmost interest to us.

However, we were able by using the commandeered property of the Boer
frau, to produce a newspaper of pretentious size and considerable

THE FRIEND now began to bristle with proclamations, and their number
appeared to be doubled because each one was repeated in the Taal
language under the heading "Proclamatie." In one "I, Frederick Sleigh
Baron Roberts of Kandahar, K.P., G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., V.C.,
Field Marshal and Commanding-in-Chief the British forces in South
Africa, appoint George Anosi Falck Administrator of the Civil Posts
and Telegraphs in such portions of the Orange Free State as have been
or may hereafter be occupied by British troops."

Another proclamation related to bills of exchange and promissory
notes; and a third, by General Pretyman, appointed James Allison
Collins as "Landdrost of Bloemfontein to administer the ordinary civil
and criminal laws." In this proclamation the landdrost's court was
ordered to resume its work on Monday, March 19th. A district surgeon,
clerk, receiver, and second clerk to the landdrost's court were also

General Pretyman extended his original market proclamation so that it
established the ruling prices of cattle, meat, breadstuffs, and
groceries. In the Field Marshal's proclamation as translated into the
Taal, Lord Roberts was declared to be "Ik (I), Frederick Sleigh Baron
Roberts van Kandahar, K.P., G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., V.C.,
Veld-maarschalk, Opperbevelhebber van de Britsche Krijgsmachten in

In a notice to the Army we said that our chief aim was to make the
paper welcome to and supported by all ranks, and we invited all in the
Army to write for us. It is true that when, in the previous day's
issue we published a poetic contribution by a kind friend, who was the
first to come to our assistance; we did not precisely encourage others
to follow his example. On the contrary, we accompanied the verses with
the remark to the writer, "Your verses are execrable. See for yourself
in print." But this was merely one of the many interesting
peculiarities of the paper. We published the fact that Miss Elliott,
daughter of the General Manager of the Cape Government Railways,
arrived with her father by special train on the previous night, and
was the first lady to cross the Free State border and to visit
Bloemfontein. The editorial of the day was by Mr. Buxton, and was
entitled "Uitlander or Rebel, Subject or Burgher."

The most notable article was called "The Confession of a
Horse-stealer," and was written by one of the editors. In the same
number another member of the editorial quartette wrote a strong little
article calling attention to the prevalence and brazenness of horse
thieves, and deploring the facts in earnest and indignant language. I
was now at work at a desk in the editorial room, and was forced to
act as judge between the outraged virtue of my colleague who detested
horse-stealing and the pained surprise of my other colleague who
(shall I say pretended or) confessed in writing that he was an expert
at the crime.

"Surely you agree with me that this thing has got to stop?" said the
one editor.

"Surely you will not allow such canting nonsense to go into the
paper?" said the other, "especially where the entire army has become
adept at the practice of looting Boer horses or exchanging worn-out
steeds for the fresher ones of friends."

Being a born diplomat I agreed with both my colleagues, praised both
their articles, and voted that both should ornament the columns of THE

I was in a position to behave with this impartiality. My character and
reputation at home forced me to the side of the indignant moralist,
and yet, on the other hand, certain episodes in my recent experience
inclined me to view the confessions of the horse-stealer with
leniency. More than once I had been forced to choose between walking
for days in the enemy's country or utilising horses that had been
abandoned by the Boers. If I were again placed in such a position I
would surrender myself a prisoner to the Boers rather than touch even
a little thing like a horse that did not belong to me. I have had time
to reflect, and I see how weak I was; but at that time I was in the
Boer country where stealing is called "commandeering," and seems a
trifling thing, rather creditable if practised successfully and with a
high hand. In justification of my course in commending the high, moral
view of my other colleague, I could say with pride that the horses I
had taken were both dead, and with them also disappeared the former
stain upon my character.

The happy combination of these points in common with both my
colleagues, enabled me to publish both their articles and bring them
back to the friendliest terms. So successful was I that we allowed our
feelings to carry us beyond the bounds of reason--that is to say, we
agreed to go to the Club and take a drink. It was a thing which no
intelligent man would lightly agree to do. The only liquid
refreshments then obtainable at the Club were enteric germs in water,
gin, vermouth, and port wine. It required an occasion of the first
importance to induce any of us to go to the Club, which was always as
crowded as an egg is with meat. All day, and until late in the
evening, the principal apartment barely afforded standing room. The
porch was equally well filled, and horses in dozens were tethered
before the house. It was the social exchange and rendezvous of the
officers of something like 80,000 men, and I can hardly believe that
anywhere in the world was there a club-house so constantly crowded.


_(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)_



Whereas it is deemed expedient and necessary for the welfare of the
Orange Free State that Postal and Telegraph Services shall be resumed
in the aforesaid Republic, as far as circumstances permit,


G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., V.C., Field Marshal and Commanding-in-Chief of the
British Forces in South Africa, do hereby nominate and appoint David
George Anosi Falck Administrator of the Civil Posts and Telegraphs in
such portions of the Orange Free State as have been, or may hereafter
be occupied by British troops. And I do hereby order that the Postal
and Telegraph services shall be resumed in the portions of the
aforesaid Republic already referred to, from the nineteenth day of
March, 1900, under the existing Laws and Conventions of the Orange
Free State, subject to such alterations as may from time to time be

Given under my hand at Bloemfontein this Seventeenth Day of March,


                     Commanding-in-Chief British Forces, South Africa.

       *       *       *       *       *


                                       BLOEMFONTEIN, _March_ 15, 1900.

I. _Civil Population to be unmolested._

It being desirable and in the interest of both the British Government
and the inhabitants of this country that all residents should be
assured that, so long as they remain peaceably disposed, their civil
rights and property will be respected, it is strictly forbidden that
any private property should be compulsorily taken possession of by
other than the authorised Supply Officers.

All articles required by the troops must be obtained and paid for in
the ordinary way, and no trespassing or interference with the
inhabitants will be permitted.

These instructions apply to detached bodies of troops as well as to
the Force generally, and it is especially the duty of all officers to
put a stop to all attempts to infringe them.

  By order,
                    J. W. KELLY,
                                   A.-G. for C. of Staff.

       *       *       *       *       *


                                       BLOEMFONTEIN, _March_ 14, 1900.

It affords the Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief the greatest pleasure
in congratulating the Army in South Africa on the various events that
have occurred during the past few weeks, and he would specially offer
his sincere thanks to that portion of the Army which, under his
immediate command, has taken part in the operations resulting
yesterday in the capture of Bloemfontein.

On the 12th February this force crossed the boundary which divided the
Orange Free State from British territory. Three days later Kimberley
was relieved. On the 15th day the bulk of the Boer Army in this State,
under one of their most trusted generals, were made prisoners. On the
17th day the news of the relief of Ladysmith was received, and on the
13th March, 29 days from the commencement of the operations, the
capital of the Orange Free State was occupied.

This is a record of which any army may well be proud--a record which
could not have been achieved except by earnest, well-disciplined men,
determined to do their duty and to surmount whatever difficulties or
dangers might be encountered.

Exposed to extreme heat by day, bivouacking under heavy rain, marching
long distances (not infrequently with reduced rations), the endurance,
cheerfulness, and gallantry displayed by all ranks are beyond praise,
and Lord Roberts feels sure that neither Her Majesty the Queen nor the
British nation will be unmindful of the effort made by this force to
uphold the honour of their country.

The Field Marshal desires especially to refer to the fortitude and
heroic spirit with which the wounded have borne their sufferings.
Owing to the great extent of country over which modern battles have to
be fought, it is not always possible to afford immediate aid to those
who are struck down; many hours have, indeed, at times, elapsed before
the wounded could be attended to, but not a word of murmur or
complaint has been uttered; the anxiety of all, when succour came, was
that their comrades should be cared for first.

In assuring every officer and man how much he appreciates their
efforts in the past, Lord Roberts is confident that, in the future,
they will continue to show the same resolution and soldierly
qualities, and to lay down their lives, if need be (as so many brave
men have already done), in order to ensure that the war in South
Africa may be brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

  By order,
          (Sd.)       W. F. KELLY,
                          Deputy-Adjutant-General, for Chief of Staff.

       *       *       *       *       *


                                       BLOEMFONTEIN, _March_ 16, 1900.

1. _Telegrams._

The Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief has great pleasure in publishing
the following telegrams which have been received:--

(_a_) From Her Majesty the Queen: "Accept my warmest congratulations
for yourself and those under you on your great success. Trust all
wounded doing well."--V. R.

(_b_) From His Excellency the High Commissioner: "In a spirit of deep
thankfulness I congratulate you and your gallant Army on the rapidity
and completeness of success which has attended the recent
operations--crowned by the occupation of the enemy's capital."--MILNER.

(_c_) From the Rear Admiral Commanding-in-Chief, Simonstown:
"My personal and Navy's heartiest congratulations on your

(_d_) From Chairman of the London County Council: "On behalf of
Metropolis, whence many of your brave soldiers have been drawn, I
congratulate your Lordship's having gloriously reached a point which
brings you one step nearer towards final success and peace."--DICKINSON,
Chairman of the London County Council.

(_e_) From the Lord Provost of Glasgow: "The Corporation of Glasgow in
Council assembled offer you and Her Majesty's troops under your
command their hearty congratulations on the success of your
operations, culminating in your occupation in the Capital of the Free
State, and their earnest hope for a speedy termination of the

2. _Distinction._

Referring to Army Order (of March 11, 1900), it is notified for
information that Her Majesty orders that all Irishmen, whether serving
in Irish Regiments or not, shall be allowed to wear the Shamrock on
St. Patrick's Day.

  By order,
               W. KELLY,

       *       *       *       *       *


The first hundred copies of our last issue--Saturday, March 17, were,
by accident, wrongly dated under the title on the front page.

The Editors are willing to pay Five Shillings each for a few clean
copies of this portion of the issue.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_N.B.--This article is privileged. The Provost Marshal cannot,
therefore, take proceedings against the author._)

When somewhere about the beginning of December I arrived at Modder
River, I think I may say I was as honest as the generality of
mankind. I do not remember any incident in my early childhood and
youth which could in any way have been cited as a proof that I had
predatory instincts. At home I never stole, at schools I never stole,
at Colleges I never stole, and during several years of wandering about
the face of the globe I never stole. But since I accompanied Lord
Roberts' force from Enslin to Bloemfontein I have stolen freely, and I
as freely admit it. Why? Ah, the answer to that question involves deep
ethical considerations, and cannot be answered right off. Let me tell
my tale, and I fancy that I shall receive the sympathy of most members
of the force, and even the Provost Marshal will no longer pine to hang

When I left Enslin I was the proud possessor of three fine
saddle-horses and two decrepit-looking but sturdy cart-horses. Now I
have to hire a man to repeat daily to me the number of my
riding-horses, and I drive about Bloemfontein with a spanking team. I
am aware that this confession will make the Provost Marshal's hair
stand straight on his head; but let him have a little patience. Let
him think what a glorious thing it is to find the one horse-thief in
the army. I calculate that about 5,000 horses have illicitly changed
hands during the advance from Modder River, and yet I have never found
a man who has not most indignantly denied the merest, slenderest
imputation of being concerned in a horse "transaction." Therefore--the
army is honest, and there is only one horse-thief in it. The honour of
the force is saved, and I am the only culprit. This is centralisation
with a vengeance, and no longer need the Provost Marshal send his
myrmidons galloping far and wide in search of horse-thieves. When next
he hears of the loss of a horse, let him come to me--the only thief. I
will let him know my address when Martial Law is replaced by the
ordinary procedure of justice.

But let me recount, to what, I hope, will be a sympathetic public, how
I fell from honesty into the blackest depths of dishonesty. At
Jakobsdal, Messieurs les Boers shot my finest horse. I was grieved
naturally, and hurt too, that a poor non-combatant should have been
treated so cavalierly. But "à la guerre comme à la guerre," I
whispered to myself, and hoped for better luck next time. I followed
the force from Jacobsdal to Klipkraal and Paardeberg, and at the
last-named camp I awoke one morning to find my sturdy black pony had
been taken quietly from under my very nose. I raved and stamped and
swore at the loss. My sympathetic black boy tried to console me. "If
master like," he said, "I go catch another horse." But so high and
pure was my morality at that time that I almost thrashed him on the
spot for daring to make such a suggestion. I walked away disconsolate,
and sought a friend whose ribboned breast showed that he had seen
service in every quarter of the globe. His answer to my request was
short and simple. "Go and see whether he is picketed with ---- Horse"
(wild rhinoceri will not drag from me the name of that gallant
regiment of M.I.). I went, and there conspicuously displayed in the
front rank of the tethered horses was my black pony. I did not
hesitate, but, blessing the members of ---- Horse for so kindly caring
for my poor wandering pony, I began to untie the ream of the halter.
But the watchful eye of one of the men was open, and I was startled
to hear a noise at my side say, "Well, upon my soul, this beats
cock-fighting. You come to the wrong shop if you think you can steal a
horse from _this_ regiment," and he roughly took the ream out of my

I protested. "The horse is mine," I said, "I'd know him anywhere."
"Get on," was the answer, "he belongs to my captain. Why, look at the
brand." And, sure enough, on my poor pony's quarters were three big
letters which represented, I suppose, his initials.

But I was in no way cast down. To go and explain to the officer that a
little mistake had occurred was, after all, quite an easy matter, and
I approached the gentleman who was sitting under a mimosa bush having
breakfast. I explained the matter to him, and asked permission to lead
my property home. But the captain roared with laughter. "Lead my horse
home?" he shouted in another burst of laughter. "I like that. Why, do
you know that the dam of that horse belonged to my Uncle Jim? He was
the first man in that part of the country. Why," and again he laughed,
"I remember when that black pony of mine was foaled. It was the 7th,
no--the 10th of October. I remember quite well, for three weeks after
we had a big garden party and all the ladies fell in love with the
little beggar because he ate bread and butter from their hands and was
the greediest beggar you ever saw after chocolate creams. Why, damme,
if I didn't take that pony home again, I believe my old governor would
cut me off with a shilling."

I stood aghast. What a fool, what a sanguinary fool I was to go and
make such a mistake. My apologies were ample, humble and profuse. But
as I passed the horse-lines again I could not help thinking how
singularly like my lost pony was the animal which, as a foal, so
amused the ladies at the garden party.

And then I did the foolishest thing I ever did in all my life. I
bought a new horse. Twenty-four hours afterwards it was claimed by
four different officers, and I narrowly escaped hanging at the hands
of the Provost Marshal, who at once ordered me to return the animal to
its rightful owner. I gave it up to the four claimants, and let them
decide among themselves the question of ownership.

And now I had but one pony left--and I guarded it as the apple of my
eye. But again the Fates were against me, and it went off--I do not
for a moment suggest that it was taken off. Again I tried ----'s Horse
and all the Regular and Irregular Corps in the force, and was
indignantly rebuked for daring to look for a stray horse in their
lines. And so I was reduced to walking to and fro at Paardeberg Camp.
But one fine afternoon, returning across the huge endless plain, I was
nearly ridden down by a subaltern, and as I glanced at the reckless
rider I saw that he was riding _my_ pony. I shouted and yelled to him
to stop, which he did.

"You are riding my pony," said I.

"I'm not," was the laconic answer.

"But I'm sure of it."

"So am I."

"Well, you're wrong this time. That pony is mine. I've had him for
three months and I know him as well as I know my own boots."

But there was never a blush on the face of the subaltern. The pony he
rode was, he admitted, of a very common type as regards colour and
height. And he discussed at great length the difficulty of recognising
horses. He told us that one of the greatest horse-dealers in London
failed to recognise a horse that he had himself ridden a whole year.
And then he drowned me in dates. The pony he was riding was bought for
the remount of December 13th, kept at Stellenbosch till January 4th,
arrived at De Aar on January 6th, was used there by a staff officer
who did not like him and sent him up to Orange River on February 1st.
On February 5th he became the property of the subaltern, who appeared
to have tethered the beast at night to his waist, so positive was he
that "he had never lost sight of the pony since."

What could I say? I couldn't call him a liar, for he was a tall,
well-made subaltern, and he might have knocked me down, so I let him
ride my pony away, and I trudged home to my camp beside the river.

Early next morning I collected all the servants and I addressed them
as follows: "I have not got a single riding-horse left, and I want
some; go and get some."

It was a laconic speech, but wonderfully effective. By five o'clock
that afternoon three grand beasts were standing under the shelter of
the river bank close to my camp, undergoing the different processes of
hogging, tail-cutting, dyeing and other forms of transformation used
by horse-stealers. In ten days I could have mounted a whole troop of
cavalry. I will confess that I was a bit frightened, when, at five
o'clock one morning, they brought me two magnificent chargers, for I
recognised them as the property of the Commander-in-Chief. But
although I delayed His Excellency's departure to Kimberley for an
hour, I succeeded in sending them back to his lines unperceived.

I now possess a splendid stud of saddle-horses. I find it so difficult
to feed them all, however, that it is my intention to offer them for
sale next Wednesday. The conditions of sale are the usual ones, but it
is to be distinctly understood that if any person dares to claim one
of the animals as his own he will be turned out of the enclosure with

       *       *       *       *       *



  So you've come, Mynheer Kiplin', so you've come:
  Wot a chap you are to foller up the drum!
  S'pose yer's gwine to make some verse?
  Well, there's lots wot does it worse,
  You'd 'ave made a better Laurrytte than some.

  We 'ave read your latest rimin' in the "FRIEND,"
  But it's finished up too soon toward the end;
  But the paper's raither small,
  Sure it's 'ardly none at all,
  If 'twere larger now 'twould be the bigger friend.

  Now I arsks yer, Mister Kiplin', ain't yer proud
  Of the "absent-minded beggars," how they've ploughed
  Through 'ard ground to "Bobsfontein,"
  Dorp of late departed Steyn,
  Ain't yer proud of this great ragged Kharki crowd?

  Glad to see yer, Mister Kiplin' and the "boys."
  Old Bloemfontein never knew such times--and noise,
  There's paradin', drillin'--and
  Every night we gets the band,
  And there's nothin' now our 'appiness alloys.

       *       *       *       *       *



Horse-stealing is becoming a grave scandal. It constitutes the one
blemish upon the otherwise excellent military régime that has been
firmly but unobtrusively imposed. From their grazing grounds, from the
rail in front of the Club, from the actual hands of Cape boys leading
them to or from their lines, horses have been stolen with as little
compunction as though they had been found grazing on the veldt.

In some cases marks have been obliterated and manes and tails cropped
by the thieves in the endeavour to conceal the identity of the animal,
and it is our duty to ask that an example shall be made of any person
found in the possession of a horse not his own, or from which such
marks or brands have been recently obliterated, or upon which others
have been recently imposed.

It must be apparent to any man of sense that a horse which is offered
to him by any person, white or coloured, for a nominal sum, is a horse
which that boy or person has no right whatever to possess or attempt
to sell, and any man purchasing under these circumstances must be held
to be an accomplice in the theft.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is earnestly to be hoped that, in felling necessary timber for the
use of the troops, all particularly fine or ornamental trees will be
spared. This district is sufficiently well wooded to supply otherwise
all requirements, and depends largely upon its timber for its

Mr. Kruger was being sped from the late Presidency when he recently
visited the front near Gallaiskop and Osfontein, and President Steyn's
parting remark was "Mind the British don't catch you, or you'll get a
better place in St. Helena than I." It is hardly necessary now to
remind the late President Steyn that many a true word is spoken in

It is not a little offensive to the ordinary British sense of the
fitness of things that a native should be parading the Market Square
in the red tunic of the Soldiers of the Queen. Yet this was to be seen
yesterday afternoon when the pipes were skirling their martial
strains, to the delight of all and sundry. The name of the
regiment--Shropshire--was plainly in evidence on the shoulder strap.

Lord Roberts's entry into Bloemfontein narrowly missed marking another
of those historical, dramatic episodes such as Cronje's Day afforded.
The British withdrawal from the Orange Sovereignty Territory actually
took place on March 11, 1846, the proclamation being dated February
23rd of the same year. The Queen's soldiers re-entered this town on
March 13th, only missing what would have been a wonderful coincidence
by less than forty-eight hours.

       *       *       *       *       *



In continuation of the Proclamation which I issued when the British
troops under my command entered the Orange Free State, in which I
warned all burghers to desist from any further hostility, and
undertook that those of them who might so desist, and were staying in
their homes and quietly pursuing their ordinary occupations, would not
be made to suffer in their persons or property on account of their
having taken up arms in obedience to the order of their Government, I
now make known to all burghers that I have been authorised by the
Government of Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen to offer the
following terms to those of them who have been engaged in the present

All burghers who have not taken a prominent part in the policy which
has led to the war between Her Majesty and the Orange Free State, or
commanded any forces of the Republic, or commandeered or used violence
to any British subjects, and who are willing to lay down their arms at
once, and to bind themselves by an oath to abstain from further
participation in the war, will be given passes to allow them to return
to their homes, and will not be made prisoners of war, nor will their
property be taken from them.

                                              Field Marshal,
        Commanding-in-Chief Her Majesty's Forces in South Africa.
  Government House, Bloemfontein,
        15th March, 1900.



     _A Flesh-and-blood Miss Bloemfontein resents my

"THE FRIEND" of March 20th contained five advertisements for stolen
horses, one of which described the favourite horse of one of the
editors: picturesque justice, some will say, for our light and
trifling attitude toward the growing evil of horse-lifting. The
editorial of the day, "Greater Britain," was one that I wrote, and the
note of it was this: "It has been said that each of the preceding
centuries during a long period of European history has ended in a
great war. This one which closed the nineteenth century is not, and
will not become, great, as wars are measured. But it will be recorded
as phenomenally important in having given birth to Greater Britain."

We had been offering five shillings each for copies of the "curio"
numbers of March 16th. We now raised the offer to ten shillings a
copy. A paragraph in the paper stated that a native (negro) police
force had been established in town, with badges bearing the letters
"B.N.P." "These police," we said, "have nothing whatever to do with
white people."

A few words upon the subject of the natives will not be amiss. It will
be remembered that even as the British troops were entering
Bloemfontein the negroes were engaged in looting a semi-public Boer
building. Lord Roberts felt obliged to stop the triumphal advance and
order his staff to drive the ruffians away. Two or more lords carried
out the order. After we had established ourselves in the town the
negroes were included with the white people in an order requiring them
to have passes when they entered or left the town, and in order to be
out of doors after nightfall. They deeply resented this, after making
themselves as obnoxious as they were ridiculous, by their complaints.
They said that they had always been friendly to the English, and had
hated the Boers for the way they had maltreated the blacks, but that
it seemed the English were little better than the Boers.

The truth is that from Capetown to Bloemfontein they had traded upon a
hatred of their Dutch masters, and, whether this was genuine or
assumed, they had endeavoured to turn it to their account in every
way. Everywhere that I found them they were too much impressed by the
importance which they assumed, and which we too often encouraged. We
paid them many times what was paid to "Tommy Atkins," and employed
them in preference to the poor whites. In return they were often lazy,
often impudent, sometimes treacherous. I know that they were too
freely welcomed when they ran from the Boer lines to ours, and I also
know that they sometimes ran back to the Boers with what they had
learned. The Afrikanders in our ranks and in our employ often knocked
them down for impudence, and the English were horrified; but I fancy
the Afrikander knew what he was about in dealing with this especial
sort of negro that followed the army.

Mr. Gwynne, in this day's issue, wrote a series of parodies of the
despatches of the correspondents of all the leading London and local
newspapers. It was the purest fun. It caricatured and exaggerated the
methods of each of us so cleverly as to make the series altogether
laughable and yet so as to suggest something recognisable in each
man's style.

Mr. F. Wilkinson, of the _Sydney Daily Telegraph_, wrote about the
Australians an article that is here reprinted. A correspondent of
whose name I am not certain continued from the previous day an account
of the expedition to the British forces southward of us. The article
was so interesting and full of local and military colour that I wish I
could give the author the credit he deserves.

The chief event of the day was the receipt of an angry answer to my
love letter to Miss Bloemfontein. Even as we read the copy we supposed
that some wag in the army had tried to perpetrate a joke upon us, but
Mr. Buxton came in and, finding us reading the letter, said that he
had received it from a leading man of Bloemfontein, whose talented
daughter had written it. She was an earnest adherent of the Boer
cause, and expressed her sincere sentiments in this letter, in which
she waived aside my protestations of our friendship with something
painfully like scorn. Her name was given to us in confidence, and we
published her letter with my reply, all agreeing that as she was
certain to write another answer, we would give her the last word, and
then close the episode.

We were able on this day to announce the establishment of a regular
daily train service to all points south. The country below had been
cleared of Boers, but the bridge at Norval's Pont was still a wreck,
and the trains ran over a temporary structure. Sir Henry Rawlinson
arrived in Bloemfontein and took up his quarters at the Residency with
Lord Roberts, who on this day announced that he would review the Naval
Brigade on the following morning.

We published these three informing paragraphs:--

     Note: the price of whiskey is 11s. a bottle, on a rising

     A French Canadian member of the R.C.R. was doing sentry-go
     one night at Enslin (Graspan). The countersign for the night
     was "Halifax." Presently there came a strolling soldier whom
     our gallant Canadian promptly challenged.

     "Who go dare?"


     "Advance, fren, and pace on--and say 'Haversack'--all is

There were many such sentry stories in circulation in the army.
Another one was to the effect that a Yorkshireman having to halt, and
demand the countersign of a man he knew very well, acquitted himself
of his task in these words: "Halt! who goes there. Say 'Majuba,' and
toddle along--isn't it all blooming nonsense?"

Finally, there was this one other paragraph especially full of the
local colour of our surroundings--

     A captured Free Stater tried to impress a sense of his
     importance upon his captor by declaring that he was a Field
     Cornet. "I don't care if you're a field big drum. You're my
     prisoner, and you'd better be very civil and come on."

       *       *       *       *       *



For one very obvious reason war corresponding has not had very much of
a vogue in past years with Australian journalists; in fact, the
fighting business altogether has been very much neglected. As a group
of colonies or a nation--which we hope to be almost immediately--we
are not old enough to invite anyone else to put up his hands, and we
are too far away to take more than a languid interest in other
peoples' scraps. We did send a contingent and a few correspondents to
the London Show, in '86 I think it was, but we only got there in time
to return and make ourselves look rather ridiculous. Since then the
"professional correspondent" might have starved and pined comfortably
to death for all the work he would be likely to get. He couldn't have
kept up the lecturing dodge with such long intervals between scraps.
We didn't even think it worth while to send to the Philippine show,
although it occurred almost at our very door.

You see, in some of our Australian legislatures we groan under the
inflictions of what are known as "labour parties," and labour parties
all the world over have a rooted abhorrence of anything which tends to
the maintenance of law and order. Labour parties, moreover, are
generally made up of men who have before their accession to Parliament
led some big anti-capitalistic agitation and they know what the
sensation is to find themselves confronted with rifles, and even
bayonets. Consequently they dislike the military element with a mortal
dislike. They make a dead set at raw military estimates every year,
and laugh to scorn the military spirit. From all of which it may be
inferred that war corresponding with us has not hitherto been one of
the most lucrative of professions. Rich squatters don't choose it as a
career for their sons, and poor people have still the Banks and the
Church and Parliament to fall back upon. Those of us, therefore, who
for our sins have been sent out of this show, come as mere "rooineks,"
or "new chums," to use the Australian equivalent. Strange to say, the
only one amongst us who was also in the Soudan received a mortal wound
the other day near Rensburg.

There is this to be said, however, in extenuation of our greenness to
the business, that our early training is of the sort which ought to
make for efficiency. The Australian pressman, like his cousin over
here, is a child of the bush. His "beat" covers some thousands of
square, solid, British miles. One day he is out in the wild West among
wilder shearers, beside whom the average Tommy is a mere circumstance.
There is trouble in station sheds, and wild, uncivilised war between
unionists and blacklegs. Blue metal in chunks buzzes past one's ears
as thick as Mauser bullets at Magersfontein; railway carriages are
quickly reduced to ruins, huts and grass fired for miles round; mobs
of unionists carry havoc on the luckless blackleg and let slip the
dogs of war--always blue metal. This is the stuff on which the
Australian pressman is fed up.

Next day he may be sent up to the flooded north: a river has burst its
banks and submerged some twenty miles of settled country; occupants of
single story houses find themselves high and dry on their roof-tops,
others have sought shelter in trees; their household goods float gaily
downstream alongside dead cattle and horses. Rescue parties in flood
boats pull frantically from house to house carrying provisions and
clothing for shivering women and children. These floods occur quite
frequently, and your pressman soon learns to live for weeks almost up
to his waist in water. He manages to boil his "billy" in the bottom of
his boat without springing a leak. He will make excellent "damper"
with arrowroot and Epsom salts if he can't get flour and baking
powder. He will ride anything which will go on four legs, and after he
has been lost on the trackless bush a time or two, he won't always
travel in a circle.

He has a standing engagement in an annual encampment where 5,000 or
6,000 troops are concentrated for nine days' continuous training, and
when general orders are issued beforehand notifying the exact time and
spot where an engagement will take place, between so-and-so
representing the enemy, whose position will be indicated by red flags,
and such and such regiments representing the attacking force, who may
be distinguished by blue flags. We manage those things better at
Easter manoeuvres than we do on service. Here, they don't send round
cards of invitation to correspondents when a fight is going to take
place. One has to chase round the country after it, fighting staff
officers on the lines of communication all the way. But that is
another story. Since our present illustrious Commander-in-Chief has
taken over the conduct of the campaign we haven't been able to raise
much of a grumble, and what happened prior to this is forgotten--at
least for the time.

                                               F. WILKINSON,
                                        _Sydney Daily Telegraph_.

       *       *       *       *       *



Come, tall Mr. Englishman, and sit down beside me, but for the love of
heaven, do not look into my eyes, lest they scorch you with a fiery
"hate of hate." The blue of mine eyes may be perilously near that blue
which men have named electric, and such an electric shock of scorn
would they shoot that you would wish yourself amidst the turmoil of
war again, some of whose bolts and bombs have taken the lives of our
fathers, brothers, friends! You will not wonder then that I do not
like your whole army or any part thereof, although it may have done me
the great and unwished-for honour of liking me--or you, the conqueror
of the land, which is mine by the same right as your little island is
yours--the right of old tradition which is so great a factor in the
history of nations, and in which our land abounds; the right of
residence which has been ours since our peacefully ruled and hitherto
prosperous little Free State was created--the right of love for the
land of our birth--the right of pride in our despised beaux, with
their homespun suits and lavish beards and whiskers, who have gone out
to fight with such bravery for their cause and country.

Surely, Mr. Englishman, you of all men should be able to appreciate
this factor in them, you who pride yourself on being the bravest man
of the bravest of living nations. Were this factor missing in them,
would you not have been here five long months ago? Surely you, I say,
should be able to overlook such small matters as the bad cut of their
coats and the length of their beards. You should know that greatness
does not lie in outward seeming.

Please do not say "Miss Bloemfontein tripped out to meet us so
enticingly;" say, rather, "little Miss Uitlander," who has, as you
rightly think, by no means hitherto scorned our homespun youths, and
to whom we extended a loving hand when she came, and who now, in
return for this, unnecessarily flaunts your colours in our faces, and
welcomes you too kindly. Much bitter sorrow was there, oh sir, when
you entered this loved home of ours; I and my sisters, who felt as
would your English dames, were another William Conqueror to take their
island home from them, lay in dumb anguish and writhed when the word
went forth, "we have fallen into bondage," "our enemy hath us in his
grasp"--and our cup of bitterness was more than full.

We do cling to our old love, who left us with much misgiving to your
tender mercies. Mr. Englishman, fain would he have stayed to protect
us, but that he had his command to go;--and this is another thing
which you, who think so much of discipline, should be able to
appreciate. Though for fear of your displeasure we must hide our
feelings, you are hateful to us, oh slayer of our brothers and taker
of our home!

We will not forget, Mr. Englishman, and are truly grateful to you,
that you behaved to us with common courtesy, and stood aside to let us
pass; but surely you, the politest of polite men, would not take
credit for that, which should be the birthright of all gentlemen. We
dwell not in times of Sabine sisterhoods, good sir!

And if little Miss Uitlander bathe you in smiles, and lisp pretty
nothings into your much-astonished ear, call but to mind that she
comes from your own "far countree," and has here learned this way of
welcoming the conqueror.

I am no Boadicea, say you. Oh, sir, you mistake grievously. I would
smite you with mine own hands, were I able. Did you perhaps not catch
a glimpse of me in General Cronje's laager, whither I went to share
the danger with my brother, and cheer him in his arduous task?

True it is that homely comfort abounds in our cottages, and should it
not be so? Perhaps there was a time too when your stately sister did
not scorn to keep house, instead of attending theatres, soirées,
musicales, at-homes. Evidently, Miss Uitlander forgot the divine music
of Queen's Hall and Covent Garden, when she crowded to do justice to
the awful and untuneful melodies, to which your English bandsmen
treated her on the Market Square. But you see "It is so long since she
left 'home,' and it is sweet to hear those sounds which come straight
from dear old England." I, sir, stopped my ears with cotton wool (for,
whatever Miss Bloemfontein is, she is musical, and even had I been
pleased to see you, I could never have allowed myself to be tortured
with those fragments of the divine art). Poor Pan! he stood afar on
the topmost steeple of the Dutch Church, and played his pipes and
wept, and had you not been so absorbed in "tripping to your gay
tunes," you might have heard faintly stealing over our ancient towers
"Heeft burghers t'lied der Vrijheid aan," while the organ within our
"piously Presbyterian" edifice echoed the anthem, which was caught up
by the instrument in your exclusively English cathedral, and Miss
Bloemfontein heard the echo and was comforted.

And now, Mr. Englishman, do you fully realise that I am not pleased to
see you, that I hate to have you here; I, a real daughter of the soil?
And if to-morrow I could turn you out, I would do so joyously, while
little Miss Uitlander would stand by, her lovely eyes moist with
grateful tears, and whisper, "That is right," or perhaps push you with
her tiny left hand, while she once more extended her right to my badly
dressed brothers, as they came over the top of the Bloemfontein Hill!

The gulf between the angry past and the still more angry present will
never be bridged, Mr. Englishman. You have made Afrikanderdom by
fighting us, and have awakened in our breasts the knowledge that we
are of another sort than yourselves. Only now, with the "Schwanenlied"
sounding in our ears, do we feel what it is to have a country--to be a

                                               MISS BLOEMFONTEIN.


DEAR MISS BLOEMFONTEIN,--If there is doubt about which young lady it
is who has made us welcome here, there is none at all about the
genuineness of your letter and yourself. Its sheets exhale the subtle
perfume of the mimosa flower, its strong, free writing reveals the
confidence, health, and high spirits of the graceful rider of the
veldt! Thank God (and thank you also, my dear) there is no line or
phrase of resistance to our suit in all your letter but has a tender
phrasing or carries a compliment--so that we know you do not dislike
us a tenth so much as you hate the thought of seeming light-of-love,
of feeling that we have dared to pity you, of fancying we think you
are to be won for the mere asking.

Sweetheart, that was a clumsy letter of ours if it ruffled your
maidenly sensitiveness with such misapprehensions. Henry V. was not
the only one, or the last, of us Englishmen who could war with men
better than he could woo women. And as Katharine looked through young
Hal's rough armour into his warm and loyal heart, so we ask you to do
with us.

Well, well! so it was your cousin, Miss Uitlander, whose azure eyes
and twining fingers sent me into my rhapsody of love, while you, the
true Katharine, the real princess, have held back, hid in some leafy
bower of your pretty capital. Ah, well, it was not her hand that took
our heart captive. It was not her eyes that slew us. What we loved was
the essence of your soul and spirit which breathed upon us from your
park-like seat, from your trees and gardens, from the pretty, happy
houses of your subjects. It was you we loved, dear neighbour, you
whom we have admired through all your youth and never quarrelled with
and never known to be at fault.

As I wrote on Saturday, we still stand aside and look upon your charms
of peaceful domesticity, all garlanded for your bridegroom. Still,
too, we see your selfish, scheming guardian of the past fleeing from
the wreck and ruin into which he has plunged your people. And we see
your sworn champions in similar flight, leaving you forlorn, deserted.
It is eminently womanly of you to defend these faithless gallants
rather than solicit pity for yourself. It is the true maidenhood in
you which makes you retire to your bower until you have forced us to
acknowledge your value and earn your love. If we misjudged you and
fancied you had tripped out to put your hand in ours, it was only
because we were so eager and so smitten. We like you better as you
are, shy and modest, proud and pure.

That deft touch of your pen upon the quality of our music--it was--I
mean to say we find no fault in you for--but, no, we may not be
disloyal, even to our pipes. It was the best we had to offer, and when
better comes from home we fancy that even you will cease to barricade
your pearly ears against it. We shall enjoy hearing Pan set your sighs
to melody. We promise not to drive him away; he shall ever play your
songs just as he trills the lays of ever so many fair maidens who
throng around our Queen, and who remember the chains she has stricken
from their limbs without for an instant forgetting the traditions
which still knit each to her past and her kindred in so many far

You speak of the "great honour" of our liking you. You extol our
bravery. You admit our "tender mercies" and our love of order. You say
you will not forget our courtesy to your people or our modesty. You
call us "the politest of polite men"--ah, dear little Afrikander, we
treasure each word in each of those sentences. We cannot help taking
heart of hope. If you can speak of us so fair to-day, when the
whispers of your old lover still sound in your ears, what may we not
expect in time to come? We will not try to hurry your heart, but we
warn you we shall melt it. For we love you, and there is no selfish
prompting, no hope of mercenary gain in our affection. We love you
because you are irresistible, even with your dimpled little hand
clenched, and, perhaps, partly because of the lightning that flashes
in your pretty eyes.

                                               JULIAN RALPH.

       *       *       *       *       *


On Thursday morning last a small force was despatched by train from
Bloemfontein to the South, in order to open up the country, to find
out the dispositions of the enemy between here and the Orange River,
and, if possible, to join hands with the British forces now operating
in the direction of Stormberg and Colesberg.

The force consisted of 4 guns and 66 men of the 84th Battery, R.F.A.,
21 mounted men of Roberts' Horse Bodyguard, 6 Grahamstown M.I., a
section of the M.R.E., and 2 battalions of Guards (3rd Grenadiers and
1st Scots), totalling about 2,100 men and 120 horses, besides vehicles
and mules sufficient to make the force mobile if required.

We moved off in 5 trains, the first being a short "breakdown" pilot
train in charge of Lieutenant Mozley, R.E., carrying an advanced party
of 51 Grenadiers under Capt. Clive. Ten minutes after, a full train of
Grenadiers, carrying in addition Major-General Pole-Carew, C.B.,
commanding the expedition, and his Staff; and the other three trains
carried the remainder of the force.

We were in hopes that there would be some parties of the enemy between
us and the Orange, especially as Edenburg was reported occupied; and
the country between that and the river ought to have been swarming
with Boers opposing the advance of Generals Gatacre and Clements. But,
as it turned out, we had no chance of loosing off even one round, and
our progress was peaceful and unwarlike in the extreme.

At Kaalspruit we met Lieut. Russell Brown, R.E., who had just returned
off an adventurous trip per train to Edenburg, which he had
reconnoitred in the dark when it was full of Boers. After that we
steamed slowly along, and reconnoitred Kaffir and Riet River Bridges,
with a view to their occupation if necessary.

As it was quite possible that stray Boers might walk into the
telegraph offices behind us and read off any messages going through,
we transferred the instruments to the safer keeping of the detachments
of Scots Guards we left at the bridges. The disconnecting of wires at
one of the stations was carried out by a highly distinguished and
zealous party of Grenadier officers, headed by the C.O. himself, but
the result was somewhat unfortunate, as messages refused to pass
through for some considerable time afterwards. Edenburg was
approached at dusk, but, thanks to a friend who told us that the enemy
had evacuated it, we had no need to use caution in so doing. On the
contrary, we were warmly welcomed on coming to a standstill, and found
a deputation of three ready to hand over the keys of the town and to
ask for protection.

The General received the deputation, consisting of the Landdrost, Mr.
Fourie, Mr. Groenwoud and the Clerk of the Council, graciously, but
demanded, as a guarantee of good faith, that all arms and ammunition
in the town and district should be given up. This was agreed to, and
messengers were despatched to the Commandant and two Field-cornets,
who lived some way off, to come in next morning at 6 and arrange the
matter with the General. A messenger was also sent to warn the
Fauresmith commando of 400 to 500 men, which was approaching the town,
that they had better disperse, as the British were in possession and
might fire on them if they came too near. The commando, had, however,
kindly anticipated the purport of this message, and had already melted
away on its own initiative.

Edenburg is a pretty little town, well supplied with water and
provisions of all sorts. But its chief possession must be acknowledged
to be a veritable Don Juan, to judge from the number of affectionate
letters addressed to him that were found among the budget seized at
the Post Office. This young man, who shall be nameless, must have
broken the hearts of numberless charming ladies. Letters from every
part of the Free State and a large portion of the Transvaal, some
couched in most amorous language, others upbraiding him for
faithlessness, all signed by names of the fair sex (mostly without
the addition of a surname) brought a hot blush to the brow of the
unfortunate officer whose duty it was to scan their contents. It was
past 1 a.m. before he had finished his work, but the fair writers may
rest assured that their missives will all reach their destination in
time, and their secrets remain locked in the breast of that particular
Staff Officer.

       *       *       *       *       *

_(Continued in the number of March 21st.)_

Early next morning the town was awakened by a series of violent
explosions, which caused several timid people to imagine that a
serious battle was raging. It was, however, caused by the burning of
67,000 rounds of ammunition which had been taken from the gaol and
court house and which were being destroyed by order. Five hundred
rifles were also taken, all of them Martinis, except twenty-one.

After arranging with Commander Cloete and the Field-cornets van der
Merwe and Roule the details of handing over the rifles, &c., to their
districts, the General proceeded on his way, and soon arrived at
Jagersfontein Road. Here we were met by a Union Jack and patriotic
inhabitants, but rapidly steamed on to Springfontein, on hearing that
General Gatacre had crossed the Orange River at Bethulie, and was
expected that morning at Springfontein Junction.

We arrived at this place at ten o'clock and, to our secret joy, found
no signs yet of a British occupation. We heard, however, that an
engine had brought two English officers thither from Bethulie on a
short visit the night before.

Shortly after arriving mounted scouts of Montmorency's Horse made
their appearance, and were followed by General Gatacre, who rode up,
somewhat surprised to find us already in possession. Cordial greetings
were exchanged between the Generals, and after a short stay we pushed
on in the direction of Norval's Pont, which we were assured had been
evacuated by the enemy 24 hours before.

On the strength of this information we left the three rear trains
behind, and pushed on through rapidly steepening country to Prior's
Siding. Here we were enthusiastically welcomed by the only
inhabitants, two Russian Jews, who so far allowed their feelings to
overpower their pockets as to present the General with a box of
excellent cigars in honour of the new flag.

Another half hour through a horrid defile brought us to Donkerpoort,
and at this uninviting station we found the vanguard of General
Clement's force. These had crossed the Orange River by means of a
pontoon bridge, flung across the river 2-1/2 miles below the great
bridge, and consisted of a squadron of Inniskillings, the 4th Field
Battery, 250 Australians, and some Infantry.

As we steamed slowly ahead, the extended lines of horsemen advancing
over the plain raised cheer after cheer, and we were moreover honoured
by a patriotic officer dismounting and taking a historical snapshot
with the ever-present kodak at the advancing engine. This latter, one
should add, was adorned by 4 officers sitting just over the
cow-catcher, who obtained an excellent view of the surrounding
country. Their admiration was, however, somewhat tempered by the
knowledge of a widely spread report that at certain places there
lurked under the line masses of deadly dynamite. Considerable caution
was at first observed at the culverts; but when the engine-driver
assured us that dynamite was hidden at one place only, and that place
known to him, we bade him proceed until within 50 yards of the spot,
and then halt. When within half a mile of the bridge, we asked whether
the fatal place was near at hand. Judge of our mingled horror and
relief when we heard that the miscreant driver had not recognised the
spot until within 5 yards of it, and had driven unwittingly over it at
full speed!

Except for a short glimpse a mile back, one cannot, from a train, see
the bridge broadways on. It was, therefore, difficult to estimate the
exact damage that had been done as we approached it, even when we had
walked out as far as we could go, and actually stood over the gap. The
wreck is terrific; 3 spans and one pier had been blown up and lay in
the water 100 feet below, connected with the standing part by a steep
and tangled wreckage of beams, girders, and iron. Three months at
least must elapse before the bridge can be thoroughly in working order
again; but a little bird has whispered in the ear of the writer that
by an ingenious series of connections from bank to bank a very large
amount of stores will shortly be passing across. Those Burghers who
refused twice, when ordered, to blow up the bridge, were wise men in
their generation, for its destruction will mean a much more serious
loss to the Free State than to the British troops.



     _Kipling's regard for "Tommy Poetry"--Our English as it was
     set up by Boer compositors._

"THE FRIEND" was an afternoon paper published at three or four or five
o'clock in the evening, according as the Dutch compositors chose to
get it out. We editors went to our tiny editorial room between nine
and ten o'clock in the morning, and worked until lunch time--one
o'clock--writing, seeing visitors, correcting proofs, and reading
manuscripts. What I have called "seeing visitors" mainly consisted in
turning away private soldiers who came for copies of the paper. Though
we posted notices that ours was the editorial room, and that papers
were to be had at Barlow's stationery shop, "Tommy" would insist upon
coming to us; therefore we gave up a large part of our time to sending
him away, now yelling at him, now bursting into expletives, and anon
pleading most politely that we were neither newsboys nor railway
bookstall keepers.

What I have called "reading manuscripts" was largely the work of
examining the poetry of this same Mr. Atkins, who, fired by the genius
of Mr. Kipling, is sometimes a better poet than you would think,
sometimes a worse poet than you can imagine, but is generally a
poet--of one sort or another.

We had good "Tommy" poets in our ranks; wherefore, when Mr. Kipling
came, he insisted that all soldier poetry should be religiously read,
and the best of it published. He pored over miles of it. At the idea
of re-writing and improving Tommy's verse he was pained, and when Mr.
James Barnes, on one occasion, spent half a day in putting a "Tommy"
poem into Queen's English, Mr. Kipling was righteously indignant, and
spent an hour in getting it back to Tommy's vernacular. But we are
coming to Mr. Kipling presently.

The rest of the time of all except the man who wrote the leader of the
day was spent in correcting the typographical errors of the Dutch
compositors, who, by the way, could make more numerous and more
dreadful mistakes in type than ever an intelligence officer made in
getting news of the enemy. The consequence was that we often took up
the first paper that reached us from the presses, and with a sigh
assured each other that it was almost wholly given up to bad verse and
printers' errors.

At noon during these early days one of us would gather up all the
proofs that we could get from the printers, and march over to Lord
Stanley's office to have them censored. He was so considerate and
liberal that this soon proved a mere formality. I think he must have
regarded the eccentric but interesting journal as a child of his own,
or at least as one whose parentage he would be too polite to dispute
if Lord Roberts claimed it. We used to hear how very much the great
Field Marshal, also, was interested in it; how eagerly he secured his
copy every day, and how much he liked all that it contained. A visitor
at the Residency told us that one afternoon Lord Roberts saw an
officer reading THE FRIEND, and called to one of his staff: "I see a
man in there reading THE FRIEND. How is it I have not had my copy?"
The officer's paper proved to be a copy of an earlier number, so that
the Field Marshal's wounded pride was healed. But we liked that story;
we liked it very much indeed.

Our fifth number, published on March 21st, began with Mr. Gwynne's
hearty leader on Rudyard Kipling, who was expected to reach
Bloemfontein on that day. Mr. Gwynne also wrote one of his
characteristic satirical articles on "The Soberest Army in the World."
Mr. Landon contributed a lively and picturesque narrative of the
principal feat our despatch riders had performed up to that time, and
I perpetrated a modest bit of reporting on South Africa's
attractions--an article of greater interest here and now than it was
then and for our army readers.

We had made it known that private soldiers would be charged only a
penny for the paper, the original threepence being demanded solely of
officers. In this way we hoped to earn a greater profit than by
shutting out of our trade the humble private, to whom a threepence (a
"ticky," as it is called in Africa) sometimes appears as big as a
cart-wheel. But our new plan brought us a lot of trouble--especially
of the kind you feel when you know you are being done out of something
and yet cannot help yourself. The fact was that the officers encamped
at a distance sent in their servants for their papers, and these
messengers, being privates, only paid a penny for each paper. Then,
again, the officers were dressed so nearly like the men that the
newsboys and assistants in Barlow's shop could not distinguish them
apart, and charged many of the officers the penny of the private. This
annoyed us, because we were intent upon making as much money as
possible in order to turn over a handsome sum to a soldier charity
when we should end our stewardship--for not a penny did we mean to
keep for ourselves. Mr. Landon wrote a strenuous appeal to the
officers to help us to get our just dues. To the same paper Mr. A. B.
Paterson, of the _Sydney Herald_, contributed a very clever bit of
verse, entitled, "Fed up." He was one of the contributors of whom we
were most proud--and justly so.

In this day's paper there were seventeen notices of horses
lost--presumably stolen, but a close scrutiny of all horseflesh was in
progress, and in the same column with the wails of the robbed was a
notice of the recovery of twenty-one horses--none of them being the
same as any of the lost that were advertised for. The Provost-Marshal,
Major R. M. Poore, on this day announced that every native with a
horse must carry a certificate proving that the animal was his own. He
also declared that every person possessing any property of the Orange
Free State Government--horses, mules, oxen, or anything else--must
quickly hand it up.

Lord Roberts reviewed the Naval Brigade on the preceding day, and we
had a report of it showing how splendidly Captain Bearcroft's command
appeared. The late Admiral Maxse, out there on a visit, witnessed the
review, and said that it was the first one he had attended since the
Crimea, when he acted as naval A.D.C. to Lord Raglan. This review gave
us all one of our rare chances of seeing Lord Roberts, for he went out
but little, and even at such times hurried directly to his
destination, returning with as little loss of time. Every man, of
every rank, saluted him, and he was scrupulously careful to return the
salute even of the bugler boys. It was said to be surprising to note
how many men he knew of all ranks, and how watchful and observant he
was. "You managed that very cleverly," he would say to a man in
conflict with unruly horses; or he would reprove a soldier for
untidiness in dress. Nothing escaped his restless eyes.

He wore no decorations of any kind, and I have even heard it said that
not every coat of his was decked with gilt buttons--though this I
repeat only upon hearsay. I can testify, however, that no man more
modest and making less of his rank was in his army. I always saw him
in plain khaki with that badge of mourning upon one sleeve which gave
us all a keener thrust in our emotions than even the hardest felt
losses of comrades and acquaintances which befell us all so

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)




To-day we expect to welcome here in our camp the great poet and
writer, who has contributed more than any one perhaps towards the
consolidation of the British Empire. His visit is singularly
appropriate. He will find encamped round the town not only his friend
Tommy Atkins, but the Australian, the Canadian, the New Zealander, the
Tasmanian, the volunteer from Ceylon, from Argentine, and from every
quarter of the globe. He will see the man of the soil--the South
African Britisher--side by side with his fellow colonist from over the
seas. In fact, Bloemfontein will present to him the actual physical
fulfilment of what must be one of his dearest hopes--the close union
of the various parts of the greatest Empire in the world. His visit,
therefore, will have in it something of the triumph of a conqueror--a
conqueror who, with the force of genius, has swept away barriers of
distance and boundary, and made a fifth of the globe British, not only
in title, but in real sentiment.

We, belonging to that portion of the Press to which is assigned the
duty of witnessing and chronicling the deeds which make history,
extend to the illustrious writer a welcome, sincere and whole-hearted.
We feel, all of us, that his brush alone can do complete justice to
the wonderful pictures of war which we have been privileged to see.
We, who have been with Tommy Atkins on many a hard campaign, have long
ago come to love him for his quiet, unostentatious courage and his
patient endurance of hardships; but we feel that Mr. Kipling alone can
translate to the world the true inwardness of Tommy's character. We
feel sure that the Mulvaneys, the Learoyds, and the Ortherises will
welcome him as heartily as we do, and we are hopeful that this fresh
meeting of Tommy Atkins and perhaps the only man who rightly
understands him, will be productive of fresh pictures of the British

       *       *       *       *       *



The force which, under the command of Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, left
Enslin and occupied Bloemfontein will undoubtedly be known in history
as the "Sober Army." Never before in the history of campaigning has
there been known such an absence of excess in the way of drinking--and
eating too, as far as that is concerned. Some people have dared to
cast aspersions on the British army by insinuating that drunkenness is
not unknown among its members. They have even gone further and
declared that officers and men are very fond of their "tot" or their
"pint" or their whisky and soda. I only wish some of these
calumniators could have accompanied Lord Roberts' force. They would
have recanted on the spot, and returned home convinced that the
British army was not only the finest but the soberest in the world.

Their excessive sobriety and wonderful self-restraint in the face of
temptation rather tempts one to delve deep down for the psychological
reasons. I have myself made inquiries, but I must confess that I am at
a loss for a real reason. My firm belief is that the British soldier
is so actuated by a deep sense of duty that, having come to the
conclusion that hard drinking and hard fighting were incompatible, he
promptly dropped the former and devoted all his energies to the
latter. It would have been expected that at the end of a long, dusty
march the men would have, immediately after being dismissed, made a
rush for the canteen. Nothing of the sort. They sat down to tea and
coffee and left the canteen waiters kicking their heels doing
nothing. It is true one or two soldiers have told me that they
couldn't find the canteen; but the majority of the men chose, of their
own free will, to ignore its existence, and actually never looked for
it. But this noble continence, this splendid self-restraint has been
very nearly spoilt by the folly and wickedness of some of the
authorities. They actually issued rum to the men at intervals. Now one
of Tommy's greatest virtues is obedience. He was ordered to drink rum
and he did it--just as he advanced against a kopje spitting forth lead
when he was ordered. But the task of swallowing the hateful stuff was
distasteful in the extreme. I have seen him take his mug and get his
tot and then look at his officer as much as to say, "Must I really
take it?" The officer's answering glance was invariably a command
which poor Tommy could not disobey, and he tossed off the liquor with
one gulp to get it over all the quicker, and then held his mug upside
down to show he had done the deed.

One would have thought, indeed, that this wonderful self-restraint
would be destroyed in the wild rush of joy with which the army was
filled the night that Cronje surrendered. Not a bit of it. The men
lying on the soaking ground never touched a drop of alcohol, although
many would say that the victory of our arms deserved an alcoholic
celebration. But that night the canteens were as deserted as ever. One
man, and one man only, fell. He was an officer's servant, and was
discovered gloriously happy, delightedly drunk. His comrades kept
hitting and punching him and asking him where he had found the liquor,
it evidently being their firm intention to destroy it. He refused,
however, to answer a word until his master found him and, seizing him
by the shoulder, shook him, and exclaimed with eager face, "Good
Heavens, Jones, where the devil did you get it?" And Jones answered
drunkenly to an eager crowd of expectant officers and men, "Meth'lated
Shpirits, Shir. I'sh found it in waggon."

Whereupon ten eager voices asked--

"Is there any left?"

"No; finished whole blooming lotsh."

And then his comrades gently kicked him for a cur.

       *       *       *       *       *


_To the Editors of_ "THE FRIEND,"--GENTLEMEN,--I have read with much
of interest one article in one of your last issues touching the steal
at the horses.

As a veteran of the war of 1870, I think that this would be of
interest towards much of your abonnés if I should write some words of
my proper experiences.

It appears by the article in the number of THE FRIEND of the 19th that
the writer desires to carry to the observation of those who themselves
find in authority, that by their proper negligence he has been forced
to become that which you other English call jail-bird.

Now I have made the war of 1870. I was dragon. I have suffered the
same privations and I have smelt the same difficulties on the question
of horses, but never I not have failed of myself to find without horse
of war. This without myself to boast.

I not desire to blame the author of this article praiseworthy, who, as
he appears to wish to himself efface, in myself offering as
counsellor, but since, as to myself seems that he wishes to hold one
sale of his animals that it is all this that he has of most imbecile
of to announce on the roofs his crime.

An officer of dragons in 1870, I was having at the month of the June
twenty horses of the first quality, grand, strong, majestic animals,
worthy of to carry one officer of dragons in battle against those
canailles of Prussians.

At the month of September after Sedan he not me was remaining nothing,
and I not was having not even the means of me to save in Belgium.

What to do!--Officer French not is able not to render himself. Ah! not
know I not the anguish of himself to find without horse. What have I
done? To steal, no! This was indignant of officer. To buy, no! I of it
not was having not of what. I was aperceiving in the distance one
horse of officer of the Estate Major. This was the horse of my poor
friend Gu-gu, evidently killed or gravely blessed. If if not, why not
was he not, the brave gar, mounted on his horse, directing the flight?
In one instant I myself was launched thereon without hesitation. To
save the horse favourite of my poor friend dead Gu-gu was my first
thought. In rending to his corpse this little service I was rending to
my patrie one service again more grand. I myself was reserving for one
death more épouvantable. Then, since that he is possible of to find
the horses of friends blessed, for what himself to submit at the
stigma of to be accused of to be thief. More late, when one wishes to
sell the horses, one himself finds in face of one difficulty
inextricable, if the proper proprietor himself finds upon the market.

Gu-gu I have found more late in Paris, it is true, but we have eaten
the good horse together like good comrades.

Agree my compliments most respected,

                                             M. VOL AU VENT.

(The Editors, for obvious reasons, divest themselves of any
responsibility for the opinions held by our distinguished Gallic

       *       *       *       *       *


_The Cavalryman's Growl._


  I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most;
  I'll take my turn in open fight and die beside my post.
  But riding round the whole day long as target for a Krupp,
  A-drawing fire from koppies--well, I'm quite Fed Up!

  There's not so many men get hit--it's luck that pulls us through,
  Their rifle fire's no class at all--it misses me and you;
  But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup
  From that there bloomin' pom-pom gun--well, I'm Fed Up!

  We never gets a chance to charge--to do a thrust and cut--
  think I'll chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.
  But, after all, what's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day,
  They occupied a koppie when the Boers had run away.

  The Cavalry went ridin' on, and seen a score of fights,
  But there they stuck, those Mounted Fut, for seven days and nights--
  For seven solid days and nights--with scarce a bite or sup,
  So when it comes to Mounted Fut--well, I'm Filled Up.

  And trampin' with the Footies ain't as pleasant as it looks--
  They scarcely ever sees a Boer, except in picture books.
  They make a march of twenty mile, which leaves 'em nearly dead,
  And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty mile ahead!
  Each "Footy" is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,
  But walking forty miles to fight--well, I'm Fed Up!

  So, after all, I think that when I leave the Caval-ree
  I'll have to join the Ambulance, or else the A.S.C.
  There's always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup;
  But bully beef and biscuits--well, I'm fair Fed Up!

       *       *       *       *       *


There appears to be some general misapprehension as to the
authenticity of the letter written by "Miss Bloemfontein" in our
issue of yesterday. The Editors wish to state that the communication
in question was written by a lady, a member of a well-known family in
this city, and undoubtedly reflects with wit and frankness the feeling
of many of those to whom the abandonment of this place to the British
forces has been a bitter disappointment.

       *       *       *       *       *



The newspapers of the world published a notice of the surrender of
Bloemfontein on the evening of Thursday, March 15th.

The Boers had wrecked the telegraph line to the south of the town; to
the west the field telegraph was useless; yet perhaps not one reader
in ten millions stayed a moment to wonder how the news had reached

When Lord Roberts left Doornboom the entire expedition was _en
l'aire_. Telegraphic communication was at the mercy of the passing ox
or the malicious passer-by, rain and wind were almost equally
destructive, and the inevitable breakdown occurred. The wire, aërial
or earth-borne, was useless in forty-eight hours, and, so far as outer
communication was concerned, Bloemfontein and all around and within it
might have been Tristan d'Acunha.

But the London papers published the full account of the surrender on
the second day after the capitulation.

The manner in which news was sent to the English papers may perhaps
be of interest. It must be remembered that there was then no
communication with the south. It was impossible to pick up the cut
wire north of Norval's Pont. The line from Kimberley to Boshof lies,
even as we write, in a cat's cradle on the veldt. There was no
option--the telegrams must be sent through Kimberley and by despatch

Perhaps it is truer to say that one or two London papers did so, for a
certain number relied--and with justice--on the recuperative powers of
Captain Faussett and his myrmidons of the wire.

To ride a hundred miles across the veldt against time, and against at
least two other competing riders, through the enemy's country, and at
a moment's notice, is not the least exciting occupation that can be
chosen by a light-weight searching for a new sensation.

It combines the certainty of hardship and discomfort with the
possibility of being shot; and over and above all is the pressing need
of saving every minute of time.

Three despatch riders set out from Bloemfontein during the evening of
Tuesday or the earliest dawn of Wednesday. First in order of starting
was the _Times_ messenger, second that of Reuter's Agency, third came
the "angelos" of the _Daily Mail_.

From Bloemfontein to Kimberley is, as we have said, a distance of a
hundred miles. It is best understood by a Londoner by suggesting the
comparison that he should be compelled to ride to Hereford every time
he wished to despatch a telegram.

Out from the isolated city the messengers went, making their way in
the darkness or in the dawn over the red slushing tracks that had
suffered the steady downpour of the night's rain, till, by whichever
road they had moved out of Bloemfontein, they met at the battle-ground
of Driefontein.

From that point onwards the struggle became keen, and the breakdown of
a horse meant a delay that might perhaps be reckoned in days rather
than hours. The public that glances casually at the telegrams of their
morning papers does not often realise the importance of a few minutes
to the correspondents whose work they are reading. In this case,
besides the ordinary delay, the lonely riders that were making way
across the veldt had to spur them on the risk of finding the Field
Telegraph repaired before they could reach the Diamond City, and the
cable blocked with messages sent over their heads from Bloemfontein.

Early in the great race the _Times_ rider met with disaster. The horse
he rode fell, and, though the injury seemed slight enough at the time,
never properly recovered itself, causing a delay of some hours before
the next relay could be reached.

But the _Daily Mail_ was still more unlucky. Starting last of all, the
well-known light-weight who carried the fortunes of the "largest
circulation of this earth" made his way forward through the fading
light of Wednesday, gaining rapidly on his predecessors, and,
confident in the excellent provision made for him, was getting out of
his mount the last pound of pace, when a cut corner flung him against
a barbed wire fence, which so terribly lacerated his leg that further
riding was out of the question.

Binding up his scratches as best he might, he found himself compelled
to walk back thirty-five miles to Bloemfontein, unable to ride, and at
the journey's end almost unable to stand.

So the _Times_ and Reuter--each armed with a duplicate despatch from
the Commander-in-Chief--were left to compete for the contingent
advantage of getting first into Kimberley.

And now was done a notable achievement. Browning, in his poem, "How we
brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," has chosen, by an odd
accident, exactly the distance which divides Kimberley from
Bloemfontein; but we can rest assured that the "good news" of the
capture of the Boer capital sped on as fast as ever went the news
across the flat plains of Flanders.

Over the grey sage-brush of the veldt, over the high, dry grass, under
the rare shade of poplar trees, where the horse was watered, along the
red crumbling road or the mere beaten wheel track where a thousand
waggons and twenty thousand animals had worn a temporary track, the
hurrying hoof of the courier's mount lessened the long distance
between the capital of the O.F.S. and the end of that wire of which
the other lies in the capital of the world.

In the afternoon of Wednesday three bullets whistled past the rider of
the Agency, and the newspaper's courier had a similar experience at
the same spot as he passed a little later.

It soon became obvious that there was no possibility of getting into
Kimberley in time to send the despatches before the office closed for
the day, and the _Times_ despatch rider took the latter stages of the
journey more easily. Reuter's man,[1] however, continued his ride at
his utmost speed, and actually achieved what will long remain a
record, travelling the entire distance on three horses in twenty hours
and twenty minutes.

[Footnote 1: Gilbert H. Stevens.]

The need for such lengthy despatch riding luckily seldom occurs, as
the expense is one of the heaviest items that can be incurred by
newspaper representatives on behalf of their papers; only in the very
exceptional circumstances in which the war correspondents found
themselves at the capture of Bloemfontein would the enormous
expenditure be justified.

[Illustration: Who the deuce set this hash up. Find out. RK Proper
names ought to be capped throughout but it's no use with this staff.



A discriminating b[B]oer having laid a nestful of valuable and
infy[o]rming eggs, fled across the horizon under pressure of necessity
ler[a]ving his nest in a secli[u]ded spot where it was discovered
by a disinterested observed[r] who reported the same to an
i[I]ntee[l]liga[e]nce o[O]fficer. The latter arriving at his leisure
with a great pomposite[]y said "s[S]ee me hatch![;]" A[a]nd sitting down
without reserve convo[e]rted the entire output into i[a]n unnecessaru[y]
omelette. After the mess was removed, the disinterested obso[e]rver
observed:--"h[H]ad you approached this matter in anu[o]ther spirit you
might hu[a]ve obtained valuable information." "That," [quote] replied
the i[I]ntelligence o[O]fficer, "sho[ow]s your ne[a]rrow-minded
prejudice. Besides I am morally certain that those eggs co[a]me out of a
my[a]re's nest." "It is now too late to enquire" said the disinterested
observer, "i[a]nd that is a pity." "But am I not an intelligent
officer?" S[s]u[a]id the i[I]ntelligence o[O]fficer. "Of that there can
be no twe[o] opinions," said the disinterested observer. Whereupon he
was sent down.

Moral. _Do not teach the i[I]ntelligence to hatch [suck] eggs_

_A Corrected "Proof" by Rudyard Kipling._

(_Giving a glimpse of the struggle between the editors and the Dutch



     _A chapter which introduces a Prince, and tells of our
     Appeal to the whole Army to write for_ THE FRIEND.

The next day's issue, that of March 22nd, was the best-looking number
we had produced. We dropped those little frames on either side of the
title of the paper which journalists call "ears" or "ear-tabs," so
that the front page looked dignified and ship-shape, and the title
read simply THE FRIEND, without its former addenda of "Playing cards"
and "Cue tips." In place of these we printed the royal coat-of-arms.
This issue contained a heart-felt eulogy of Sir W. S. A. Lockhart by
the Field Marshal.

General Kelly in Camp Orders declared that hereafter horse thieves
would be severely dealt with, and there appeared a notice by Prince
Francis of Teck, "Staff Captain, Remount Department," that the army
desired horses of certain ages and a certain height, as well as agents
to buy them.

This reminds all who were at Bloemfontein how the Prince came and put
up at the Bloemfontein Hotel, and began to fill up an immense yard
just on the edge of the town with a marvellous collection of veldt
horses, all of which, I understood, he succeeded in buying at £25
apiece, though I had just paid £100 for a pair, and most men were
giving £40 at the least for every horse. The Prince worked like a
beaver all the time he was at Bloemfontein.

There went to the stalwart and kindly Prince one day an artist who
said he desired to surrender two mules which did not belong to him. It
was not the truth that he desired to give them up, nor was it out of
politeness that he told the falsehood. The fact was that the army had
taken his horses and left him a pair of feeble, poorly animated steeds
of the clothes-horse pattern, which gave out on the long road between
Poplar Grove and Bloemfontein. At the same time two healthy mules,
astray on the veldt, evinced a yearning for human companionship, and
insisted upon intruding themselves upon the company of the artist and
his Basuto servant while they were preparing lunch. To go on with his
own weak and sick animals was to invite a loss of locomotive power in
a country infested with Boers. To make use of the fresher mules was
the natural and obvious alternative. Therefore the artist abandoned
his horses and went on with the mules. Arrived in Bloemfontein, he at
once continued his travels by joining the "bill-sticking expedition"
of General French over to Thaba N'chu and the region beyond.

"Bill sticking," by the way, was how the officers nicknamed the
distribution of copies of Lord Roberts' proclamation calling on the
Boers to lay down their arms and sign a promise not to continue the
war. When the artist returned to Bloemfontein he was met by friends
who said that he would certainly be shot if he was found to be using
animals that did not belong to him. Lord Roberts had grown angry, it
was said, and had exclaimed aloud that no matter who or what the man
might be, the next offender in this respect should be shot. It was
this stentorian cry, and not the still, small voice of conscience,
that sent the artist to the Prince, to whom he told the truth and made
formal surrender of the mules.

"And very nice indeed it is of you," said the Prince, "very honest and
straightforward. I will send some one to get the mules this

"But, I beg pardon," said the artist, "now everything's all right,
isn't it? The mules were not mine, and I have surrendered them, and
there's no trouble to follow?"

"No, indeed," said Prince Francis, "I am much obliged to you. Animals
are very scarce and we need all we can get; so very good of you to do
as you have done."

"Well, now," said the artist, "won't you please let me keep the mules?
The Army stole my horses and left me a broken-down pair. I had to turn
them loose and take these mules or I should have been killed or
captured by the Boers. I have nothing else to move on with. I wish you
would let me keep the mules."

"Really," said the Prince, "I cannot do that. I never heard such a
proposition in my life. I have no authority to do as you ask. Upon my
word, this is most extraordinary. Come, I'll tell you what I will do.
I'll see that you get a pair of animals at the Army price. I can't
sell them to you or buy them for you, but I can have a pair put aside
for you to buy of somebody who brings them in to sell."

No one who was not there can form any idea of the extent to which this
looting or commandeering of horses was then being practised. They were
stolen not only from in front of the Club--the busiest spot in the
heart of the town--but from before the headquarters of Lord Roberts,
and from in front of the hotels. Men were desperate; so many were
without horses. Sicknesses, slaughter, and overwork had left us with
less than half the animals we needed.

At about this time an American correspondent who was never guilty of
taking even an abandoned Boer horse, but who had purchased a fine
animal of a negro on the veldt for five shillings, became very nervous
over his purchase. He went to the stable and with the help of his
servant clipped the animal close, so that it no longer resembled the
long-haired beast he had bought. Then he went out into the street and
met a Boer, who accused him of having taken his horse and who exactly
described the animal in question. The Boer said he would report the
case to Major Poore, the Provost-Marshal. The now frightened
correspondent came to my room with his burden of sorrows, and stated
his case to the company of officers, correspondents, and
despatch-riders then present.

"The Boer's name is Voorboom," he said, "and he is in earnest. I
suppose I shall be sent home in disgrace."

At the mention of the name three men spoke up saying that of all the
rascals in need of a hanging this Voorboom was the sorriest. One had
seen Boer combatants in Voorboom's house, another had seen Voorboom's
brother trundling into a clump of bushes an English carriage which he
had stolen; a third had met Voorboom and his negroes riding far and
wide gathering up loose horses--English or Boer--which he was
undoubtedly now bringing to town to sell to the Army.

"Give him an hour in which to leave town or go to jail at Simon's
Bay," said a Colonel, ending the incident.

Mr. Kipling was in town at last and had promised us his assistance,
but we could not then know whether this would be great or little; we
could not have hoped or dreamed that it would prove a quarter or a
third part of all our work, as it did. On the other hand, we were only
too painfully aware that very little aid was being vouchsafed us. We
found ourselves with a great newspaper on our hands, a newspaper with
a gaping void of terrible dimensions. "Reuter" had promised its
despatches to us, but these were not allowed on the crowded telegraph
wires for days at a time, as it proved, and the whole burden was upon
us, joined to the necessity we felt to do our full duty to our
newspapers at home--one at least of which demanded a despatch every
day and four letters a week if possible. The army had been counted
upon for valuable and voluminous help, and it was practically sending
us in nothing. Mr. Landon reminds me that within an hour of Mr.
Kipling's arrival in Bloemfontein he went to him and said (with
considerable trepidation): "We have put you down as an editor of THE
FRIEND, and we have announced it." Then Mr. Landon held his breath and
waited. "Well," Mr. Kipling replied, "I should have been mortally
offended if you had not. Where's the office? I want to go to work as
soon as I have finished my grape jam." He did literally go straight
to work. As he entered our editorial dustbin he sniffed the mingled
odours of ink, wet paper, and dust, and said, "It's quite like old
times in India." It was agreed that I should stir up the consciences
and pens of all our friends and readers in an ink-blast, fierce and
loud. I did this in the editorial of the day entitled, "The Silent

     Other armies (I wrote), have always been distinguished by
     brilliant raconteurs. Other armies have always contained a
     plenitude of wits and humorists. Other armies have been
     noted for the abundance of funny anecdotes with which chum
     assailed chum and battalion guyed battalion. Other armies
     have taken note of the more striking deeds of prowess, of
     valour and of strategy which have been done among their
     members; and other armies have boasted poets grave, poets
     gay, poets rollicking, and poets who dedicated their verses
     to their mistress's eyebrows.

     Alas! none of these things has this poor army--so poor in
     wit and literary talent, however rich it be in courage,
     patience, dogged persistence and proud victories.

     This army is like a sponge for taking what entertainment the
     sweating editors of THE FRIEND will give it. It is like a
     barnacle for fastening itself upon us and fattening its dead
     weight upon this little literary bark. It is like a horse
     behind our waggon, which was built, like most vehicles, to
     have its horses in front. It is like the veldt around us in
     its capacity to swallow any amount of refreshing rain and
     yet appear as dry in four hours afterwards as if it were the
     pavement of that place which can only be referred to by the
     use of one particular anecdote, which is as follows:--

     "If I owned Satandom and South Africa," said a Canadian
     Tommy at Modder River, "I would rent out South Africa and
     live in Satandom."

     But we nearly digressed--a sin unpardonable in an article so
     important as this, written hot upon the impulse of suffering
     and keen feeling.

     The committee of war correspondents with Lord Roberts' army,
     who undertook to conduct, for the first time in history, a
     full-fledged complete daily newspaper published in an
     enemy's capital two days after the conquest thereof, are all
     busy men in their own line of industry. They have constant
     daily work to do, they are trusted by their own newspapers
     to devote their whole talents and energies to the interests
     of the public at home. Nevertheless they have turned aside
     to conduct this newspaper, they are doing so, and will
     continue to do so to the day the army pushes on and away.

     But in undertaking this task their idea was that they merely
     had to start the paper and give it a momentum, after which
     the army would turn to and flood the editorial sanctum with
     tales of humour, wit, and prowess writ upon sheets
     numberless as the leaves of Vallambrosa.

     The reader will gather that this has not yet taken place. He
     will infer that the war correspondents are, like the last
     rose of summer, left blooming to ourselves. True, two or
     three generous and gifted souls in the army have come nobly
     into the breach with contributions; but the breach is nine
     columns wide--nine columns that persist in emptying
     themselves as fast as we fill them; in fact, nine columns
     which become fifty-four columns between each Monday and the
     succeeding Saturday. It is on this account that when the two
     or three generous and talented army men flung themselves in
     the breach, the breach was not aware of the fact--and we
     have not had the heart to wake it up and notify it that it
     was being filled, not caring to tell a falsehood even to a
     silly breach.

     Come, then, ye gentles and geniuses, ye poets, ye
     anecdotists, ye thrillers and movers with the pen--join our
     staff, and put your mighty little ink-damped levers to the
     rock that we are rolling up the gigantic kopje of your
     thirst for news and entertainment. Your pay shall be the
     highest ever meted out to man--the satisfaction of souls
     content. Your company shall include a Kipling. Your readers
     shall be the bravest, noblest, proudest soldiers who ever
     served an earthly race.

     You can ask no more. You can ask nothing else.

     But in the meantime we want "copy."

We published also a brief communication respecting the Dutch name
Stellenbosch. This needs a word of explanation. It had long been
noticed that whenever an officer was prominently connected with a
losing battle, or exhibited marked incompetence in any field of
military work, he got a billet at Stellenbosch, a bowery village deep
down in the Cape Colony, where was established our base camp of
supplies. The name therefore attained a deep significance and common
usage in the army, and to say that a man had been "Stellenbosched" was
but the ordinary polite mode of mentioning what might otherwise have
had to be said in many harsher-sounding words.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)



Whereas it is considered necessary in the interests of the Orange Free
State, and until arrangements may be made, that the provisions of the
Customs Convention existing between the said State and the Colony of
the Cape of Good Hope, and the Colony of Natal, shall be duly
observed, and the Laws and Regulations appertaining thereto shall be
enforced as soon as communication between the said Colonies and such
portions of the Orange Free State as have been or may hereafter be
occupied by Her Majesty's troops is restored, and the customary
commercial relations are resumed; and whereas it is expedient that the
necessary officers for the control and management of the Customs
Department of the Orange Free State shall be appointed,


G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., V.C., Field Marshal, Commanding-in-Chief of the
British Forces in South Africa, do hereby nominate and appoint the
following officers, to wit:--

  _Collector of Customs_--Johannes Henricus Meiring.
  _First Clerk_--Albert C. Woodward.
  _Second Clerk_--Frederik Blignaut.

       *       *       *       *       *



It is evident from the sentences inflicted by the Provost Marshal that
the military authorities are wisely determined to repress all forms of
lawlessness and unruliness on the part of native boys with a firm
hand. Take the following three cases by way of illustration:--

No. 1. Boy: 28 lashes for resisting Military Police in discharge of
their duty while arresting him.

No. 2. Two Boys: 25 lashes each for being drunk and fighting.

No. 3. 27 Boys: 5 lashes each for being disorderly and having no pass
after 9 o'clock.

At the conclusion of the above cases of the day the Provost Marshal
called the native police before him and complimented them on the good
work they had done.

When the British entered Bloemfontein there was general rejoicing in
the native "location," but it is impossible to insist too plainly that
the clemency of British rule will not extend to violent, drunken, and
disorderly persons, whether they be white or black.

       *       *       *       *       *


                                       BLOEMFONTEIN, _March 20, 1900_.

1. _Death of Commander-in-Chief in India._

It is with deep regret that the Field Marshal, Commanding-in-Chief,
announces to the Army in South Africa the death of His Excellency Sir
W. S. A. Lockhart, G.C.B., K.C.S.I., Commander-in-Chief in India,
which occurred at Calcutta on the evening of the 18th of March, 1900.

Lord Roberts is sure that his own feelings will be shared by every
Officer and Soldier who has served under Sir William Lockhart's
command, and more particularly by those who have been personally
acquainted with him.

After a long and varied Military career, which began in Abyssinia,
time of the Mutiny, and which included war service in Acheen,
Afghanistan, Burma, The Black Mountain, Wazeristan, Isazai, and
finally the command of the Tirah Expeditionary Force, Sir William
Lockhart was appointed to the Chief Command in India. Possessed of
exceptional ability, he distinguished himself alike as a Staff Officer
and as a commander in the field, and by his uniform kindness and
consideration he endeared himself to all who came in contact with him.
In the late Commander-in-Chief the Soldiers in India, both British and
Native, have lost a friend whose only thought was to further their
interests and promote their welfare, and the Indian Empire has lost a
trusted Counsellor who, on account of his intimate knowledge of the
Native races, and his acquaintance with Eastern affairs, cannot soon
or easily be replaced.

2. _Amendment._

With reference to Army Order No. 5 (b) of 4th March, for Captain R. H.
Hall read Captain R. H. Hare.

3. _Telegrams._

The Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief has great pleasure in publishing
the following telegram which has been received:--

From Sirdar Khan, Bahadur Casim, Haji Mahomed Khansahib, Kazi Mahommed
Ali Murshaj. Bombay Mahomedans offer your Lordship, your gallant
Officers and Soldiers hearty congratulations on brilliant success
Transvaal, and pray Almighty crown efforts greater success and

  By order,
                      W. KELLY, M. General,
                                               D. A. General.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Trek, trek, trek,
  On the wild South African veldt,
  With anthills here and anthills there
  And holes and ruts, you're inclined to swear,
  For your mokes will religiously take you o'er
  These impediments by the score,
          But you trek, trek, trek.

  Trek, trek, trek,
  With a heart as heavy as lead,
  For the comrades who have bit the dust
  Whilst fighting for a cause that's just,
  With bootless feet and clothing torn,
  From chilly night to dewy morn
          You trek, trek, trek.

  Trek, trek, trek,
  There's nothing to do but trek,
  While your mules half starved and done to death,
  And yourself ditto and out of breath,
  You wish to Heaven the war was o'er
  And you say sweet (?) things of the cunning Boer,
          But you trek, trek, trek.

       *       *       *       *       *


_To the Editors of_ "THE FRIEND," SIRS:--In the course of a lengthy
experience I have heard many quaint conceits and many hard swear
words, and have kept a small notebook in which I have jotted down
anything especially new. I was the unwilling auditor the other day of
a quarrel between two individuals whose rank and profession shall be
nameless. The conversation became very animated, and finally one
exclaimed with savage irony, "Oh, go to Stellenbosch!" Fortunately
some passers-by interrupted the fracas or else I verily believe blows
would have been exchanged. Now you, sirs, with your opportunities of
knowing many lands and varied languages, may perhaps be able to inform
me where this place is and why the request to go there should have
caused such fury and such agitation on the part of the individual
addressed. It will be a relief to the consciences of Her Majesty's
lieges if the time-honoured "D----" can be relegated to the limbo of
forgotten oaths in favour of such an apparently innocent expression. I
write in all innocence, as no man likes to use a phrase, especially
such a potent one, without understanding its meaning.--

  Faithfully yours,

[We believe that the place mentioned was located somewhere in the
Arctic Regions by the Jackson expedition.--EDS.]



     _Like a beehive for industry when Rudyard Kipling went to
     lunch with the Field-Marshal._

Rudyard Kipling was paying visits and getting acquainted with the
local situation. He had left his wife and family at the far-famed
Mount Nelson Hotel--the "Helot's Rest," as a statesman had called
it--with its strange assembly of Rand and Kimberley millionaires, and
other refugees from the two republics, its army officers, both of the
invalid and the idle class, its censors, war correspondents,
sight-seers, and ladies longing to get to the more exciting front.

I first saw Mr. Kipling there, and now found him tenanting a bedroom
across the passage from my own in the Free State Hotel at
Bloemfontein. When I went to shake his hand he was in the room of W.
B. Wollen, the artist, and one of those men who having nothing good to
say, are never content to stop there, was exclaiming, "Is it possible
that I have the honour to meet the author of 'The Absent-Minded

[Illustration: _Field-Marshal Earl Roberts, V.C., K.G., K.P., G.C.B.,
G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., Commander-in-Chief._]

"Yes," said Kipling, "I have heard that piece played on a
barrel-organ, and I would shoot the man who wrote it if it would not
be suicide."

A man of such broad build and short neck that you do not realise him
to be of the average stature, wearing a broad-brimmed, flat brown hat
of Boer pattern, and below that a brown short coat and very full
trousers to match; a vigorous figure, quick in movement as a panther,
quicker still in speech; a swinging and rolling figure with head up
and hat well back out of the way of his sight which is ever thrown
upward as if he searched the sky while he walked. His face is quite a
match for his body, being round and broad as well as wide-eyed and
alert. His eyes are its most notable features, for they are very large
and open, and each one is arched by the bushiest of black eyebrows.
They are habitually reflective and sober eyes, but, like a flash, they
kindle with fun, and can equally quickly turn dull and stony when good
occasion arises. It is not the typical poet's or scholar's face so
much as it is the face of the man among men, the out-of-door man, the
earnest, shrewd observer and the irrepressible hard worker.

It happened that both of us were to pay our respects to the
Field-Marshal at the Residency on the same day, and both were invited
to lunch. Of course, Mr. Kipling knew Lord Roberts very well--had seen
much of him in India, where they had been both friends and mutual
admirers. We went to the Residency together. There we met a very
kindly and hospitable young gentleman who asked us who we were and
offered us a visitors' book in which to record our signatures. To him
we were presently introduced and found him to be none other than the
Duke of Westminster, who, as Lord Belgrave had at an earlier stage,
been with Sir Alfred Milner at the Cape. The Duke proffered us
refreshment of the coveted sort, which, as we have seen, was quoted at
11s. a bottle "on a rising market," and then he conducted us to the
great drawing-room with its strong suggestion of the grandeur of a
ruler's residence, despite its garish wall-paper and its puckered-up

The whole Residency was like a beehive for industry. In the
dining-room privates were hammering away upon typewriters, and
officers were supplying them with copy. We peeped into the large
ball-room, and lo! it was appointed with many desks at which members
of the illustrious and aristocratic staff of the Field-Marshal were
hard at work with pens and ink. Even in the drawing-room, the merely
ornamental desks and tables were strewn with documents at which far
from merely ornamental lords were writing.

When lunch was announced we found the dining-hall set with two
tables--a very long one for the staff, and a very small one at its
head for Lord Roberts. Mr. Kipling sat with the Field-Marshal, while I
was placed between Lord Stanley and Lord Herbert Scott at the big
table. I was not impressed by any unlooked-for excellence in the
simple meal with which we were served. I had lived better on the open
veldt whenever I had been able to get at my Cape cart, and the boxes I
had stored in it. But the flow of wit and the hospitality and courtesy
that were shown to me would have rendered worse fare beyond reproach.

After the meal Lord Stanley introduced me to the Field-Marshal, and my
very first words caused those who do not know how great and broad a
man he is, to think that I had offended Lord Roberts.

"I am very proud to know you, General," I said.

We talked for a few moments of trifling things, merely by way of
making acquaintance.

"You called him 'General'; you should have said 'Sir,' or 'Lord
Roberts,'" said those who were concerned about the episode.

"The highest rank and title in the American Army is 'General,'" said
I; "and in that way Washington, Grant, and all our leaders were
saluted. Lord Roberts spoke of my being an American. I am sure he
understands how I came to make a mistake, while, at the same time,
paying him the highest respect."

Our newspaper showed that we were getting on rapidly with the new
forces of administration--the outcome, first, of Lord Roberts's brain,
and, next, of the extraordinary industry at the Residency. That most
skilful of military railway engineers, Colonel E. P. C. Girouard, who,
while head of the Egyptian Railways was also restoring our wrecked
lines and manning them efficiently, announced in our 6th number (March
23rd), that the daily train to the south would leave at 7 a.m., and
the train from the south would arrive at twenty-six minutes after
midnight each day.

The Gordon Club opposite the Cathedral was to be reopened next day.
The Wesleyan Church announced a parade service for the coming Sunday.
The Presbyterian Church announced its meetings for the week. Services
at the English Cathedral were also advertised. The Army Sports began
on this date. Major Lorimer, of the Cape Police, came with a trooper
and some despatch riders and was taken on the strength. C. V. F.
Townshend, A.A.G. to the Military Governor, grappled with the negro
problem in a warning notice that all natives must be indoors by eight
o'clock p.m. unless possessed of a special permit, and that dancing
and drunkenness in the streets would meet with severe punishment.

We published a very informing and authoritative editorial upon martial
law, which one of the editors was at some pains to secure. I have a
strong idea that it was written either by General Pretyman or Major
Poore, but I have no means for making certain.

James Barnes, the distinguished American correspondent, who very
kindly and with able results, took my place as correspondent of the
_Daily Mail_ when I was invalided home, wrote for this number a
comparison between this and some recent American wars.

We led the paper with the full text of Mr. Kipling's poem, only one
verse of which had reached us a week before.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)



     (Owing to the exigencies of war, we were unable at the time
     to print more than one stanza of Mr. Kipling's poem, which
     we now present in its entirety.)

  Oh! Terence dear, and did ye hear
    The news that's going round?
  The Shamrock's Erin's badge by law
    Where'er her sons are found!

  From Bobsfontein to Ballyhack
    'Tis ordered by the Queen--
  We've won our right in open fight,
    The Wearin' of the Green!

  We sailed upon commando
    To vierneuk our Brother Boer--
  A landlord and a Protestant,
    What could the bhoys want more?
  But Redmond cursed and Dillon wept,
    And swore 'twas shame and sin;
  So we went out and commandeered
    The Green they dared not win.

  'Twas past the wit of man, they said,
    Our North and South to join--
  Not all Tugela's blood could flood
    The black and bitter Boyne;
  But Bobs arranged a miracle
    (He does it now and then),
  For he'll be Duke of Orange, sure,
    So we'll be Orange men!

  Take hold! The Green's above the red,
    But deep in blood 'tis dyed,
  We plucked it under Mauser-fire
    Along the trenched hill-side:
  Talana's rush, the siege, the drift,
    The Fight of Fourteen Days,
  Bring back what's more than England's rose
    And dearer than her praise!

  God heal our women's breaking hearts
    In Ireland far away!
  An' Mary tell the news to those
    That fell before this day--

  Dear careless bhoys that laughed and died
    By kopje and fontein--
  Our dead that won the living prize--
    The Wearin' of the Green!

                                  RUDYARD KIPLING.

[_Copyright in England and the U.S.A._]

       *       *       *       *       *



In times like the present when military matters are discussed by all
classes of society, both by soldiers and civilians, the question of
the law, by which discipline and law, not only among the troops, but
also the civil population in the country they occupy are maintained,
frequently arises, and the terms "Martial Law" and "Military Law" are
often made use of as if they meant the same thing. It is to explain
this that the following is written.

"Military Law" is the Law which governs the soldier in peace and in
war, at home and abroad. It is administered under the Army Act which
is part of the Statute Law of England, and which, by special
provision, must be brought into, and continue in force, by an annual
Act of Parliament.

With an army in the field, certain persons, not soldiers, are also
subject to the provisions of "Military Law," such as civilians serving
with the force in an official capacity; persons accompanying the
troops with special leave, such as newspaper correspondents and
contractors; persons employed with the troops, such as transport
drivers; other persons known as followers who accompany the troops
either as sutlers or on business or pleasure with the permission of
the commander.

"Martial Law," on the other hand, is only operative in war. It is in
fact no law at all, and has been accurately defined as the "will of
the conqueror." The expression "Customs of War" would perhaps better
define what is meant by "Martial Law," because the word Law conveys
the idea to most people of an enactment containing a fixed and rigid
rule which must be obeyed, and which, if disobeyed, will involve

This "Law" or "Custom" is applicable to all persons and inhabitants
not subject to "Military Law" residing within the foreign country or
that portion of it occupied by the troops, and also within districts
under British rule abroad, which, in consequence of riot or rebellion,
are so declared to be subject to "Martial Law" by proclamation.

It will thus be seen that a commander of troops in time of war acts in
two distinct capacities. First, he governs the troops by "Military
Law" only; secondly, in his position of governor of the country he
occupies, he imposes such laws or rules on the inhabitants as in his
opinion are necessary to secure the safety of his army, and also the
good government of the district which, by reason of the war or
rebellion, may for the time have been deprived of its ordinary rulers
and the machinery for maintaining order.

For the purpose of administering "Martial Law" or the "Customs of War"
no rules or regulations are absolutely laid down, but certain customs
exist among civilised nations which are generally recognised.

At the present time the practice in force is that, when practicable,
"Martial Law" should only supplement the civil procedure, but when the
civil Government is absent or, in consequence of war, is paralysed,
"Martial Law" must of necessity replace the civil.

In administrating "Martial Law" by a Military Court the ordinary
procedure recognised by "Military Law" is followed. This is done
because the Military Court would be composed of military officers
whose training would make them conversant with such procedure, and
because some uniformity in administrating justice would thus be

       *       *       *       *       *


We wish to draw the attention of the troops of all ranks to the
benefits which the use of the Public Free Library offers.

A Branch of the Standard Bank is being opened in Colonnade Buildings
under the direction of Mr. M. D. Savory, late Manager of the
Oudtshoorn Branch.

The _Powerful's_ contingent of the Naval Brigade, consisting of
twenty-nine men and four officers, left by yesterday's train for
Capetown. Mr. Midshipman Lewin, who is in command, has the honour of
carrying despatches.

The great want of Bloemfontein just now is some place of light
recreation and refreshment to which weary soldiers and civilians can
repair after the labour of the day is ended. It is premature, of
course, to expect anything so pretentious as the Alhambra or Tivoli of
London fame, but the resources of the capital of the Orange Free State
should be at least equal to the provision and equipment of a hall
where songs and various forms of light entertainment might be
presented nightly. Already there is talk of an enterprising agent
proceeding to Capetown with the object of retaining the necessary
artistes, who may be expected here as soon as the railway
communication is open to the general public; but for present purposes
there is sufficient talent amongst our soldiers and sailors and the
townspeople to tide over the emergency. A committee of amusement with
a good man as chairman is required, and the rest, with the permission
of the military authorities, should be tolerably easy. The drums and
pipes of the Highland regiments continue to do valiant service in the
market square, but the time is surely come when entertainment on a
more ambitious programme might be contemplated.

       *       *       *       *       *


"Know Binks? Of course. Everybody does--local major, staff something
at Headquarters of 10th Division--devilish useful chap to know."

Yes, Major Binks; but three short months ago I was only young Binks of
the Buffers, arriving at Blankfontein to take charge of a Transport
Company; I had no experience, and no instructions, except to "lick 'em
into shape," and I felt like the title of a book, "Alone in South
Africa." Not quite alone after all, for I had Wopples with me; Wopples
being the servant my old uncle, Major Stodger, had found for me.
"He'll kill your horses, of course, and lose your kit, but he was our
mess corporal in the Blazers for fourteen years, and he'll pull you

After asking many questions and getting no answers, I found a seething
mass of mules, waggons, and blacks, which turned out to be my company,
and in the midst of it was a person of evidently some importance, who
turned out to be the conductor. His natural perimeter was nearly
doubled by the packets of papers which bulged from every pocket, and
he was addressing the crowd in a variety of bad languages when I
introduced myself, not without trepidation, as his new C."C."O. His
smile was reassuring and patronising. "Oh, that'll be all right, sir;
we're getting along nicely--but the Major's coming round
to-morrow--commands the station, he does--and wastes a lot of time.
Now, if you could offer him a bit of breakfast--"

Next morning the Major rode up; he was a melancholy-looking man with
an absent manner. Before I could introduce the subject he said he
would not interrupt me if I were having breakfast; I begged him to
join me, but he said he never could eat at that hour, but he might as
well come in--perhaps he might manage a cup of tea. He managed one
cup, and then another, after which he brightened up a lot and managed
porridge, fried liver, curried mutton, and half a tin of jam. After
one of my cigars (also selected by uncle) he rode away, remarking that
he was glad to find they'd sent up somebody at last who had a grasp of
things--he felt he could rely on me.

Next day I was appointed his assistant. When I reported myself he said
he wanted somebody whom he could leave in the office in case he had to
go out--there was no other definite job for me just then; meanwhile I
might as well look after the mess. I did so, or rather Wopples did so.

One evening the Major seemed somewhat upset, "Look here, Binks, the
Brigadier is coming round to-morrow to discuss a defence scheme; he's
inclined to fuss a lot; I've got to go out myself on duty, but you'd
better stay in and have a lot of breakfast ready; I think you might
almost run to a tin of sausages." Next morning the Brigadier rode up
all alone at full gallop, scrambled off his horse, and began to shout,
"Come along, come along; mustn't waste time on active service; got
fifty things to settle to-day! Here's my brigade on this side of the
river--now tell me at once where every man on the other side is
posted"--here he fell over Wopples. "Who the deuce!--what, breakfast,
eh? Well, well, must eat, even on service. I can spare five minutes.
Come along." He rushed into my tent and spared five minutes. The five
minutes prolonged themselves to ten minutes, then to an hour and a
quarter, after which the Brigadier slept so sweetly that I had no
heart to waken him. About 3 o'clock he woke with a sort of explosion,
shouted for his horse, and galloped off talking as hard as ever.

Next morning I was appointed his extra A.D.C. with rank of Captain.
"There'll be a lot of work for you later on," the Brigade-Major said,
"but no bustle just now; meanwhile you might look after the mess."
Again we did so. I was left in camp one day when the Brigade had gone
out to do something--"Somebody must be left in charge, and, by the by,
have a bit of something ready in case we come back hungry." I was
reading the advertisement sheets of a paper six weeks old when Wopples
rushed in. "Lord Upington, sir, staff boss at Divisional
Headquarters, just a'comin' up the road! _Wot_ a chance it is! Why, if
he don't know what good living means--well, I'm a Boer!"

Wopples was too much of an artist to overdo things--there was just a
taste of porridge--not enough to spoil one's appetite, a partridge
with full complements of bread-sauce and red pepper, marrow-bones with
hot toast and a nip of whisky, black coffee and cigars; where it had
all sprung from goodness only knows.

When his lordship departed he said he would not forget me; his heart
and other organs were so full that he quite forgot to mention the
pressing business on which he had come.

Next morning I was appointed signalling officer to the Division. I had
never done a signalling class, and pointed this out to the D.A.G., but
he said it didn't matter, what they wanted was a really useful man to
supervise generally the signalling business. Of course, just at
present there was no signalling as we were on a wire; meanwhile I
might take over the mess. Before the words were out of his mouth
Wopples had taken the mess over; he had sacked two black cooks,
discarded the mess pots in favour of his own, taken the measures of
the mess stores, and was getting on with lunch. By that evening my
position as an ornament to the staff was secure.

It was at something drift that we gave our first official dinner; we
had secured a roomy farm-house with some bits of furniture, so,
relying on Wopples, we launched into hospitality. And Wopples had
surpassed himself. There was a haunch of venison which brought tears
of joy to the five eyes of the three generals who partook of it--no
mere common haunch, there were several such in camp that night--this
was a haunch that had been through the hands of Wopples. Then there
was his extra special _entrée_--but that is another course.

It was a dinner that might be eaten, but could never be described.

Next day I was gently approached by many red tabs. The Provost-Marshal
said I was just the sort of chap for his department if I'd care to
come; a R.E. enthusiast told me that a balloon was the only place for
a real good view of a show and "he'd work the matter for me"; somebody
on the intelligence said there was a real well-paid billet he'd been
keeping open on purpose for me; and two of the generals declared
piteously that they could not get on without my services. The third
general had not recovered the dinner, but sent a grinning A.D.C. to
represent him.

After that his lordship shut me and Wopples up together in his own
room and kept guard outside himself. "We'll take care of you, Binks;
we'll get you made a local major, and you shall ride the general's
horse as you've lost all your own. I'll find you a Tommy's blanket, by
Jove I will! and demme, I'll give you my own second shirt; but I'll be
shot if you leave our camp, my boy--shot and starved!"


       *       *       *       *       *



The writer, an American, who served during the Cuban war, has been
asked to compare the present heated argument with the late
unpleasantness in the Antilles.

It is rather difficult to draw any comparisons between this war in
South Africa and the late conflict in Cuba. It is like comparing two
games differing in rules and methods, and resembling one another only
in the fact that they are played with bat and ball.

One of the strange things about the war in the West Indies was
this--when it was over the world waited for the lesson, and there was
none in the proper sense of the word. The God of battles must have
been with America from start to finish; ours was the good fortune; we
had all the luck. It was a series of miracles. Naval men waited to see
the great things torpedo-boats would accomplish, and two of the
much-dreaded machines were sunk by a millionaire's pleasure-craft
transformed into a gun-boat. Vessels with armoured belts and
protective decks were set on fire in the old-fashioned way by
exploding shells igniting their wood-work. Dewey's victory at Manila
was accomplished without loss of life on the American side, and
Sampson's victory at Santiago was almost as wonderful--but one man
killed and a few slightly wounded.

Army experts waited for the results of the use of long-range magazine
rifles, smokeless powder, and high explosives, yet trenches and hills
defended by men with Mausers were stormed and taken by men with
Krag-Jorgensens in their hands in the old-fashioned way--a steady
advance and a rushing charge to clinch it. Caney and San Juan Hill
were old-fashioned fights with the exception of the fact that men were
killed miles in the rear by the straying droves of bullets and never
saw an enemy.

As in this war the losses did not compare to those of some
hand-to-hand conflicts of the Rebellion, and many wounds that in the
old days would have proved fatal, thanks to the merciful Mauser,
amounted to very little. Perhaps to offer explanation of some strange
occurrences of the Cuban war would be disparaging to the Spaniards.
Perhaps the least that can be said is that in the main the Dons were
shocking poor shots, and they had been so weakened by disease and
hunger that they had not much fight left in them when it came to cold
steel and clubbed muskets. The great losses in Cuba were from fevers,
not from bullets. It is in the conditions and environments that the
chief difference lies between the war here and the war over there. And
it is from this present conflict that the world will learn. The
Philippine war, costly as it was in life and money, was nothing but a
series of victories over a half-civilised enemy. The interest in it in
America, strange to say, dwindled to little or nothing after the first
gunshot in South Africa.

Here was a different state of affairs. Cuba (for Puerto Rico was a
"walk over") was a country full of dense forests and tangled
undergrowth, offering a screen as well as a hindrance to the movements
of an army. South Africa is the greatest defensive country in the
world, and the Boer is trained by nature and inheritance to make the
best of it. Yet it took time to teach some of the English military
leaders to adapt themselves to the new conditions--it was hard for
them to break away from the traditions of Waterloo and Badajos. The
Mauser began to correct the old ideas of warfare in a way that it had
failed to do in Cuba. The prophecies in Bloch's remarkable book were
fulfilled almost to the letter. Proper scouting in an open country is
a dead department of military service. How long did we lie at Modder
River without knowing anything of value of the movements of the enemy?
A series of kopjes might conceal a few sharpshooters or an army--at a
mile's distance scouts were under the fire of an invisible foe. A good
shot ensconced between sheltering rocks discounted four men advancing
in the open. In Cuba the American troops were harassed by marksmen
concealed in tree-tops who often fired upon them from the rear, but
the forces opposed to them in front were mostly infantry, and the
problem resolved itself into a contest between individual soldiers as
fighting units. It was a soldiers' conflict.

A war in a country such as we have been fighting over for the last
five months admits of one thing only--the strategic movements of a
military genius. The generalship of a great leader is a necessity.
Bravery is well-nigh wasted and courage almost discounted. Mobility of
force is essential, forces operating at great distances but under one
central head are a _sine quâ non_, and in long-range artillery lies
the preponderancy of power. More and more does the great game
approximate the moves in a chess problem. It must be admitted that in
Cuba there were no such scientific movements, and it has taken the
march of Lord Roberts from Enslin to Bloemfontein to prove the fact
beyond question that soldiers' battles, where one side is entrenched
and invisible and the other advancing in attack, are things of the
past, except in a wooded country or where all preliminary movements
are concealed. We had soldiers' battles here, but by fighting them
the lesson has been taught which the world will learn.

       *       *       *       *       *


On Tuesday, March 20th, Lord Roberts entertained the following
Military Attachés, accredited by the Great Powers to his staff, at
dinner at Government House:

Colonel Stakovitch, Russia; Commandant d'Amadi, France; Major Esteben,
Spain; Captain Baron V. Luttwitz, Germany; Captain Slocum, America;
Captain Hieroka, Japan.

There were also invited the following to meet the distinguished
guests: Lieut. General Sir H. Colvile, Lieut. General Kelly-Kenny,
Major General Sir W. Nicholson, Major General Pretyman, Major General
Wood, Major General Marshall, Major General Pole-Carew, Major General
Gorden, The Very Revd. Dean of Bloemfontein, The Honble. Mr. J. G.
Fraser; the Private Secretary; the Military Secretary; Major General
Kelly, Colonel Richardson, Mr. Justice Hopley, Colonel Stevenson,
Colonel Viscount Downe, Lieut. Colonel Otter, Captain Bearcroft,
Lieut. Colonel Ricardo, Colonel H. C. Cholmondeley, Colonel Lord
Stanley, Reverend H. J. Coney, Lieut. Colonel Byron, A.D.C., Captain
Lord Herbert Scott, A.D.C.

After the Queen's health had been drunk, Lord Roberts, in a happy
little speech in which he proposed the health of the foreign Attachés,
said that he had much regretted while in Capetown not having been able
to entertain the Attachés, but now he felt some satisfaction at not
having been able to do it, as he was able to entertain them as
comrades, while at Capetown they would only have been representatives
of foreign Powers. He had often been distressed at seeing the Attachés
undergoing many discomforts on the march. But it had shown him that
they were officers devoted to their duty, and regardless of all
discomforts. He had not heard complaint or murmur of discontent at
their want of comfort, in fact, the only complaint made was one to
Lord Downe in which Attachés represented to him that he, with a regard
for their personal safety, had not allowed them to go as close as they
could wish to the passing line. It had been a great pleasure to see
them there that night, and he hoped before long to be able to
entertain them again in Pretoria.

Colonel Stakovitch, the Russian Attaché, replied, saying how pleasant
it had been for him and his comrades to accompany the British Army on
their great and successful march. He thanked the Field Marshal for his
kindness and courtesy to them, and wound up by proposing the health of
Lord Roberts and his army, to which Lord Roberts made a suitable

The band of the Buffs played a selection of music during dinner.

The Austrian Attaché was unavoidably absent, having left on a short
visit to Capetown.



     _All Ranks join our Corps of Contributors, and the Oasis of
     Literature sparkles like a Fountain in a Desert._

Generals, colonels, majors, captains, subalterns, privates, war
correspondents who had not connected themselves with our venture,
naval officers--all ranks and all sorts, suddenly rushed to our
support, in consequence of my wail for help, and THE FRIEND took on an
interest and importance proportionately greater, I think, than that of
any newspaper then published in the language. Its circulation rose
among the thousands whereas the largest daily distribution had been
only 400 copies before the war.

We numbered the paper of March 24th "No. 6," though it was in reality
the eighth copy we had published, six being the number since we had
enlarged it to its final size. I marvel at our success as I look back
upon this number.

Sir William Nicholson, K.C.B., wrote an appreciation of the character,
life, and work of the late Sir William Lockhart; General Sir Henry E.
Colvile sent us a double acrostic, which the Dutch ones among our
eccentric compositors ruined so far beyond repair that it would not
be just to reproduce its mangled remains; Mr. Lionel James, who had
come over from the Natal side to further distinguish the staff of the
_Times_, wrote upon the death of our gifted colleague, George W.
Steevens. Rudyard Kipling contributed to this number the first of his
delicious "Fables for the Staff"; a distinguished officer, who shall
remain nameless in this connection, contributed an article on "Beards
in War"; and Mr. Gwynne began a series of letters entitled "Is the Art
of War Revolutionised?" written solely to interest the Army and spur
its thinking men to respond.

Mr. H. Prevost Battersby, of the London _Morning Post_, was another
distinguished contributor to this number.

Mr. Kipling now became a regular harnessed member of the four-in-hand
team that pulled the paper. With pen in hand and pipe in mouth he sat
at the larger of the two tables in our editorial poke-hole, and
beginning with a "Now, what shall I do? Write a poem, fill out cables,
or correct proofs?" would fall to and toil away with an enthusiasm
born of the long time it had been since he had "smelled the sawdust of
the ring."

"Oh, how good it is to be at work in a newspaper office again!" he
exclaimed on the first day, doubtless with recollections of the
sanctum of the _Allahabad Pioneer_ strong upon him, and the memory of
the time when the precursors of the "Plain Tales" and of the Barrack
Room Ballads were demanded of him almost every day, and gave him the
practice to produce the carefully finished and matured work we are now
seeing in the novel "Kim," at which he was at work--in the laboratory
of his mind--even as he sat with us in Bloemfontein.

We wondered at his enthusiasm, and, perhaps, had it not been of his
doing, we should have resented the impetus it gave us to toil as never
war correspondents worked before--all day for THE FRIEND and far into
the nights to catch the mails with our home correspondence. But we
soon came to see that the same tremendous energy and ceaseless flow of
wit and fancy were his by nature, and would have found expression as
well in a tent on the veldt as in that office. He was always while
with us like a great healthy boy in spirits and vitality, good humour,
and enterprise.

With us he yelled "Haven't any; go to Barlow's shop around the
corner," to the Tommies who trod on one another's heels to get copies
of the paper from us who had not got them. With us he consigned the
Dutch compositor to æons of boiling torment for the trouble his errors
gave us. With us he entertained Lord Stanley, who now came, out of
kindness, at noon every day, to save us the trouble of sending our
proof-sheets over to him at his office. And from us he insisted upon
taking all the "Tommy poetry," as we called it, that came to the
office. When we derided much of it as outrageous twaddle, he praised
its quality. On this day, I remember, we were belittling a particular
poem that he was reading, and he called out, "Why, that is splendid
stuff! Listen to these lines--'Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the
waves: Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!'" The reader will
not find this particular poem in this book, though it was put in THE
FRIEND by our distinguished poetry editor.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)



[Footnote 2: Copyrighted in England and America; used here by Mr.
Kipling's leave.]




Certain Boers, having blown up a Bridge, departed in the Face of the
British Army, which, arriving at that dynamited Place, made Outcry to
the Gods, saying, "Oh, Jupiter, these Ruffians have blocked the
Traffic, and we are vastly incommoded. Is there Anything worse than
the Boer?"

This being reported to the Railway Authorities, they caused a Railway
Staff Officer to be sent to that Bridge with Instructions to
facilitate Matters by all means in his Power.

Later on They picked up What was left of the British Army in those
parts--one dusty Shovelful, and its Lamentations were louder than

"Ungrateful Wretches," said the Military Authorities; "what would you
now have?"

And the Remnant of the British with one Accord answered, "Give us back
the Boer!"

       *       *       *       *       *


  Our hero was a Tommy, with a conscience free from care.
  And such an open countenance that when he breathed the air
  He used up all the atmosphere--so little went to spare.
  You could hardly say he breathed,--he commandeered it.

  For, nowadays, you'll notice when a man is "on the make,"
  And other people's property is anxious for to take,
  We never use such words as steal, or "collar," "pinch," or "shake:"
  The fashion is to say he "commandeers" it.

  And our simple-minded hero used to grumble at his lot;
  Said he, "This commandeerin's just a little bit too hot.
  A fellow has to carry every blooming thing he's got,
  For whatever he lets fall they'll commandeer it."

  So, at last in desperation, this most simple-minded elf,
  He thought he'd do a little commandeering for himself;
  And the first thing that he noticed was a bottle on a shelf
  In a cottage, so he thought he'd commandeer it.

  "What ho!" says he, "a bottle! and, by George, it's full of beer!
  And there's no commandin' officer to come and interfere.
  So here's my bloomin' health," says he; "I'm on the commandeer."
  And without another word he commandeered it.


       *       *       *       *       *



Sir William Lockhart's death, as recently announced in Army Orders,
will be deeply deplored by his many friends in the Army in South
Africa. It was known that he had been seriously ill last September,
but he had seemingly recovered when he visited Burma in December. On
his return to Calcutta in January, symptoms developed themselves which
caused great anxiety, and, although he telegraphed to the effect that
he hoped soon to be all right again, the end was not far distant.

Apart from his ability as a soldier and administrator, Sir William
Lockhart endeared himself to all who had the privilege of his personal
acquaintance by his charming manners, his genial hospitality and his
kindness of heart. Born in 1842, he joined the Indian Army in 1858,
and during the Mutiny he was attached to the 7th Fusiliers. He
afterwards served with the 26th Punjab Infantry, the 10th Bengal
Lancers, and the 14th Bengal Lancers. He was employed on the Staff in
the Abyssinian Expedition.

When the Acheen War broke out he was attached to the Headquarters of
the Dutch Force, where he made himself extremely popular. It was
interesting to hear him describe the Dutch method of fighting, which,
as might be imagined, led to no decisive result. The climate being
tropical, the Dutch would only attack the enemy in the early morning;
the rest of the day being spent in camp. The enemy were more active,
and caused the Dutch much annoyance by frequently disturbing their
afternoon siesta. As no means of transport were asked for or provided,
the campaign was of a purely defensive nature, and at the end of it
things were virtually in the same state as at the beginning.

After remaining in Acheen about eighteen months, Lockhart returned to
India, where he joined the Quartermaster-General's Department, and at
the beginning of the Afghan War he was chosen to take charge of the
line of communications up the Khyber. He afterwards joined Lord
Roberts' Staff as Assistant Quartermaster-General at Kabul, and for a
short time acted as Chief of the Staff on Charles MacGregor being
selected for the command of a brigade. In that capacity he had hoped
to accompany his illustrious Chief in the march from Kabul to
Kandahar, but General Chapman being his senior on the staff, it was
decided, much to Lockhart's disappointment, that he should return to
India as Chief of the Staff with the troops under Sir Donald Stewart's

He received a C.B. and brevet Colonelcy for his services in
Afghanistan, and was afterwards appointed Deputy Quartermaster-General
for Intelligence at Army Headquarters, where he remained until 1886,
when Lord Roberts became Commander-in-Chief in India in succession to
Sir Donald Stewart. He was then sent on an exploring expedition with
the late Colonel Woodthorpe, R.E., to Chitral and Kafiristan, and the
admirable report which he drew up was of the greatest value to the
Government of India in considering what steps should be taken to guard
the northern passes between the Pamirs and the Peshawar Valley.

On his return to India, Lockhart was offered the
Quartermaster-Generalship in that country, but he preferred the
command of a Brigade in Burma, where he greatly distinguished himself
by his activity in pursuit of Dacoits. His health, however, was
undermined by continual attacks of fever, and he had to be invalided
home, where, after a short interval, he became Assistant Military
Secretary for India at the Horse Guards.

After holding this post for a couple of years, he accepted the command
of the Punjab Frontier Force, which was offered him by Lord Roberts,
and in that capacity he commanded a brigade in the Black Mountain
Expedition under the late Sir W. K. Elles, and held the chief command
in the Waziristan and Isazai Expeditions. No abler or more sympathetic
general ever commanded the Punjab Frontier Force; he was beloved alike
by the British officers and the Native ranks; he maintained the
traditions of the Force and raised it to the highest standard of
efficiency; and when he left it he had good reason for regarding it,
as he always did regard it, as the _corps d'élite_ of the Indian Army.

In April, 1895, the Presidential Armies were broken up and the Army
Corps System was introduced, Sir William Lockhart being nominated to the
command of the Forces in the Punjab. In this appointment he displayed
administrative talents of a high order, his main object being to
decentralise responsibility and authority, and to diminish office work
and official correspondence. It was in a great measure due to his
efforts in this direction that the new system worked so smoothly. When
he became Commander-in-Chief he kept the same end in view by granting
the fullest possible powers to the Lieutenant-Generals of the four
Commands and to the General Officers commanding Districts, and by
insisting on their making use of those powers to the fullest extent.

In March, 1897, Sir William Lockhart went home, having been advised to
undergo a course of treatment at Nauheim. Meanwhile, disturbances took
place along the North-West Frontier, which culminated in an outbreak
of the Orakzaia and Afridis, and the capture by the latter of our
posts in the Khyber Pass. In September he was hurriedly recalled to
India for the purpose of commanding the Tirah Expeditionary Force.
This is not the place to discuss the operations in Tirah, which were
much criticised at home. The fact is that the British public had
become so accustomed to almost bloodless victories over savage enemies
that they failed to appreciate the extraordinary difficulties of the
Afridi country, and the advantages to the defence which the possession
of long-range rifles and smokeless powder confers. Moreover, there are
no better marksmen in the world than the Afridis, who are born
soldiers, and the mobility of hardy mountaineers in their native hills
necessarily exceeds that of regular troops encumbered with baggage and

Anyhow, the result of the expedition fully justified the choice of its
commander. The Afridis acknowledged themselves to be thoroughly
beaten; and Sir William Lockhart's tact in dealing with them after
they had submitted has led to the re-establishment of friendly
relations between them and ourselves on a firmer basis than before.
What their present attitude is may be judged from the fact that Yar
Mahomed, the head of the Malikdin Khels, recently petitioned the
Government of India to be allowed to raise 1,500 tribesmen for service
in South Africa.

On the conclusion of the Tirah campaign Sir William Lockhart took
leave to England, and came out again as Commander-in-Chief in India in
November, 1898. He died on the 18th of March, 1900. In him, as Lord
Roberts has remarked in his Army Order of the 20th inst., "the
soldiers in India have lost a friend, and the Indian Empire a trusted
counsellor who cannot soon or easily be replaced."

The late Commander-in-Chief was one of the few remaining
representatives of the Quartermaster-General's Department in India,
and to the admirable training which that department afforded much of
his success as a soldier must be ascribed. No better school of
practical instruction in Staff duties could be desired. Among its
pupils may be mentioned Lord Roberts himself, Sir Charles MacGregor,
Sir Herbert Stewart, Sir William Lockhart, and Sir Alfred Gaselee.
Now, alas! it has been abolished, or, at least, incorporated in the
Adjutant-General's Department.

       *       *       *       *       *



DEAR MR. EDITOR,--The following lines were written by me on board the
mail steamer, about two young soldiers now serving with the army:--

  'Twas on the deck, that around our ship, from the mast to the
     taffrail ran,
  I saw alone, in a chair (not their own), a tall young girl and a man.
  Her hair was light and fluffy and swarthy and dark was he,
  And I saw the coon, one afternoon, a-spooning that girl quite free.

  So I spotted a Quartermaster bold as he went from the wheel to tea,
  And I asked that Jack, if upon that tack, the passengers went to sea.
  "Lord love yer honour, we often sees that, the stewards and the
     likes of us;
  There's always couples a-spooning there, but we never makes no fuss.

  "If you look around, you'll see, I'll be bound, each day at a
     quarter to three,
  A tall young fellow with curly hair and a girl in black, quite
     young and fair, That's another couple," says he.
  "And every night, I assure you it's right, straight up on this
     deck they'll come
  And spoon around, till it's time to go down. One night 'twas a
     quarter to one."

  "Now it suddenly struck me early one morn, this might be a
     serious thing.
  Perhaps they loves, these two little doves, and has offered
     them the ring.
  So I leaves them alone in the world of their own; and this
     'twixt you and me,
  I hope I shall, by each little gal, to the wedding invited be."


  Then the Quartermaster brushed away a tear with his horny hand,
  The last couple now have had a row, and don't speak, I understand.
  'Tis not a fable, she won't sit at his table As she used to do of old;
  But has taken up with a married man, At least, so I've been told.

                                                        OLD SALT.

       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR FRIEND,--I suppose that General French and his lot think they
relieved Kimberley? Well, that's all right, and in spite of his name
being forrin, he's a good chap; so, as Billy the Sailor says, let's
make it so. But I should like to know where would French be now if it
wasn't for Billy and the Yank?

Now, you being an up-to-date paper, we thought you might like to have
an account of the battle which hasn't ever yet appeared in any paper
in the world, yet, as our Adjutant would say, was the most
strategically important part of the whole blooming show.

It was me and Billy and the Yank. Billy's a sailor--says he was
leftenant in the Navy, and I really believe he might have been--he
couldn't have learnt to ride so badly anywhere else, and how he faked
himself through the riding test is a miracle--then his langwidge is
beautiful. The Yank's a Yank; you can tell that by his langwidge, too,
and me being an old soldier (12 years in the Buffs and discharge
certificate all correct), I was made No. 1 of our section; our No. 4
was an Irishman we left behind at Orange with a broken head, all
through fighting outside the Canteen.

Well, when French left Modder, February 15th, we hadn't a horse among
the three of us fit to carry his own skin; so there we was left. Our
troop leader said he hoped to Heaven he'd seen the last of us, but all
the same he gave us a written order, correct enough, to catch up the
squadron as soon as possible. There wasn't much doing all day, barring
a bit of cooking, but that evening we was sitting round the fire when
an M.I. chap comes round and says he's heard there'd be free drinks
for the Relief Force in Kimberley, and perhaps our pals was drinking
'em now. That was the first time our Billy really woke up all day.
"Free drinks," sezee; "that's my sailing orders." Me and the Yank
didn't mind, so we sounds boot and saddle to ourselves in the dark,
and off we slips without a word to nobody. My horse seemed cheered up
by the day's rest, but before I'd gone half a mile I found I got the
wrong horse by mistake! and you'll hardly believe that both Billy and
the Yank had made mistakes too! Lor', how we did laugh! but there,
there ain't no accounting for horses in the dark.

We each had our own notions of the road; the Yank swore he was
tracking the big English cavalry horses; Billy was steering Nor' Wes'
by Nor' on some star or other; and I didn't want to argufy, so I just
shoves on a couple of lengths and marched on the Kimberley flashlight.

We was going a fair pace too ("making six knots"), and had done near
two hours, when all of a sudden we comes over a kopje right on to the
top of a bivouack, fires and all.

"Let's get"--"Go astern"--"Sections about"--and we did so, back behind
the kopje, linked horses, and crawled up again on our hands and knees.

"First thing," says I, quoting our Adjutant, "is to kalkulate the
numbers of the enemy."

"Twenty thousand," says Billy, who always did reckon a bit large.
"Make it hundreds," says the Yank, sneering--"and I wouldn't mind
betting a pint myself that there was the best part of two dozen of

"Next point," says I, "who are they?"

"I bleeve they're Highlanders, after all," says Billy; "see the way
they're lowering whisky out of them bottles."

"Well then," says the Yank, "you'd better ride up and say you're the
General, and they'll drop the whisky and run."

"Highlanders," says I, "don't care a cuss for Boers nor Generals, but
say you're the Provost Marshal and they won't stop running this side
of Kimberley."

"Those men, sir," says the Yank, "air not Highlanders. Billy's eyes
was took with them bottles and got no further. Those men don't wear
leg curtains, nor even loud checked bags. They air Boers." And by
Jove he was right.

"Well then," says I, getting back to point three, "what's their

"Straight there," says the Yank. "Mostly lying on their stummicks,"
says Billy.

"My friends," says I, "if your Adjutant should hear you now he'd break
his blighted heart. Look here, there's General French lowering free
drinks in Kimberley, ain't he? There's the British infantry at Modder,
ten miles back, ain't they? And there's twenty thousand Boers plunk in
the middle, ain't they? That means, as Adjy would say, General French
is busted. Vaultin' ambition! Another orful disaster!"

"My friends, we must reskew General French."

"General be blowed!" says Billy; "let's reskew the whisky."

"Well, bein' agreed on reskewin', wot's our plan of battle? A frontal
attack is always to be depre--well, something that means it's a bally
error." "Take 'em on the starboard quarter, then."

"But the first principel of tactics is to mystify and mislead the

So far the Yank had been lying rather low, but now he chips in--

"Say, chum, you've pegged it out straight there, and if it ain't
jumping your claim, I'll carry on the working." He did know a bit, the
Yank did, and we'd fixed up the job in no time. He'd a bag of about a
hundred loose cartridges he'd been carrying for days, and in two
minutes he'd a nice hot glowing fire right down in a cleft behind the
kopjy where it didn't show a bit. "Now boys," says I, taking command
again, "that bag of cartridges on the top of that fire will make as
much musketry noise as a brigade fits of joy. We'll let them have a
few real bullets bang in the middle to help out the illooshun. We're
three full battalions advancing to attack, and mind you let them hear
it; not a word till the first cartridge pops off, and then all the
noise you know."

We extended to fifty paces. Billy said it would come more natural if
he was the Naval Brigade, and we puts him on the right. The Yank
wanted to be the "Fighting Fifth," it reminded him somehow of fighting
Stonewall Jackson down South; and the old Buffs was good enough for
me, and I took the left. When we'd fixed our places up nicely and
charged magazines, the Yank slips back to our fire and plunks the bag
of cartridges down in the middle. Then we waited what seemed like a

"Bang!" from the fire.

"At 'em, my hearties!" roared the Naval Brigade; "broadside
fire--don't lay on the whisky--well done, _Condor_!"

"Steady the Buffs," says I; "volley firing with
magazines--ready--fixed sights--at that fat old buster next the
fire--present--Fire!" and sooting the action to the word I let the old
buster have a volley in the fattest part.

The Fighting Fifth didn't make much noise, but was shooting straight

Those cartridges went off so quick, once they'd started, that I knew
they couldn't last long, so I gives 'em one more file of my magazine
and then whistles on my fingers, "Cease fire!"--pop went the last
cartridge on the fire--"Who's that silly blighter firin' after the
whistle goes?--take his name, Sergeant-Majer--Now, Buffs, fix
bayonets--prepare to charge!"

"Avast heaving, full speed ahead and ram them!" yells the Naval
Brigade. But the Boers didn't wait for that--what with the dark, and
surprise and noise, let alone a few real bullets, they had gone for
their horses and were moving hard.

"Now then, Lancers!" I holloared, "round our left flank and pursue
them to the devil!" That was just enough to prevent them turning their
heads for the first mile or so. Then our brigade reforms and went down
the hill to tally up the loot. There was half a dozen cripples, none
of them bad, half a dozen knee-haltered horses, a pot of stew on the
fire, and half a dozen black bottles. The Fighting Fifth, who was a
kind-hearted chap in his way, turned over the wounded, gave them a sup
of water, and tied them up with bits of their own shirts. The Naval
Brigade had sweated through everything it had on, barrin' its rifle,
just out of pure excitement, and it went for the bottles like a
cartload of bricks. Blessed if they weren't _Dop_![3] "Never mind,"
says the Naval Brigade, "if the quality ain't up to Admiralty pattern,
we'll have to issue a double ration"--and he did--so help me!
Meanwhile the Buffs had collected the horses and picked out a nice
little chestnut for myself. After that the Brigade fell out and
enjoyed itself.

[Footnote 3: Cape brandy, also known as "Cape smoke."]

But we couldn't waste too much time, so after half an hour we changed
saddles, packed the _dop_ in our wallets, and hoisted the Naval
Brigade on board. The whole way to Kimberley he was fighting the
_Condor_ against the combined land and sea forces of all
creation--even the Yank laughed fit to burst. I do believe Billy might
have been a commander--one can't learn langwidge like that, even in
the Navy, under a longish time.

Well, we fetched Kimberley about reveille after falling off our horses
now and then, and we gives the Sergeant-Major half a bottle to look
pleasant. Up we goes before the troop leader, who looked a bit glum at
his own written order, but cheered up when I hands over three spare
Boer horses we'd brought along.

"If I hear any more of this damfoolishness," sezee, "I'll hang the lot
of you; so you'd better take care that nobody knows of it." He's
almost as hard as the Adjy.

Well, that's why we don't say what Regiment we belong to. But just to
give the devil his jew we don't see why General French gets all the
telegrams from the Queen and Lord Mayors--and we ain't even had our
chocolate served out yet.

But this is the truth--Billy and the Yank'll both swear to it.

  Yours truly,
                                                 NUMBER ONE.

       *       *       *       *       *




Since the days of bows and arrows the art of war has been gradually
developing. The arquebus followed the silent bow, and perhaps it may
be said that this change was the most revolutionary change ever
experienced in the history of warfare. But the arquebus could not
effectively prevent the opposing forces from coming to close quarters,
and therefore the strong man with a thorough knowledge of the use of
the _arme blanche_--be it pike, sword, or spear--was the mainstay of
their armies. With the successive introduction of the matchlock, Brown
Bess, and the host of old muzzle-loading rifles, up to the time when
the Snider rifle came into use, still the same conditions of fighting
remained. By the same conditions I mean the following:--

(1) The enemy, when firing at an effective range, was visible to the
naked eye of his opponent.

(2) Even when concealed behind cover the smoke of his rifle easily
disclosed his position.

(3) Neither the accuracy nor the rapidity of fire was sufficient to
make an attack across open ground by a slightly superior force

The introduction of the Martini-Henry completely altered at least the
third of these conditions, but owing to the fact that no European war
of great importance was fought with Martini-Henrys, the change was not
brought home to military theorists. It is true that the Turks fought
the Greeks with the Martini and the Gras rifles, but the war was not
serious, and the Greeks never held even their entrenched positions
with sufficient tenacity to bring home to the world the fact that an
advance across the open towards an enemy under cover was becoming more
and more impossible.

But smokeless powder and the long range rifle brought with them
changes which do not appear to be properly understood. In the first
place, it may be laid down as an axiom of warfare that the area of
effective rifle fire (and indeed of any fire) is restricted by the
areas of vision. During the present war it has become evident to those
who have studied the question, that the dangerous zone of fire with
modern rifles is not, as was at first supposed, within the 1,000 yards
range, but within 1,500 or even 1,600 yards.

To advance in the open against an enemy, even when that enemy is not
under cover but simply lying on the ground, involves one of two
alternatives. Either the advancing force is annihilated by the time it
gets to within 500 yards of the enemy, or it is forced to lie down
1,500 yards away or less and return the enemy's fire. But the latter
alternative produces a state of things which has never been known in
the history of war. Both the advancing and the expectant forces are
put out of action. Neither can advance and, what is more serious
still, neither can _retire_.

This contingency opened up an entirely new field of tactics. The
general who can, with a smaller force, succeed in putting out of
action, at least for the time being, a greater force of his opponent,
is more likely to win his battle. In the future, the curious sight
will be seen of regiments or even brigades lying flat on the ground,
doing little damage to the enemy and suffering little loss, and yet
being as useless to their general as if they were snoring in their
barracks at home. Perhaps this is too sweeping, for their presence in
front of the enemy will have the advantage of containing him, but in
the open, across which an enemy has to advance, a containing force of
a proportion of one man to five of the enemy is quite sufficient.
Therefore the use of a brigade to contain a brigade would be a waste
of material. Even those of us who have followed closely and carefully
all the stages of the campaign do not yet perceive the magnitude of
the changes involved by the use of modern rifles, but they appear to
me to be so radical that instead of describing them as fresh
developments, I would prefer to give an affirmative answer to the
title of this article.

But there yet remains to be discussed the question of the _arme
blanche_--the bayonet, the weapon with which our gallant army has won
so many of its victories. I have heard not a few officers declare that
this war will be known in history as the last war in which a British
soldier carried a bayonet. But is the discarding of the bayonet to be
one of the results of the use of the new rifle and the smokeless
powder? When fighting against an enemy who does not carry it, the
force which is armed with a bayonet has a tremendous moral
superiority. In the present war, there have been one or two
cases--one, particularly, at Slingersfontein--where the Boer has made
a frontal attack on a prepared position held by us. The attacks have
always been made along the tops of kopjes which afforded excellent
cover for a stealthy advance. The obvious way to meet such attacks was
to wait until the enemy came close enough to allow the use of the
bayonet, and this was done with great success at Slingersfontein. So
that it may be laid down that in cases where one only of two opposing
forces is armed with the bayonet, it is obviously to its advantage
that the enemy should in attacking come to close quarters.

It is, equally, to the manifest advantage of the defending force, if
unarmed with the bayonet, to prevent, with heavy rifle fire, the
enemy from being able to use the bayonet. But in my humble opinion,
the bayonet will not be discarded for a long time. In the first place,
the best tactician in the world cannot always prevent, even with
modern rifles, such things as surprises, and small bodies of men might
still, even under the new conditions, be able to get unperceived into
close quarters with the enemy. But the greatest reason for its
retention is that night attacks are still possible, and in night
attacks the bayonet is undoubtedly the weapon to be used. The very
mention, however, of night attacks opens up a long vista of discussion
and arguments which I do not wish to raise. I am aware that there are
many prominent soldiers who will have nothing to say to night attacks
and condemn them lock, stock and barrel, but they can never be
eliminated from the already long list of the contingencies of warfare.
Until something is mooted which will render night attacks absolutely
impossible, so long will the bayonet be retained.

But perhaps the most radical changes effected by the use of the long
range rifle will be in purely regimental organisation. A company now
extends for the attack over a space of over half a mile. The ordinary
complement of officers assigned to a company can never hope to control
the whole of it. What is the remedy? And how are we to bring up
ammunition to the firing line, or carry away our wounded from it? Can
a regiment extended for the attack eight paces apart act as a
regiment, or in the future is the company to be the biggest infantry
unit in action? All these questions spring from the experiences of the
present campaign, and it is to be hoped that they will be answered by
those whose experience in the many engagements against the enemy will
give value and force to their words.

       *       *       *       *       *



Received orders at 10 a.m. to proceed at once to Ram Dam and to join
the main column as soon as possible. Requisitioned for transport
immediately and supplied at 6 p.m. with about four dozen small
dilapidated hair trunks, misnamed mules, which looked as if they
required three square meals rolled into one, and a fortnight in bed!
No self-respecting cat would have looked at them twice, even cold on a
wooden skewer!

Made a disastrous stand at 8 p.m., as we succeeded in losing our way
in the record time of fifteen minutes, thanks to having no guide and
to a flighty and uncertain young moon, which insisted on playing hide
and seek at the most awkward times. However, we struck the wire at
last, not the barbed variety fortunately, and had brief periods of
comparatively smooth going, variegated by such trifling mishaps as a
broken trace, falling mule, or mule and harness so mixed up that we
couldn't distinguish which was harness and which was mule and
requiring careful sorting out! Veldt stones were also somewhat
inconvenient, as they vary in size to anything above or below a
Pickford van. However, it was a fine night and the mules almost seemed
to warm to their work, racing along in great style at fully three
miles an hour on a smoothish bit of road and appreciably downhill!

What rapture to be out on the starry veldt and to have left that
Enslin "News"--the transport lines--miles (five and a doubtful bit)
behind us. Shortly afterwards the moon again appeared, and we
proceeded to negotiate a very promising nullah with gently sloping
sides. Full speed ahead and up we go, but, alas! the latter part of
our programme was somewhat disarranged, like Labby's furniture at
Northampton, owing to the fact that buck waggons and mule transport
are not adapted to racing through a truckload of sand of uncertain
depth but of certain difficulty! However, "man the wheels and shove
behind" was the natural sequence of events, and when the mules ceased
pulling in every direction except the right one from sheer exhaustion,
a few judicious cracks of the sjambok, together with a few different
languages, mostly bad, and up we eventually did go.

A wide stretch of perfectly flat veldt lay before us, and we shortly
lost both moon and wire simultaneously. Some one suggested "follow the
track": valuable advice, but difficult to carry out, as there happened
to be about fourteen of them, and all in different directions.
Pleasant predicament to be in: 1 a.m., cloudy sky, and lost on the
anything but trackless veldt! Feel about as comfortable as the man who
was going to be hanged at 8 a.m. Finally decided to proceed at right
angles, and return our wrong way if necessary, and succeeded in
finding that precious wire at last. Persistency is the road to
success, but what about an old hen sitting on a china egg?

Moon on the wane, but reached Ram Dam at 3 a.m., and all of us
surprised and delighted to get there, as it would have very shortly
been a case of the "light that failed!" Ram Dam itself looks like a
remarkably _low_ Thames somewhere near the Isle of Dogs, but glad to
get anywhere, and ready to eat or drink anything.

       *       *       *       *       *



(_With an Original Verse by Rudyard Kipling._[4])

[Footnote 4: Copyrighted in England and America, used here by

  Through war and pestilence, red siege and fire,
    Silent and self-contained he drew his breath.
  Too brave for show of courage--his desire
    Truth as he saw it, even to the death.

                                       RUDYARD KIPLING.

There is a pretty little cypress grove nestling under the shadow of
one of the Ladysmith defences. A peaceful oasis--green where the land
is parched and dry. It is God's acre. Before shaking the dust of
Ladysmith from off my feet for ever, I turned my pony's head towards
the green. The little animal seemed to know the way, and well he
should, for the melancholy journey to the cemetery had been frequent
during the latter period of the siege. I tied the pony to the rail and
passed in under the shadow of the cypresses. The interior of the
enclosure was one stretch of new-turned earth. The turf seemed all
exhausted. The dainty cemetery of three months ago had now the
appearance of a badly harrowed field. In places a rough cross marked
the last resting-place of the victims of war and pestilence, a few had
the names just scrawled upon a chip of wood; the majority lay
unnamed--the price of Empire keeping: a nameless grave!

I passed down the clay trodden pathway. The brief legends
ran--Egerton, Lafone, Watson, Field, Dalzel, Dick-Cunyngham, Digby
Jones, Adams--but why name them? They were all men whom three months
ago I had called my friends. Then I found the spot for which I
searched--a plain wooden cross inscribed G. W. Steevens, and a date.
What an end--six feet of Ladysmith's miserable soil! It was too cruel.
My memory carried me back to the brave companion and upright colleague
who was gone, and to the manner of his death--the man who had raced
with the Cameron Highlanders for Mahmoud's zareba; who had stood with
his hands in his pockets when it seemed that it must be but a matter
of minutes before Wad Helu swallowed up Macdonald's Soudanese brigade.
The man who had scorned death on Elandslaagte's crest lay there a
victim to pestilential Ladysmith. If the spare frame had been as stout
as the heart which it contained, that miserable rat-hole could not
have brought about the end. Poor Steevens--how he strove to live! For
a month he lay and fought the battle for life. And then when all
seemed well, and we looked for the day that we should have him back
again, he quietly faded under a relapse.

Doctors could do no more, and at four in the afternoon of the fatal
day it was evident that the end was near. Maud, who had nursed him
with a devotion unsurpassed, was deputed to break the news. He came to
the bedside and suggested that Steevens should dictate a wire to his
people at home. The patient looked up suddenly, and in a moment was
conscious of the sinister purport of the request. The conversation
which ensued was something of the following:--

"Is it the end?"

Maud nodded assent.

"Will it be soon?"

Again Maud nodded assent.

Steevens turned wearily, and remarked, "Well, it is a strange sideway
out!" Then there passed over his face an expression which plainly
read, "I will not die!"

He turned to Maud and said, almost gaily, "Let's have a drink."

Maud opened a new bottle of champagne and poured out half a glass.
Steevens sipped it, and noticing that Maud had no glass, remarked,
"You are not drinking!"

He seemed better after the wine, and when the last message was
dictated he was still struggling for life; but the disease had the
upper hand, and he sank into unconsciousness which was never broken
until he passed away in the evening.

We buried him at midnight. As we took him down to the cypress grove,
it seemed that the enemy paid tribute to our sorrow, for their
searchlight played full upon the mournful cavalcade as it wound into
the open.

       *       *       *       *       *


                                       BLOEMFONTEIN, _March 23, 1900_.

DEAR SIR,--A distinguished General Officer--who is also an exceedingly
clever man--was issuing orders on one occasion. "I have no wish," said
he, "to interfere with the time-honoured Custom which ordains that
heroes may be dirty; but, until they become heroes, I see no reason
why they should not try and look like soldiers. The troops under my
command will, therefore, shave until they arrive at the actual front."

This witty sentence provides me with an admirable text for a sermon on
a subject very near my heart. Our troops have, indeed, proved
themselves heroes. Whatever may be the opinion expressed now and
hereafter upon many things in the conduct of this war, upon one thing
there can be no dissentient voice--I refer to the splendid heroism of
our troops. Yes, sir, they are heroes. But why, oh! why do they not
try and look like soldiers too? Why should the erstwhile smart
Guardsman, the dandy Highlander, the dapper Horseman, adopt the facial
disguise of a poacher out of luck, or rather--for the beard is not a
good one--of a member of the criminal classes previous to the Saturday
evening's ablutions? Surely soap can be purchased, razors ground, and
water heated.

It is universally admitted that one of the chief duties of a soldier
is to be smart in his appearance, and the fact that on active service
there may be some difficulty is surely no excuse for its neglect. In
all other periods of the world's history shaving was looked upon as
one of the chiefest necessities in time of war. Napoleon's Old Guard
shaved, as is well known, throughout the entire retreat from Moscow;
there was not a hair upon the faces of Hannibal's legions the day
after the famous crossing of the Alps, while Caesar's well-known
order, "Ut barbas tondeant," must be familiar to every schoolboy. I
might come down to our own times and quote the Queen's Regulations,
but I refrain from doing so lest I should be accused of priggishness.

It is, I do not hesitate to say, horrible to me to see the unkempt
appearance of those who might be--and are at other times--the
finest-looking troops in the world. I feel inclined to say, in the
words of Scripture, "Tarry ye at Jericho until (and after) your beards
be grown."

I hope, sir, you will forgive this somewhat lengthy letter, but the
subject is, as I have said already, very near my heart. No one ever
has looked well in a beard, and no one ever will, and until our
officers recognise this fact and set an example of spruceness for
their men to follow, the army in South Africa must remain an eyesore
to all who share the opinions of

  Your obedient servant,
                                                   FIELD OFFICER.



     _And I also here discuss that irreconcilable maiden, Lord
     Stanley, and our own behaviour._

We published in the next issue, No. II, of March 26th, a letter by
"Miss Uitlander" (pronounced in that country "Aitlander"). It was as
genuine a production of the young womanhood of the town as that of
"Miss Bloemfontein" had been, and it would have been wholly to our
liking had it been as exceptional and bold a bit of work as the other,
for it was, naturally, very pro-English. Suffice it to say that it
answered and contradicted the Boer sentiments with vigour.

[Illustration: _Miss Bloemfontein._

(_A Portrayal of a Type, by Lester Ralph._)]

This reminded us that we were to enjoy no more communications from the
sprightly and talented Miss Bloemfontein. Most gallantly we had
resolved to allow her the last word and there end the correspondence;
but she had remained silent, leaving us with that "last word" which
we, like simpletons, had never doubted that she would claim as hers by
right of her womanhood. She was laughing at the predicament in which
she had abandoned us, for she was wide awake at all points.

She had done me the honour to ask me to call upon her and--in this the
laugh was on my side--then had repented of it. She repented because,
in my reply to her communication, I had addressed her as "sweetheart"
and had called her "dear." It had happened that when she wrote to the
paper she let a few close friends into the secret, and these, when
they read my lover's terms addressed to her, made haste to twit her
upon the publicity of these verbal caresses, so that from
rose-and-pearl she became peony red and hot of cheeks, and not nearly
as desirous of seeing me as before my second letter saw the light.

However, I went to her home and found it very prettily appointed and
comfortable, with an admiring family gathered around their girlish
idol who had been to London, and who sang sweetly, played the piano
deftly, and seemed to have read at least a little upon many subjects.
She was, I should say, seventeen or eighteen, a pure blonde, still
very girlish both in face and figure. I spent a pleasant hour in her
company, and an English officer who called there at the same time
endeavoured to persuade her to make up a party for afternoon tea at
his regimental camp near the town. But her mother had announced that
she could not bear to walk in the streets and see the British soldiers
disfiguring the once hallowed scenery of the place, so it was perhaps,
no wonder that Miss Bloemfontein declined to take afternoon tea with
those enemies.

"I will not do anything to encourage or recognise their presence," she

"When your mother is not looking, I am going to whisper something to
you," I remarked. "Now is my time. It is this: You are a little
fraud; you are no Boer at all."

I intended to continue by explaining that a girl so clever and well
read, and who lived amid such refined surroundings, could not possibly
sympathise with the rude and ignorant people of the veldt. But she
suspected that I meant something different.

"You mean because I am a Jewess," she said.

And then came the most comical closing of this very peculiar episode.
She, who elected herself to be the champion of the Boers, was a
Jewess, and I, who wooed her supposed sisterhood as an English adorer,
am an American.

Ah, well, little Miss Bloemfontein, I was at least genuine in standing
up for liberty, justice, and the highest principles of good
government. They are the prizes that are guarded by my flag as well as
by the one which floats over your town. And if you were as earnest in
your sympathy for the Boers it was either because you had been
deceived by them as to the causes of the war and the issues at stake,
or else it was because your loyalty to the friends of a lifetime
outweighed all else. May we not, then, part here with mutual esteem
and respect?

In this number we published two contributions by Mr. Kipling, a second
one of the "Fables for the Staff" and some "Kopje-book Maxims." All of
us tried to assist at the framing of these maxims, but, though we
suggested two or three (Mr. Landon being the most fertile at the time)
Mr. Kipling shaped them all in his own way and with a readiness and
ease which excelled any work of composition that I have ever seen done
by any writer in all my experience. It was said of him three or four
years ago that he was then writing too much, but it will always seem
to us that his difficulty must be in restraining himself, and in
publishing only the best that wells from his mind.

Another peculiarity that we noticed was that he would, by preference,
carry forward two or three manuscripts at once and would write, now at
one, and presently at another. The "Kopje-book maxims" reveal this
breadth and variety of his mental processes to whoever is able to
understand the fine shadings of the meanings of them all, and to those
who can comprehend the fact that they were literally "dashed off" hot,
like sparks under a smith's hammer. If these mere playthings of his
pen, done as part of our merry and careless morning's work, were
forced to stand as specimen products of the methods of this master
writer, an injustice to him would follow. The point is that his
methods are the same, and his mind works with similar freedom and
celerity, at all times, and at whatever he does; at least so far as we
were able to judge. But what he wrote for THE FRIEND was finished and
published on the instant without the after-polishing and refinement of
the flawless work which has made him world-famous.

In this same number we printed an interesting forecast of the future
of the Free State by Mr. Fred J. Engelbach. An officer sent us a
jocular account of the amazingly plucky work being done by the
Ordnance Survey--and particularly of one feat by Major Jackson, R.E.
We also published, from my pen, a short warning to the soldiers not to
drink the water out of certain wells which had for years been known to
contain the germs of enteric. I learned the fact during my visit to
my "sweetheart," Miss Bloemfontein, and as I look back, now, upon
that paragraph I almost shudder to think how little we dreamed that in
a few weeks 7,000 men of our force would be down with that dread

I have referred to the fact that Lord Stanley came every day at noon
to overlook what we had done. I would ask for nothing more amusing
than to have heard his gossip at the Residency upon the manner in
which he found THE FRIEND to be conducted and produced. The truth was
that we had finished everything for the day, except the interminable
proof-reading, by the time he reached what the country editor
grandiloquently refers to as "our sanctum sanctorum." In consequence
he always caught us just as we were looking up from our desks and
taking a deep breath of relief.

We who have been bred in this profession may not realise just what
applause is to an actor, or what there may be to a mariner in the
movement and breath of the ocean; but we fully realise that journalism
is perhaps the only calling that men find as full of fun as it is of
hard work. The company of bright minds, certain to be sanguine and
optimistic, the excitement produced by unexpected news, the rush to
prepare it most attractively and against time, the thousand
unpublishable conceits and views and arguments that leap to the mind
and are discussed in council, the freaks and blunders of the reporters
and contributors--all these elements are in the cup of joy that a
journalist drinks off every day.

Therefore when Lord Stanley came he was certain to find us merry and
voluble and prankish. He may have imagined that we must perforce be
grave--we to whom was given the high and almost religious right to
speak for an empire and an army, and to conduct a British organ in so
delicate a situation as was ours among the Boers--neither offending
them nor giving them a chance to find a flaw in the practice of our
principles. Grave enough was that part of our work which we meant to
be so.

Serious in its strain upon us and important in its effort to rest and
inform and recreate the soldiers, was most of what we did. But it is a
habit of the journalist's mind and a result of his work that he shall
be or become a philosopher, viewing the world as it is, no matter how
differently he may present it to a duller and more conservative

Therefore Lord Stanley found us declaiming soldier poetry, writing
nonsense verses, drawing caricatures of one another, telling stories,
behaving like men without a care on their minds. We realised that he
must be shocked at us--and we voted that he behaved very well under
the circumstances. He usually came in with a quick step and an air of
business. We delayed him with chaff which he seemed always at a loss
to understand at first. He got at our bundles of proof-sheets and he
applied himself to them most gravely. By and by he began to catch the
contagion of our spirits, his eye wandered from the sheets, he
wavered--he began to join in our talk. "Is there anything else--or
anything you are in doubt about?" he would ask. He believed us when we
answered him, for he knew that we understood what not to publish. In
that mutual trust and confidence there grew up a relation between us
and himself which was dearly prized by us, and which we hope he
esteemed as highly.

Once he told us that there had been complaint of a mock-speech by the
German Emperor which some one had written among a lot of pretended
cablegrams avowedly fanciful. Once he declined to publish a mild
attack of mine upon Mr. Winston S. Churchill for finding fault with
our army chaplains. At another time, upon the ground of prudence, he
threw out an article upon our treasonous colonists which we copied
from an Afrikander exchange. Apart from these slight exercises of his
power he passed all our work, though it was as big in bulk as the
"Newcomes" and "Vanity Fair" rolled together--300,000 words--ten
columns a day for nearly thirty days!

I have called the censor's office a "hole in a wall," but our
_sanctum_ was not half as neat or presentable. Whoever has carried the
collecting mania into the study of country newspaper offices has
noticed how one never differs from another. The greasy smell of
printer's ink, the distempered walls stuck over here and there with
placards and the imprint of inky fingers, the gaping fireplace, the
bare, littered floor, the table all cut on top and chipped at the
edges, the bottomless chairs with varying degrees of further
dismemberment, the "clank--clank" of the press in the next room--these
are the proofs positive of genuine country newspaper offices the world
around--from Simla to Bismarck, Dakota, and back again. And the office
of THE FRIEND was like all the rest.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)



[Footnote 5: Copyrighted in England and America. Used here with the
author's permission.]




A discriminating Boer, having laid a Nestfull of valuable and
informing Eggs, fled across the Horizon under pressure of necessity,
leaving his Nest in a secluded Spot, where it was discovered by a
Disinterested Observer who reported the same to an Intelligence
Officer. The Latter arriving at his Leisure with a great Pomposity
said: "See me hatch!" and sitting down without reserve converted the
entire Output into an unnecessary Omelette.

After the Mess was removed, the Disinterested Observer observed: "Had
you approached this matter in another spirit you might have obtained
Valuable Information."

"That," replied the Intelligence Officer, "shows your narrow-minded
Prejudice. Besides I am morally certain that those Eggs come out of a
Mare's Nest."

"It is now too late to inquire," said the Disinterested Observer, "and
that is a pity."

"But am I not an Intelligence Officer?" said the Intelligence Officer.

"Of that there can be no two opinions," said the Disinterested
Observer. Whereupon he was sent down.

MORAL. _Do not teach the Intelligence to suck Eggs._

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 6: Copyrighted in England and America, and used here by


(_With suggestive help from Perceval Landon._)


Two Horses will shift a Camp if they be dead enough.

Forage is Victory; Lyddite is Gas.

Look before you Lope.

When in doubt Flank; when in force Outflank.


Take care of the towns and the Tents will take care of themselves.

Spare the Solitary Horseman on the sky-line; he is bound to be a

Abandoned Women and Abandoned Kopjes are best left alone.

Raise your hat to the Boer--and you'll get shot.


The Dead Gunner laughed at the Pom-pom.

"I Bet I killed 'Eighty,'" roared the 4·7.

"I have buried my three," snapped the Lee-Metford.

"It is well to keep your hair on; it is Better to take out your

A shell on the Rand is worth ten on the veldt.

There are ninety and nine roads to Stellenbosch, but only two to
Pretoria. Take the other.

(_Kopjeright in all armies and standing camps._)

       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MADEMOISELLE,--I pray that you will excuse me for venturing to
set you right upon one or two matters which I noticed in your reply to
Mr. Ralph. Miss Uitlander did, indeed, with joy and pride, trip out to
meet Mr. Englishman, though, as a matter of fact, she is as much Miss
Bloemfontein as yourself. In reality, your correct name is Miss
Free-Stater. But that is a trifle which may pass. The "loving hand"
you boast of having extended to us has long since been covered by an
iron glove, the weight of which we have daily been made to feel, and
to that you must associate the joyful flaunting of our colours in your
face. His coming meant freedom--the sweetest thing in the world--to
us. You called our brothers and sisters cowards as they fled your
oppression and bitter and openly expressed hatred. You threw white
feathers into the carriages as they passed you by. You loudly bemoaned
your fate as a woman and longed to don masculine garments to aid your
beaux in exterminating the hated English. Could we remember a "loving
hand" then?

You were quick to tell us that there would be no room for us to live
beside you so soon as Mr. Englishman was driven back to the sea. "The
hated English had never been wanted and would not be allowed to stay."
And since you continue to make no secret of your hatred, the same
remedy is now in your own hands. But it will be difficult to find a
spot where Mr. Englishman is not _en evidence_.

To use Mr. Chamberlain's famous phrase, "There is a point where
silence is weakness." That point has been reached. You seem to forget
that you simply and generously, of course, gave away your town and
State without the faintest shadow of a cause, to the nation who never
had the remotest idea of coming near you or troubling you. You were
eager to cross arms with the most powerful nation in the world,
knowing as you must have done, deep in your sensible mind, that you
would lose in the fray.

You hint at our ingratitude. How about your own? Had it not been for
England your land would never have had a place in the existence of
South African territory from the days of long ago.

Who has helped to uphold the dignity of your land? Mr. Englishman.

Who has helped to fill your coffers, public and private, with wealth?
Mr. Englishman.

Who has been the chief spirit of commerce within your gates? Mr.

And whom has it been your greatest pride to imitate in manner, in
dress, and in speech but Mr. Englishman?

Nay, had he withdrawn his patronage as he might have done, your land
would have collapsed like a bubble.

Mr. Englishman is too valuable a factor in the world's history to be
easily discarded.

Yours is thus the debt of gratitude.

You speak hastily when you gibe at the "awful and untuneful melodies"
with which Mr. Englishman deigned to soothe your heaving breast; and
would lead one to suppose that you had ever been used to the most
exquisite of public music, when in truth your town has scarcely ever
been privileged to listen to such. Its own band in the days that are
past can hardly compare favourably with even the recent melodies which
compel you to close your ears with cotton wool, and even your musical
ear must have been satisfied had you listened to the band and music at
Government House a few nights ago. But doubtless the cotton wool had
not been taken out.

I beg leave to contradict your statement that Miss Uitlander would
"push" Mr. Englishman out of your land while welcoming your brothers
back to their country. Miss Uitlander has discovered too certainly the
real truth of your "loving hand" ever to trust in it again. And if you
could so joyfully turn Mr. Englishman out of your borders, rest
assured Miss Uitlander would most certainly accompany him. She does
not, as so many have done, paint one colour one day and another the
next. And if Mr. Englishman only waits a little longer he will win not
only the country but yourself as well.

                                                  MISS UITLANDER.

(With this final word from the fair Miss Uitlander, who has been
discussed, yet has not before spoken for herself, the Editors decide
to end this interesting series of letters.)

       *       *       *       *       *


Market slightly weaker this morning. Sales: Bantjes Deeps, 11s. 6d.;
Benons, 43s.; Mains, 43s.; Randfonteins, 60s.; Vogel Deeps, 27s. 3d.;
Wit Deeps, 45s.

       *       *       *       *       *




"When a battery comes under rifle fire it becomes worse than useless,"
once said a well-known foreign military expert. And if this statement
is to be accepted, as we accept Euclid's axioms, then indeed I should
be inclined to say that the art of war has become revolutionised
completely. But having seen G Battery at Magersfontein practically
silence at a range well within 1,500 yards (I believe at one time it
was only 1,200 yards) a strong force of the enemy's riflemen firing
from good cover on an undulating plain, it becomes apparent that the
military expert's dictum is incorrect. I cite the instance of G
Battery because, perhaps it is the best known in the operations in the
Western Frontier, but I could, if necessary, give twenty cases where
both Horse and Field Batteries have worked magnificently and
effectively under a galling fire.

At the same time I do not wish, for a moment, to lay it down as one
of the rules of modern warfare that guns can be worked with impunity
within 1,500 or even 2,000 yards of the enemy's rifle fire, for the
danger of being put out is so apparent that it needs no demonstration.
But artillery must have a good "position." Batteries cannot be hidden
behind boulders as infantry soldiers can. Gunners must have an open
field and more or less a commanding point from which to lay their
guns. This necessity--a necessity to which no other arms are so
completely subjected--has entailed, during the course of the present
war, the risk of whole batteries being under rifle fire. Before the
introduction of the long-range rifle, there were but few instances
where guns, in order to take up proper positions, were forced to come
under effective rifle fire. Now, however, we have to face this risky
possibility. And in this respect, and this respect only, can the use
of the modern rifle be said to have made any change in the rules of
war laid down for the use of artillery.

The present campaign, if viewed from the point of view of the
artilleryman, is an abnormal one. Field and horse batteries have had
to face what has been practically siege artillery. In Natal we have
been outranged by the use, by the Boers, of guns of great calibre and
no mobility. We have faced the difficulty--and successfully too--by
bringing on to the field naval guns of equal calibre to the enemy's.
And, although we have been surprised at the rapid way in which the
Boers have shifted their heavy guns, I still dare to think that we can
move our 4.7 guns with greater rapidity. My intention, however, is not
to discuss the use of the naval large calibre guns in field
operations. Such a discussion would be outside the scope of this
article. I prefer to look upon their use in this campaign as an
abnormal episode--which, perhaps, may never again occur in civilised
warfare, except in case of sieges.

Artillery in operation in the field is represented by Horse and Field
(Howitzers and ordinary) guns. Now what lessons have our artillery
learnt from the engagements of the present war? That is the most
important question, and I propose to answer it to the best of my
ability, feeling and hoping that my answer will induce abler answers
from other pens.

It is impossible, in discussing the uses and abuses of any particular
arm, to dissociate that arm from the whole to which it belongs. A
complete modern force should consist of a proper proportion of horse,
foot, and artillery. The three form the whole, the perfect machine.
The parts must fit into each other as the cogs of one wheel fit into
those of another. In the war of the future infantry will be used for
two purposes--to contain the opposing infantry, and to hold positions
seized by the mobile portion of the force, be it cavalry or mounted
infantry. There will be very little preparation by the artillery for
infantry attack, for the simple reason that I am convinced that
frontal attacks are things of the past. Not the modernest of modern
artillery, lyddite, melinite, or whatever high explosive is used, can
by frontal concentration move or weaken infantry sufficiently to
destroy their defensive power against an infantry attack.

There will, therefore, be in the next war between European or
civilised military Powers grand artillery duels between the opposing
artillery, while the mounted force of one is trying to outflank the
other. The obvious necessity, therefore, is the highest development
of the most mobile portion of the artillery--the R.H.A. Flank
movements must necessarily be the tactics of the future. Battles will
be, as they always have been, won by strategy, but for modern strategy
and modern tactics the great necessity will be the greatest mobility
of the greatest force. But the British Army, as it certainly possesses
the finest material for infantry in the world, also possesses, I feel
sure, as fine an artillery as any. I am not talking now of guns, but
of the men who work them. In attempting to outflank an enemy with the
mobile portion of his force, the general of the next war will find his
flanking movement met by the mobile portion of his opponent's army.
The result is to be either a return to the old cavalry charges against
cavalry or an artillery duel. The latter, I believe, will be the case.
The cavalry of the future will be a mixture of the mounted infantry
men and the cavalry men, and as such will be able to stop with rifle
fire any attempts at the old-fashioned charge, and the verdict will be
pronounced by the gunners. Then, indeed, will the better-trained,
better-equipped, better-handled horse artillery be able either to
drive back the attack and so save the whole situation, or to force in
the defence and win the whole battle. Wherefore it would appear to me
that we should improve and improve our horse artillery until we have
the best guns, the best gunners, and the best organisation in the
world. I know we have the best material.

Exactly the same thing applies to the Field Artillery, which I, for
one, would like to see done away with. That is to say, that the
distinctions between Horse and Field Artillery should be removed. I
would give a heavier gun and a better gun to the Horse Battery, and
make the Field Battery men mobile. This would give us an uniform
artillery, in which the mobility of the Field guns would be increased
and the range of Horse guns improved. After all, the difference in
weight of a Field and a Horse gun is not so great. We must be prepared
to provide some means of moving it more rapidly. The advantages of
this change appear to be self-evident. The quick and rapid movement of
artillery is bound to be the great factor in future battles. We are
making our infantry men mobile, every day; why not do the same with
the artillery? If we can bring up a gun of equal calibre to that of
the enemy, the issue will be to the better-manned, better-handled gun.
To be able to rapidly throw a great force on any given point of the
enemy's line is to ensure victory in infantry tactics. The same thing
applies, surely, to the artillery. Why have a slow and a rapid moving
artillery? Why not make the whole of it capable of rapidity?

This campaign has been the first between two civilised nations where
high explosives have been used in the bursting charges. I have made
careful inquiries from Boer prisoners as to its effect, and the only
conclusion that I have come to is that veracity is not a virtue of the
burgher. Some have spoken of the bursting of a lyddite shell as the
most terrible experience they have ever had, and have compared its
action to that of an earthquake. But I must confess that on pursuing
my inquiries further I have generally found that these vivid
portrayers of its awful effects have been attached to some hospital in
the rear. The prisoners taken at Paardeberg were singularly divided
as to its destructive power. Albrecht is said to have declared that
it was a pure waste to drop a lyddite shell into soft ground, and to
have admitted that on rocky ground it had a most demoralising effect.
On the whole, however, I am inclined to say that the effect of lyddite
is certainly not as great as we expected, and I cannot help thinking
that time-shrapnel well burst and well aimed is more dreaded by the
Boers than lyddite shells.

And now I am going to tread on delicate ground. We have all our little
idiosyncrasies, and gunners are not without theirs. They will have
nothing to say to the Vickers-Maxim. "It is a toy and not a gun," I
have heard many a gunner declare. But I contend that we have never
used it properly. Lord Dundonald's galloping Maxim was intended to
accompany cavalry. Why not have a galloping "pom-pom"? It can be
brought into action with great speed, it has a great range, and
everybody will agree that it is a most accurate gun. It would have
been most useful against the Boers when they fled from Poplar Grove,
and its effect upon a battery coming into action is not to be
despised, as the gallant T Battery will testify from their experiences
at Driefontein. Again, its use on kopjes held by cavalry pending the
arrival of infantry would surely be beneficial. It has a demoralising
effect; even more so than a percussion shrapnel, and our enemy in the
present campaign is particularly susceptible to demoralisation when
operating in open ground.

One of the difficulties with which the artillery in the present
campaign has had to contend has been to find out the extent of our
infantry advance for which they are preparing with a bombardment. As
the Mauser and Lee-Metford render early cover necessary for infantry,
it has come about that our infantry, while seeking to render itself
invisible to the enemy, has succeeded in making itself almost entirely
invisible to our supporting artillery. On many occasions our artillery
has ceased fire long before it was necessary, because it became
impossible to tell how far our advance extended, for no artillery
officer--and rightly so--will run the risk of inflicting damage on his
own infantry. The remedy for this state of things has yet to be

In making public opinions such as these--the opinions of a mere
layman--I should feel inclined to make some kind of apology, knowing
as I do that they are liable to be read by men whose whole life is
devoted to the practice as well as the theory of the use of artillery
in the field, were it not for the fact that I am optimistic enough to
believe that my remarks will provoke criticism. I am aware that the
British officer is not much given to rushing into print, but I am also
convinced that he will not sit tamely by when heresies are propagated.
If, therefore, the views I have enounced are unsound and unpractical,
it is his bounden duty to contradict them. And in doing so he will
probably contribute his own views, which will undoubtedly receive far
greater attention, from the fact that they are set forth by men
actually serving in the field, than if they are kept back till the end
of the war, when a successful issue will probably bring with it apathy
on the part of those in whose hands rest the destinies of the British

       *       *       *       *       *


Rarely, if ever, in the annals of the Ordnance Survey has the British
Government sent out a fully equipped Survey Section, for the purpose
of reconnaissance duty, previous to the present war. During the march
from Modder River to Bloemfontein, they have had plenty of scope for
displaying the special training received, necessary for successful
sketching, surveying and reconnoitring an enemy's position.

At Paardeberg a very successful and complete sketch to scale was made
of the Boers' laager by Major Jackson, R.E., who, whilst exposed to a
hot fire every day and within 800 yards of the enemy's trenches, and
where men were falling every minute, nevertheless completed the whole
sketch within four days.

This part of the warfare, where you walk well within the enemy's
firing line with only a revolver, the Boers continually sniping and
potting, no cover, and no chance of a "kick or hit back," makes you
feel as though you would like to charge into their midst, get hand to
hand, and at least have one shot or hit, in return for the compliments
and salutes they pay you. But no, you must stand still in the open,
coolly go on with the sketching, and not mind the bullets, even if
they take a leg off the plane table or knock the pencil out of your
hand. The only thing that is to be feared seriously is the rain, and
that may make the ink run, spoil the sketch, and cause a lot of
trouble and annoyance.

The Boers may "knock spots off you," but the sketch is the principal
thing; another R.E. Surveyor may be obtained, but not another plan,
until probably too late for practical use.

Presumably the burghers mistake the tripod and plane table (used for
the purpose) for a new kind of machine gun, or some other deadly
weapon, from the way in which they bang away when it is erected, and
it does, no doubt, surprise them when they find it does not spit fire
and lead, and probably they put it down as a "Rooinek" risking a
snapshot at close quarter; but they are very restless "sitters" and
resent the intrusion of Mausers, although never asked to pay for a
proof in advance--proof positive of a neglected education.

       *       *       *       *       *


  'Twas well remarked by Mack-Praed,
    In wise and witty lay,
  "We're known to be extremely brave;
    So take the sword away."

  Aye, let the sword and feather go,
    Bright belt and glitt'ring braid;
  Assume a sad and grub-like hue,
    For battle or for raid.

  No more in steel the warrior gleams,
    In scarlet cuts a dash;
  The hero now may scarce permit
    His eagle eye to flash.

  For glint and gleam and flash and flare
    Will all afford a mark;
  The better plan, in modern days,
    Is just "to keep it dark."

  We ask no more that you shall shine;
    Be dull if you would win.
  I mean, of course, in outward show--
    Lucidity within.

  For "slim's" the word now most in vogue
    (That's "sly," if read aright);
  From head to heel be dull and dim,
    Your brain alone be bright.

  It is no joy that you should smash
    Your head against a wall;
  "We're known to be extremely brave,"
    So pray be wise withal.

  Be lion-mettled--as you were;
    But not too proud to scout;
  And if the foe is right in front,
    Why, go a mile about.

  Go forth in strength of intellect,
    Shining with all your wit;
  So shall you baulk the wily foe--
    Unhit, shall make a hit.

                              E. T.



     _A Study of Tommy Atkins, the Inscrutable--Our Dutch
     Compositors Arraigned._

The lady who signed herself "Miss Uitlander" was also kind enough to
write for us an article on "Tommy in a Lady's Eyes." It was clever.
She said that Tommy walked the streets looking as if he always had
walked them--and that was true. It is also true that Tommy did
everything else in the same way. Wherever you put him or he found
himself he uttered no comments or exclamations, but at once adapted
himself to the situation. During the seven months I was with him I
never could fathom the operations of his mind. Sometimes I suspected
that he had none; at other times I envied him the kind of mind he had.

Our lady reporter said that Tommy "loves to make an impression on the
feminine heart--but, alas! his khaki uniform does not suit him. Like
country, like dress. We now see ourselves as others see us, a
khaki-coloured people in a vast khaki-coloured land." Of the officers
she said, "their amiability, patience, and high breeding are a treat
to come in contact with in a country such as this, where Jack is
considered as good as his master; in his own estimation, a very good
deal better."

"Bloemfontein is khaki-mad," she concluded; "Tommy is everywhere. The
shops overflow with him--and _how_ he spends his money! It will be an
object-lesson to those who, a few short weeks ago, were sure that
England was on the verge of bankruptcy. The streets abound with him.
The place is a beehive of soldiery, and never again will be any other,
I most fervently hope and trust."

I copy this bit of a long article because it brings strongly to mind
and in full swing and colour the daily scenes in the streets of
Bloemfontein. Whenever we ran out of THE FRIEND office to the hotel or
the printing works or the Club, we saw the same endless parade of
soldiers up and down the pavements, the same motley cavalcade of
mounted men in the streets. At the sound of drums we all ran out--for
civilisation was far away, and the natural man was welling up strong
in us--to see a regiment marching in, or out--or, too often, to view a
funeral procession leading a poor bundle of the dust of a hero
strapped upon a gun-carriage.

In the shops we found a wall of soldiers before every counter. They
were in swarms like flies in all except the drinking places. There
they could not go; poor fellows, to whom a drink would have seemed so
much more than to us, who could have it whenever and wherever we
wanted it.

I will say again, here, as I have said elsewhere once before, that
though we underwent more danger than many of the soldiers (who were
not sent, as we were, into every battle), and though we endured
hardships sufficient to break many strong men, we correspondents had
this advantage over the rest--that, no matter how light was the
marching-kit ordered for the troops, we were usually followed by our
carts, and when these came up with us, we had abundance--and some

It was my good fortune to be able to replenish the larder of one
regiment more than once when, between battles, it entertained a
general or the Commander-in-Chief. We in Roberts's and Methuen's army,
were never criticised for living as well as we could, but there is a
story current in army and war correspondent circles to the effect that
the hero of Omdurman severely rebuked certain correspondents for
living on a scale which provoked the envy of the officers, and
demoralised them. One correspondent of the little mess that was thus
criticised--a man who drank very little himself--is said to have
utilised one camel solely to carry the champagne with which he
entertained his friends among the officers. I do not say what I might
have done had this story been told me earlier, but, as it was, I had
no camel, and the champagne that kind friends sent me from England
never reached me.

My stores consisted of poultry in tins, puddings, jams (how good those
Cape jams are, by the way; they should have a great sale in all
civilised parts), tinned vegetables, bully beef and bullier tongue and
ham, preserved fruits, biscuits, figs, cigarettes, cigars, and a
little most evanescent whisky.

But to get back to the streets of soldier-burdened Bloemfontein; how
surely, as we assembled in the corner by the office, did the soldiers
recognise their poet and friend. He looked at all of them in general,
but all of them stared at him in particular. They passed the word
from rank to rank, "There's Rudyard Kipling!" and then marched on,
leaving their eyes on his face while their bodies passed along, until
it looked as if they must dislocate their necks before they had their
fill of seeing him.

He was like a comrade when he talked to a private, and talk to them he
did. Jack tar, Colonial, regular, and Pathan, he talked to all alike.

"How are you getting on? Is your camp all right? Near here? Where was
your last fight?" So he both introduced himself and set them talking
and at ease--all in a breath.

But, as I have said, "Tommy" is inscrutable. I stepped one day into a
German tobacconist's across the street from, and farther along than,
the Club, and found it packed by soldiers who were being served by an
insolent German with a portrait of ex-President Steyn in his coat

"Take that picture out of your button-hole," said I. "What do you mean
by wearing a thing like that when you are under British rule, and have
been both protected and generously treated?"

"I vill vear vot I shoose," said he.

I made a mental promise to see that he did not wear that emblem much
longer, and then turning to the soldiers I said, "Men, did you not see
what this man is wearing? Why do you spend your money on a man whose
sympathies are with the Boers? Give his shop the cold shoulder, and he
will soon see that he is making a mistake."

The appeal was in vain. The men instantly began to look very
uncomfortable. They rolled their eyes up to the ceiling or pinned
their gaze on the floor. No one said a word or even shot a glance of
approval in my direction. They did not care. Tommy does not
care--never cares--about anything, apparently.

I tried to keep my promise. Search was made for that tobacconist, but
he never served behind his counter after that visit of mine. He saved
the military the trouble of sending him to Capetown.

Lively days were those for rebels and irreconcilables. The men who had
most ardently furthered the cause of the Bond and the Transvaal war
party, and who had the indecency to loiter in the town, were quickly
weeded out and sent to the Boer prison camp near Capetown. If we could
not always tell who were our friends, these mischievous wretches were
worse off, for, ofttimes, their old neighbours, tired of the war and
awake to the folly of keeping it up, pointed them out to the military,
and retailed their nauseous histories.

"I feel a little like a lieutenant of Fouché," said one correspondent
to me. "I had pointed out to me a former editor of one of the local
papers whose pen was used with vitriol and who did as much as any man
to degrade and spoil this little country. I was told that he is still
talking angrily and abusively of us, and I was indignant. I mentioned
the case to a prominent military officer and in three hours the man
was a prisoner on his way to Capetown. I feel as if I was living in
Paris in the French revolution--very creepy and uncomfortable. I shall
keep my discoveries of such rascals to myself after this."

In this number mine was the leader entitled, "Do we Spare the Rod too
Much?" A friendly visitor, whose signature "L. D.-J." unfortunately
fails to recall his full name to my mind, wrote a very interesting
sketch called "Towards War," which shows with fidelity to the truth
how the mere process of going to war prepares one for the war itself.
Mr. Landon wrote the first true account most of us saw or heard of the
mishap at Karree Siding, where four of our officers were shot, on
March 23, while riding over the country on a search for forage. Lieut.
Lygon, who was one of the killed, was an intimate and beloved friend
of Mr. Landon, who mourned him deeply and most lovingly looked after
his burial and the proper marking of his grave. Death had come too
close to all of us far too often, but never quite so close to any one
of us as in this instance.

Mr. Gwynne's thoughtful essays on the revolutionised science of war
produced a first reply in this number, from an officer competent to
discuss the subject. General Sir Henry Colvile wrote with much good
humour twitting us for the blundering of our compositors, who had made
a botch of the double acrostic he had so kindly sent us some days
before. The fact that we were as much to blame as the compositors he
managed, with extremely clever wording, to make us feel, though he did
not say so. Those compositors!--were ever men so badly served as we
were by them? They doubled our work, and though we corrected every
error they made they often spoiled our efforts at the last by failing
to carry out our corrections. They were so ingenious as to spell
struggle "strxxlg," and then to insist that it should appear so in THE
FRIEND. They invented the new rank of "branch colonel" to take the
place of brigadier-general or lance-corporal, I cannot remember which.
I used to think they made this trouble on purpose, for I knew that
some were Dutch and all had been with the Boers before we came. And
when secret pro-Boer circulars and incentives to disorder were found
to have been printed in the town, I had a sneaking suspicion that I
could guess who were the printers.

We cut the Gordian knot of one of our troubles in this number by
reducing the price of THE FRIEND to one penny to men of all ranks

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)



_To Correspondents._--Please do not write on both sides of your letter
sheets when you contribute to THE FRIEND.

It's all right to take a kopje on both sides, but you should not send
it in on both sides.

Some of the Editors are sufficiently profane already.

       *       *       *       *       *



SIR,--"We don't hexpect hart and we don't hexpect hacting, but yer
might jine yer flats."

It is perhaps too much to expect that the gentleman who sets up the
type of THE FRIEND should know the usual structure of a
double-acrostic, or that he should trouble himself with such details
as my punctuation and spelling; but he might have let my lines
continue to scan and retain some germ of meaning; and, even if he did
not realise that the _proem_ was intended for verse, he might have let
it stand as English prose. His statement that "according to the
writer" the answer gives "the most appropriate cognomen," &c., is
interesting, as anything must be that falls from his stick. It further
reveals a wealth of imagination of which his previous efforts gave us
no hint.

                                                  H. C.
                                    Writer of the Double Acrostic
                                              in Saturday's issue.

_Bloemfontein, 24th March, 1900._

(Please don't shoot the Editors, they are doing their best.--ED.,

       *       *       *       *       *


BY L. D.-J.

The crowded platform at Waterloo, the groups of men in great-coats
gathered round figures in ulsters with travelling rugs upon their
arms; the long train with its dirty painted boards above the carriages
inscribed "Aldershot," "Basingstoke," "Southampton"; the last joke,
the last catchword, the last farewell grip of parting hands; the
sudden remembrance of need of newspaper or sandwich; the bustle and
hurry of railway officials, servants, late voyagers, or later friends,
thronging the platform from refreshment-room to bookstall: these tell
little to the observer of war and its alarms. Only at either end of
the platform where the great doors of the baggage-brakes yawn upon
piles of valises, beneath whose white-painted rank, name, regiment,
the bold initials "S.A.F.F." catch the eye, guarded by soldier
servants, field-service cap on right eye, uniform hidden under
collared great-coat; or on the racks of the compartments, where
curiously shaped tin cases cover the cocked hat or the helmet, and
where, showing through a bundle of canes, golf-clubs, and polo sticks,
is seen the clumsy brown leather shape of a sword case, is there a
hint of military significance, a clue to the tension of the thronged
faces, taking a farewell under circumstances not of the ordinary.

The Saturday afternoon in December, yellow and dull under the bitter
black frost which has gripped the heart of the land, as the ill news
has gripped the heart of the people, which comes to round off a week
whose despatches have announced the disasters of Stormberg,
Maghersfontein, Tugela, the threefold defeat on hill and plain and
river--is no day for cheerful leave-taking. Although every lip is
silent on the subject of the morning's news, latest and worst of all;
although the spoken word is all of a brilliant campaign, a stroke of
luck, a speedy and safe return, there looms before each mind the
coming list of casualties, the thought of war's inevitable chances,
the possibility that here and now are some who may never be seen again
firm-footed on a metropolitan causeway, whose trick of a smile, twist
of a moustache, and cock of hat upon forehead must become a slowly
dimming memory through the remnants of a life.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fire blazes against the frosty draught in the hall of the
Southampton Hotel. Baggage is piled upon baggage half-ceiling high in
every corner. Hungry men are hurriedly moving along the corridors
towards the dining-room, in their travelling suits of tweed or serge.
At two or three tables family parties are dining together for the last
time; the women silent, quiet-eyed, smiling but momentarily at the
sally of light-hearted youth, a sigh ever held in suspense behind kind
lips and white teeth. The writing-room holds a group of scrawling men,
finishing final letters, re-iterant of parting phrases, enforcing last
injunctions, expressing forgotten behests. And at the foot of the
stairs stand two officers in uniform, both in peaked caps, one
military, one naval, with white bands upon their sleeves. They are the
Embarking Staff Officers; they are the first visible sign of war.

       *       *       *       *       *

Grey fog upon the waters, grey fog hanging round the sheds upon the
wharves, a grey transport with red funnels, towering above the levels
of water and quay. Cranes rapidly sling guns, wagons, cases, with
creak, shout and thud over the grey bulwarks. Lines of uncouth figures
in grey great-coats, and blue red-banded sea-caps, pass
sight-protected rifles from hand to hand up the steep gangways and
along between rows of boxes and baggage to the armoury. The saloon is
filled with lunching officers, their friends and relatives. The last
toast is lifted in silence to the last lips; and eyes looking over
brim of wine-glass are eloquent of more than speech is master of. The
harsh clang of the warning bell, speaking full-voiced the words of
Destiny, transfers to the grey quay groups of dispirited, saddened
women, and of men stern-eyed and holding between their teeth and
under the cover of moustache or beard, minute bleeding portions of
their inner lips.

On the promenade deck, gay in a scarlet jumper, over-weighted a little
by his large khaki-covered helmet, leans upon a stanchion a very
junior subaltern. His boyish, hairless face is blue with the cold
frost-fog, he is biting very rapidly and nervously at the end of a
cigar that went out ere half its length was smoked. Looking up at him
from the wharf below, a group isolated from other groups holds a tall
lady clad in furs, heavily veiled, her handkerchief peeping from her
muff, and one arm resting heavily upon that of a grey-haired military
man, while son and daughter, or nephew and niece, perhaps, gather
protectingly to her side.

There is still delay. The gangways are removed, but still the hawsers
hold. The cold compels the watchers on the wharf to take a few
hurried, swiftly-turned paces up and down its length. The voyagers
stamp upon the deck, or beat a furtive arm across a swelling chest.
But they do not turn even for a second from contemplation of that
shore they may never see again.... A whistle blows, there is the sound
of a cable slipping through the water, the lady in the furs comes
hastily forward, puts up her veil a little way and tries to shout. The
youthful subaltern leans out perilously over the side. The words come
faintly up.... "Goodbye! Rex.... God bless you!... I know I shall see
you again...." The lady beats her hand desperately upon her muff, and
dabs her handkerchief unknowingly against her veil....

The band aft is playing "Auld Lang Syne," a stretch of greenish water
spreads between ship and shore, a few half-hearted cheers are rising
through the grey fog, and the sound of a melancholy chapel bell in the
distant town tells of a half-forgotten Sabbath.... The subaltern's
eyes no longer see things clearly, and the handkerchief he waves as
answer to those fluttering along the grey length of the quay is heavy
and damp....

So we come a little closer to the realities of war.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lights flicker and gleam in the dark shade of the poplar trees
fringing the platform. There is a hush over those who hold space upon
the gravel before the station-master's office. In the darkness it is
difficult to see who one's neighbour may chance to be. But voices
betray the presence of the P.M.O. and half a dozen officers from the
Field Hospital behind the church. At the other end of the platform lie
the sinister stretchers of a bearer company laid out in an
interminable row. Up to the line comes the low melancholy whistle of
the armoured train....

All day from far beyond the ring of hills that cages the camp upon the
plain has come the dull booming of heavy guns. There has been a battle
and there have been losses: this we know. The approaching train is
bringing in the wounded from the scene of action, but who they may be
who suffer we have yet to learn. As the light comes round the bend
above the water-tank, there is a stir among the waiting groups. A
command rings out, and is followed by the shuffle of feet as the
bearer company stands to its stretchers. The train glides slowly,
looming up in its solid armoured squareness between the goods sheds
and the rolling-stock upon the sidings. It draws into the little
colonial wayside station with a flash of its headlight that renders
the platform darker than ever. The form of its commander drops from
the rear carriage, with its maxim-portals, and its loop-holes for
rifles, all sliding by dim and grey and sinister. In a low voice he
tells the P.M.O. "six killed, fourteen wounded. I have brought down
eight." "Any officers?" questions some one in the background. "Jones
is killed, and Spindrift missing," comes the response, "and young
Michael is here, shot in five places." ...

Lanterns swing back and forth, the doctors get into the carriage,
there is a low, subdued murmur of voices from within; a breath of some
antiseptic comes from the interior; a groan is audible. Then the
Bearer Company marches slowly along the edge of the platform. Four men
enter with their stretcher, and after a painful lapse of time, the
lanterns swing again, the group stands back a little, and slowly,
carefully, feet foremost, the first wounded man is brought out, and
lowered upon his stretcher to the ground. While his blankets are being
arranged there is time to see him indistinctly: a bandage round his
head with a dark, tell-tale patch soaking through it, a pale face with
closed eyes and a pale moustache disarranged across his mouth. Last
night we dined and drank together. Now, as he is borne off out of
hearing, the medical officers whisper, "poor chap, there is no hope
for him; he cannot last the night."

Gradually the armoured train disgorges its unhappy load, the
stretchers receive their burdens, the marshalled procession goes
slowly over the line towards the hospital, the medical officers in
close attendance, and the engine pushes and pulls its bullet-proof
trucks back through the night to fetch another cargo.

War and its horrors are with us now, and are scarcely so terrible
after all. Our gradual approach has softened them or possibly hardened
us--who shall say which?

       *       *       *       *       *



There has been so much misrepresentation of the facts connected with
the unfortunate incident at Karree Siding on the 23rd that the
following brief description of what actually occurred may be of

A military camp had been formed at the Glen--the point at which the
railway crosses the Modder River, thirteen miles north of
Bloemfontein--on the previous day, and Colonel Eyre Crabbe, of the
Grenadier Guards, had been appointed commandant, with his adjutant,
Lieutenant Edward Lygon, as his staff officer.

Forage was scarce, and it became necessary to collect a small amount
from the neighbouring farms. Colonel Crabbe, accompanied by Colonel
Codrington of the Coldstream Guards, Lieutenant Lygon, Captain
Trotter, and one orderly, set out after luncheon on Friday for this
purpose, and, moving out in a northerly direction, visited three
farms, and then, finding themselves close to the railway office at
Karree Siding, entered the telegraph room at that place and found that
the instruments had been removed.

On riding out from the station they saw on a ridge to the north four
mounted Boers against the sky-line, and Colonel Crabbe, calling out
"Come on, let us round them up," set out at once in their direction,
followed by Colonel Codrington and the others. A slight protest was
made against the danger of the attempt.

The Boers had ridden away to the west, but were still in sight, and
they were seen attempting to double back over a slight rise in the
ground strewn with boulders that scarcely deserves the name of a

Believing that the enemy had ridden over and away, the small party
moved on and divided at the base of this fold, Captain Trotter and
Lieutenant Lygon moving off to the right, the two Colonels and the
orderly keeping to the left.

The Boers, however, leaving their horses at the back of the rise, took
up positions behind the rocks, and opened a well-aimed and constant
fire upon our men. Colonel Crabbe, whose horse had fallen at the first
shot, was struck through the forearm and thigh, Colonel Codrington
received a bullet as he lay on the ground attempting to return the
fire, and the orderly was wounded in the ankle. Meanwhile firing on
the other flank continued for two or three minutes, until Lieutenant
Lygon, who had dismounted and was running forward to gain the cover of
an anthill, was shot through the heart. Death was instantaneous, even
Captain Trotter being unaware of it until he turned round, receiving
at the same moment an expanding bullet through the elbow.

Thus the whole of the small force was now either dead or wounded, and
Colonel Crabbe surrendered. The Boers instantly came down into the
open, and, expressing their regret, did all they could to dress the
wounds, Captain Trotter undoubtedly owing his life to the tourniquet
applied to his arm.

The wounded men were afterwards carried by the Boers with great care
to Mr. Maas' farm, and the news was sent back to the Glen by a Kaffir.

Lieutenant Lygon's body was borne back on the following morning, and
was buried near the small white kraal a hundred yards to the east of
the railway bridge. The funeral, which took place at sunset on
Saturday, was most impressive, the entire battalion attending the
voluntary parade and lining the path between the camp and the grave.

Little comment is needed. Clearly the virtue that runs to a fault has
here been to blame. The same unquestioning pluck that impels an
officer in leading his men on the field of battle prompted this
careless enterprise, with the miserable result we have recorded. We
have lost--and the loss is the loss of the whole force--one of the
best and most popular of our younger officers, and of the other
casualties one at least may prove more serious than was anticipated;
but at least it is a compensation to remember that, however
unfortunate the issue, the quiet pluck and discipline of the army have
been once more tried and not found wanting.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Advice to Looters._


Don't call on the Provost Marshal with a couple of live chickens on
your saddle bow.

Don't attempt to carry off a grand piano on an ammunition waggon; it
might be noticed.

Don't cook sheep's kidneys ostentatiously in camp; you may be asked
where you found the sheep.

Don't load your horse with flannel petticoats when carrying a message
to a general; flannel petticoats are not a part of military equipment.

Don't swagger about camp with an air of repletion when the force is
subsisting on quarter rations.

Don't try to stuff a pillow into your helmet; it only spoils your
appearance and gives the show away.

Don't "pick up" anything with the broad arrow on it.

Don't steal a horse from the Club railings when its owner is having a
whisky and soda; it is distinctly dangerous.

Don't "steal" a horse at all, but let it "wander into your lines."

Don't drive a flock of sheep across the pond of the Headquarter Staff;
they might delay the Commander-in-Chief and make him angry.

Don't wear a bunch of false hair in your hat; it was never served out
to you.

Don't carry ladies' silk stockings in your wallets; they won't fit

Don't shout out in camp, "Who's stolen my silk umbrella?" People might
ask you where you got it from.

Don't avoid ostentatiously the Provost Marshal as he rides along;
greet him kindly and openly and perhaps he will not suspect you.

       *       *       *       *       *


At Colesberg, in one of the numerous cavalry fights, an old Boer was
held at mercy by a lancer who had his lance ready to strike. "Moe nie!
Moe nie!" cried the old man, which, being translated, means "Don't,
don't!" The lancer, however, didn't understand Dutch, and replied, "I
don't want your money, I want your life," but the renewed appeal was
too piteous, and the old man was taken prisoner.



     _Four Correspondents Dine the General, the Governor, and
     Rudyard Kipling, and Produce_ THE FRIEND _as well_.

"Alles zal recht komen" were the words of the late President Brand,
true friend of the English, which were graven on the pedestal of his
statue before the doors of the Residency. We repeated them in new
"tabs" beside the heading of our paper on March 28th, with an amended
English translation facing them: "All has come right."

"All shall come right," we said, in our editorial, "was the motto of
the late Orange Free State. What a prophet was he who conceived it,
and how quickly has come the fruition of his prophecy! All has come

We published an appreciative editorial upon Sir Alfred Milner, who had
come on the previous day upon a visit to Lord Roberts. It was written
by Mr. Landon. Mr. Kipling contributed more "Kopje-Book Maxims," and
bore a heavy hand in the production of an amusing column, entitled,
"The Military Letter Writer."

This was the way that column came into being. Mr. Landon, Mr. Kipling,
and I were in the poet's bedroom when Mr. Landon produced a model
letter-writer which he had found somewhere. I take great credit for
the phrase "found somewhere"; it might, with any other man than Mr.
Landon, be so full and rich in meaning. The book professed to be a
sober guide to the young and the ignorant in the paths of epistolary
literature; therefore it was bound to be supremely funny. We screamed
over what Landon read to us out of it.

Said Mr. Kipling: "Let's write some model military letters," and, as
was his wont, he seized a pencil and paper and began to write No. 1,
reading as he wrote. He urged us both to contribute, and Mr. Landon
tried with much good intent, while I wished to do so, but could not
begin to keep pace with the poet. Instant collaboration is almost
always impossible, especially where the inspiration comes to one man
who is seized by it, and begins to give it expression before his
companions can match their minds with his. Therefore Mr. Kipling went
on and on, and Mr. Landon took the block and pencil and wrote as Mr.
Kipling talked. Thus were produced letter No. 1 and the italicised
introduction to No. 2; the rest Mr. Landon arranged and edited out of
his book.

The column was pieced out at the end with No. 3 of Mr. Kipling's
"Fables for the Staff," which was, therefore, hidden in a bottom
corner of the page--a stroke of genius on the part of those whom we
anathematised collectively in the singular number as "The Dutch

Mr. Buxton had been called away to Capetown just after Mr. Kipling's
arrival, and my associates, hag-ridden by the confusion and annoyances
consequent upon the lack of a practised head to the little
institution, had thrust upon me the honour and hard work of what may
be called the managing editor's place. Thenceforth it was my duty to
deal with the gnomes in the dust hall, the retiring and reticent
cashier in another building, and the inmates of the Home for Boer
Compositors, otherwise known as the office of the late unlamented
_Express_. When I saw the genius of the Master thrust to the bottom
corner of the paper, or made grotesque by mis-spelling and exhibitions
of "pi," I felt that I alone was to blame, and hid myself and vowed to
produce better results if I had to set up the type myself.

From an able major of Engineers we received for this number a
confident and well-studied reply to Mr. Gwynne's articles on the
effects of the war upon military science.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: The Dinner of the 28th of March 1900 At Bloemfontein.

_1st page of Menu._]

[Illustration: _2nd page of Menu._]

[Illustration: MENU.

  Tomato Soup.

  Boiled Salmon.
  Parsley Sauce.

  Fricassee of Chicken.
  Braized Ox Tail.

  Roast Sirloin of Beef.

  Roast Turkey.

  French Beans.

  Cabinet Pudding.
  Blanc Mange.

  Anges a Cheral.

  Cheese. Coffee.

  _3rd page of Menu._]

[Illustration: Alles zal recht komen.

_4th page of Menu._]

       *       *       *       *       *

This was the day upon which Mr. Landon, Mr. Gwynne, Mr. James Barnes,
and myself were to entertain at dinner Sir Alfred Milner, Lord
Roberts, and Rudyard Kipling. The _menus_ had been printed under the
eye of Mr. Landon, and were very distinguished examples of plain
typography. As twenty-four were to be used, we gave twelve each to Mr.
W. B. Wollen, R.I., and to Mr. Lester Ralph, war artists with the
army, requesting these able friends to do their best to produce on
each guest's _menu_ a picture illustrative of some exploit or leading
characteristic of the recipient. A very notable series of drawings
resulted--so notable that the Field-Marshal, whose own card showed him
in the act of receiving the Keys of Bloemfontein, asked to see them
all. When, toward the end of the repast, each man wrote his name
on every _menu_, you may be certain those bits of pasteboard bearing
the simple words, "The Dinner of the 28th of March, Bloemfontein,
1900," leaped high in value, and in the jealous pride of every man who
had one.

That was a dinner! An affair as unique and as singular an episode of
war as--as, let us say, THE FRIEND itself. Beside the great General,
the High Commissioner, and the Poet of the Empire, we had with us
General Pretyman, Military Governor of the town; General
Forestier-Walker, the courtly commander of the Lines of Communication;
the gallant, debonair Pole-Carew; the redoubtable flashing-eyed Hector
Macdonald; the polished Sir Henry Colvile; Colonel Otter, the leader
of the men with the maple-leaf; Lord Stanley, diplomat and censor;
Lord Kerry; Colonel Girourd, binder of new Empire-fractions with
threads of steel; Colonel Hanbury Williams, the High Commissioner's
right hand; Colonel Neville Chamberlain, veteran at Empire
building--and then our comrade-historians of the pen and pencil, W. B.
Wollen, R.I., Lester Ralph, H. F. P. Battersby, A. B. Paterson, H. C.
Shelley, and W. Blelock. We had invited Lord Kitchener, but he was
away at Prieska. On his return he expressed his regret that he had not
participated in this historic gathering. Excepting Lord Kitchener,
whose field of endeavour was so ably represented, only Mr.
Chamberlain, of all the great empire builders of the day, was missing.

We dined at the railway station, because it had the largest room and
best cook in the new colony.

I hear the band outside. I see a carriage roll up, and Sir Alfred
Milner springs out, spare-framed and visaged like an eagle. The
Field-Marshal follows him, precise in movement, gentle of mien but
erect and firm as steel, with long usage of command resting as light
and firm upon him as if he was born with it. I see the two leaders
halt and urge one another to take the lead, but Lord Roberts is the
firmer and will not go first. Again at the door of the dining-hall the
two great men halt and dispute with pantomimic gestures, each anxious
to honour the other. When the toasts came, and Mr. Landon told Sir
Alfred Milner that he was to be toasted first, the High Commissioner
exclaimed, "It's absolutely wrong." Mr. Landon replied, "I am under
orders. I must obey Lord Roberts," for the Field-Marshal had already
been consulted. All the others are in the room, under the flaming flag
and the huge paper roses. We dine--better than at the Residency--upon
several courses and with good wine a-plenty.

I see my handsome and gifted colleague, Mr. Landon, rise to toast the
High Commissioner. What's this we hear? He is welcoming the Viceroy as a
brother in journalism, a newspaper man like ourselves. Up rises the man
who lives in the heart of care and the furnace of dissension--pale,
grave, concentrated, like one who thinks of but one thing and has but
one thing to do--and that a thing gigantic. He replies that it is true
that he was once a writer like ourselves; that he enjoyed those days;
that he made delightful friends and spent glad hours in them; that he
has had much to do with the gentlemen of the Press in Capetown, and that
his relations with all have been without a flaw. After that he speaks
but little of the heart of care where his official bed is laid, or of
the furnace blasts of treason and of discord round his chair at the
Cape, but, with unassumed modesty, calls our attention to the military
magician across the table and to what he has done.

It is Mr. Gwynne who rises next--one of the very best-equipped war
correspondents with the British forces, both as a campaigner and a
critic of war, and high among the best as a writer. It is fitting that
he should introduce the Field-Marshal, for he is liked and trusted by
his distinguished guest, who has discovered, I fancy, that under the
correspondent's khaki beats the heart of the soldier.

Lord Roberts replied that he was very proud to be the guest of the war
correspondents. He liked to have them with him, and he was glad when
they criticised whatever was amiss, for he profited by reading what
they said. Turning to us, the Field-Marshal remarked, "You share all
our hardships and exposure. All the troops do not engage in every
battle, but you go to all, so that you experience even more danger
than most of us. May I call you 'comrades'?"

I remember that he spoke earnestly of the work Sir Alfred Milner was
doing, and credited that statesman with the most difficult task of any
man who served the Empire. One other bit of his address I recall--a
mere phrase, but a remarkable one: "The gentlemen I command--my
gentlemanly army."

It was my good fortune to introduce Rudyard Kipling--a delicate as
well as a proud task, because I knew that fulsome praise, or even the
most honest appreciation, would make him uncomfortable. I remember
that I spoke of the narrow compass of Shakspere's renown in his day,
and the world-wide fame of a man like Kipling in these days of
multitudinous newspapers and telegraphs and cables.

"Gentlemen," said the poet, "you remember the story of the artist
Whistler in Paris. An admirer came to him and said: 'Master, you and
Velasquez are the greatest exponents of the art of painting.' 'True,
true,' said Mr. Whistler, 'but why drag in Velasquez?' (A pause.) In
all sincerity I ask you why need you drag in Shakspere? There is not a
name in all literature more disheartening to those who try to do a bit
of earnest work at writing. There is not a thought, an emotion, a
picture, a bit of description that has not been written before--and
written much better than we can write it--by William. We found a
volume of his works in the office of THE FRIEND. Take war. In 'Henry
V.' you will find all that can be written--all the glory and all the
shame, all the valour and the sordidness, the excitement and the
pomp--you will find it all in 'Henry V.' better than any one can write
it now. In all sincerity, then, I ask you, why drag in Shakspere?

"I propose to you to-night, gentlemen, the health of the man who has
taught the British Empire its responsibilities, and the rest of the
world its power, who has filled the seas with transports, and the
earth with the tramp of armed men, who has made Cape Town see in Table
Bay such a sight as she never saw before and, please God, will never
see again; who has turned the loafer of the London streets into a man,
and called out him who led our fathers to Kandahar, and who knew not
what he did; who has made the Uitlander of South Africa stand shoulder
to shoulder with the boundary rider of New Zealand, and taught the
men of New South Wales to pick up the wounded men who wear the maple
leaf--and all in support of the mother-country. Gentlemen, I give you
the name of the Empire-builder--Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger."

After the great guests went home a dozen or fifteen of us remained and
enjoyed an impromptu little sing-song, when this to me touching and
singular incident occurred. General Pole-Carew came to me and said,
"Your son Lester should go home and to bed. He is in a high fever. I
know what it means, for I have had it six times. Look after him well."
My son was then in the thirteenth day of an attack of enteric, about
which he had said not a word to any one. In that condition he had
drawn the pictures on the _menus_ of Lord Roberts, General Pole-Carew,
General French (who could not come), Lord Stanley, General Colvile,
Colonel Otter, Mr. Kipling, and others. Lester, on hearing what the
General had said, declared it was no news to him and, after thanking
the General, went home and to bed. There, until we could get him to a
hospital, Mr. Kipling nursed him with consummate skill and the
gentleness of a woman; interesting and, to me, precious memories of a
world in which some of us find too few of such suggestions of the
better world to come.

In this "Free State Hospital," with the ministrations of the matron,
Miss Young, and her devoted lady nurses, the same strong essence of
unselfishness made the siege of sickness a period of pleasure.
Generals, colonels, correspondents and all of the salt of the army
went there often to cheer the patients--one of whom was Mr. Oppenheim
of the _Daily News_.

We four private men, who gave this dinner in our own name to our own
friends, have been a great deal criticised, but it is a noticeable
fact that the only critics are the men who were not invited to the

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

No. 10] BLOEMFONTEIN, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28, 1900. [Price One Penny.


Notice is hereby given that, communication with the Cape Colony having
been restored, the Laws and Regulations of the Customs Convention have
been put into force by virture of the proclamation of Field-Marshal
Lord Roberts, dated the 20th instant, and that from and after this
date Government Notice, No. 106, published in the "Gouvernements
Courant" of the 27th October, 1899, by which the Customs dues on
provisions and merchandise were temporarily suspended will be
considered null and void, in so far as those portions of the State now
occupied by Her Majesty's troops are concerned.

  By order
            J. H. MEIRING, Collector of Customs.
                       Customs' House, Bloemfontein, 24th March, 1900.

       *       *       *       *       *


Whereas it is necessary that all State and private property in the
South African Republic and the Orange Free State shall be protected
from wanton destruction and damage,


G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., V.C., Field Marshal, Commanding-in-Chief the
British Forces in South Africa, do hereby give notice that all persons
who, within the territories of the South African Republic or the
Orange Free State shall authorise or be guilty of the wanton
destruction or damage or the counselling, aiding, or assisting in the
wanton destruction or damage of public or private property (such
destruction or damage not being justified by the usages and customs of
civilised warfare), will be held responsible in their persons and
property for all such wanton destruction and damage.

Given under my hand at Bloemfontein, this Twenty-sixth day of March,


                     Field Marshal,
             Commanding-in-Chief Her Majesty's Forces in South Africa.

       *       *       *       *       *



The High Commissioner of South Africa left Bloemfontein after the
mercifully abortive conference on June 6th of last year. Yesterday he
re-entered the town. The interval has been for some a time of hard
fighting, for all a time of anxiety, and amid the enthusiasm of his
welcome to the capital, his strong confidence during the darker days,
his unswerving fidelity to the high ideal of his Imperial work, must
be in the minds of all.

His entry into Bloemfontein, the capital of one of the two colonies
destined to fall into line with the progress of United South Africa,
is an occasion that will be recognised by the historian of this war as
closing one "swelling act of the Imperial theme."

Half--perhaps more than half--of Lord Roberts' work has been done; the
greater part of Sir Alfred Milner's task lies still before him. In
welcoming him within its walls Bloemfontein does not forget that long
after the transports have sailed with the last of the troops of the
expedition, the High Commissioner will still be confronted with a
gigantic work, requiring alike foresight, tact, and strength of will.
And Bloemfontein, like the rest of the Empire, is well content to
leave in the hands of Sir Alfred Milner the solution of the problem
upon the right interpretation of which the fortunes of this enormous
federation must depend.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Sing they who will of the Yeomen Imperial,
    Gillies, Scouts, "Tigers," and bold C.I.V.;
  Others may hold to more usual material,
    Horse, Foot, and Rifles, and Artillerie.
  But there's a corps with its name writ in History--
    Bold they as lions and steadfast as rocks--
            Gaily we'll troll our song,
            Slow as we stroll along--
            Trickle and roll along--
                    Driving the Ox!

  But when the war-cloud frowns thicker and lowereth,
    When the quick-moving battalions are met;
  Not where the soft-hissing bullet most showereth,
    Not in the forefront our places are set.
  Still drive we on, though a day's march in rear we be,
    O'er veldt and vlei, with the mud to our hocks--
            Still will we push along,
            Nor sadly hush our song,
            Though we don't rush along,
                  Driving the Ox!

  Fill, then, a cup to the Beeves of Her Majesty,
    Long in the rear may their colours be seen!
  Heavy their loads, but their hearts light as anything,
    Doing strong work for their country and Queen.
  What though they jeer who sweep by with the mounted troops?
    Treat we as nought all their jibes and their mocks.
            Though ne'er a fight we'll see,
            Cheerful and bright we'll be,
            We're a grand sight to see,
                  Driving the Ox!

                                 "OLD MAN."

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 7: Copyrighted in England and America. Used here by




A Field-Artillerist passing a newly-imported Pom-pom overwhelmed it
with Contumely, saying, "What has a Gunner to do with an Unqualified

To this the virtuous Mechanism returned no answer, but communicated
these Atrocious Sentiments to a fellow Pom-pom in the Opposing Army
which, later, catching the Field-battery crossing a Donga, gave it
Ten-a-penny for two Minutes to the Confusion of all concerned.

"Alas!" said the Field-artillerist as he watched his Leg disassociate
itself from the Remainder of his Anatomy, "Who would have thought that
an Implement officially rejected by the War Office and what is more,
damned by Myself, could have done so neat a Trick?"

MORAL. Do not condemn the Unofficial. It hits hard.

       *       *       *       *       *




No. I.

(_From a General of Division unshaven for eight days who lost his
horse, which he had lately commandeered from a subaltern of transport,
after having dined not wisely but too well at a Cavalry Camp, five
miles from his own tent, to which he was conducted through a
rain-storm by an inebriated signaller, to Captain Vanderbyl of the
Ninety-Third Field Hospital, given by voluntary subscriptions, of
which the larger part remain to this day unpaid, so that the hospital
is without bandages, lint or beds, whom he suspects of being accessory
to the animal's disappearance._)


It is with deep pain that I take my pen in hand to trespass on your
valuable time, but the imperative needs of the case must be my

Twelve happy hours ago I was the proud, and I may add, the lawful
possessor of a bay mare, off fore foot white, white blaze and snip,
near hind pastern marked by heel rope, unshod in front and ear nicked,
which I think I left with a man with two heads but that may have been
on account of the sherry and bitters and she was tied up to the
railings because my boy forgot the blanket and I borrowed one from the
hospital but anyhow I know that when I came out she was a lousy mule
and the saddle cost £6 10s. at the Army and Navy Stores and I may as
well tell you at once if you have tried to dispose of it that they are
marked all over with my name and rank. Therefore, Augustus Burstem,
General of Division presents his compliments to Captain Vanderbyl and
everybody in the camp knows the mule is yours and besides your boy was
seen grooming her at the back of your tent this morning. I want it
back by bearer.

  Yours sincerely,
                  AUGUSTUS BURSTEM,

No. II.

(_From a saddle-chafed officer of the Staff with Evangelical
convictions and a rooted distaste for Scouting, who has just come off
a 10 days' march on quarter rations and has lost half his transport
and 7 men by advancing in close order upon the white flag to his
General, who has a taste for horse-racing and profanity and a good
seat across country, seventeen and a half hours after his return to
camp, and seventeen and one quarter hours after the General had
expressed his (the General's) opinion upon his (the Captain's) facial
peculiarities, mental attainments, moral rectitude, birth, parentage,
and probable future._)


I have been much perplexed for some days, in consequence of a growing
conviction--which has indeed been deepening for some weeks--that we
are each of us conscious that we have made a mistake in becoming
engaged. I believe you have this conviction, as I am obliged to
confess I have. Now it is infinitely better that we face it at once. I
would gladly be convinced that we have not been mistaken; and if I am
wrong in believing that this thought has been in your mind as well as
my own, pray forgive me for having misjudged you. How else can I
account for the depression which seems to rule you when in my company,
and for the apparent relief which parting seems to bring you? Now,
will you do yourself and me the justice to ask yourself seriously
whether or no (I) have at all correctly gauged your feeling? If so, I
would wish to release you, for your own sake as well as for mine. It
really seems that we have each discovered that our ideals are not to
be found in each other. If so we shall respect each other none the
less in future years that we had the courage to confess to each other
that we have been mistaken. Kindly write when you are sure of the
answer which you are sending.

  Faithfully yours,

It is interesting to note that this and the following letter are taken
literally word for word from a well-known "Letter-writer." Thus we see
the adaptability of these invaluable helps to the epistolary art. It
will not be necessary to suggest the original suggested circumstances
of this correspondence.

No. 3.


DEAR WALTER,--I have taken a few days to sift my thoughts on the
subject of your last. The conclusion that I have come to is
practically the same as yours. I have no blame to lay on you; on the
contrary, you have been most kind and considerate in all things. No
doubt, without intending it, we have been both mistaken; and although
we have honestly tried to be all to each other, yet that mysterious
something which is perhaps best expressed by the word "affinity" has
been lacking. So, without in the least losing my respect for
you--rather it has increased--I accept the proposal contained in your
last, viz., that our engagement should cease.

  Sincerely yours,
                                     B. I. TUMEN, Genl.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Who are these hasting with speed o'er the ocean,
    Meeting together in one common cause,
  Proving by deeds and a whole-souled devotion,
    Their love for our Flag and contempt for the Boers?

  These are the oversea sons of one mother,
    Some bred in sunshine and some bred in snow;
  Meeting together as brother with brother,
    One common kindred 'gainst one common foe.

  Bright sunny land in the far-off Pacific,
    Fit habitation for men such as these,
  Proving their birthright in battle terrific,
    Sons of the Mother though bred overseas.

  Grand snow-clad land on the stormy Atlantic,
    Home of our brothers who fight with us here--
  Proving by deeds most high-souled and romantic
    Their love for their country we all hold so dear.

  This be our comfort and this be our beacon--
    Blood that was shed has but bound us together,
  No power can conquer, no quarrels shall weaken
    The Rose and the Maple, the Wattle and Heather!

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 8: "Ten-a-Penny" was a soldiers' nickname for the Pom-pom.
"The ----y Doorknocker" it was christened in the Highland Brigade. The
word "Pom-pom" came first into use immediately after the battle of
Modder River.]

A certain General has breathed vengeance against two of the Editors of
THE FRIEND, threatening to put them in his guard-room if he finds them
within his lines. They are not afraid of him, but prefer to admire him
as of old. They scorn his threats but will welcome an invitation to

       *       *       *       *       *

A linesman describing the arrival of the Guards Brigade at
Bloemfontein after they had covered 41 miles in 22 hours: "An' they
come in the last mile like a lot o' bloomin' Park hacks, steppin' 'igh
an' dressin' most particular."

       *       *       *       *       *

A French waiter at a Parisian café recently heard the news of
Kimberley's relief, and observed joyously: "Bon! Fashoda finds itself
avenged. Behold, ze English again in the consommée, for ze French are
in Kimberley!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Look here! You get away from this antheap. This is my antheap. There
are plenty around, and you find one for yourself." The hail of Mauser
bullets from the kopje was pretty heavy, and the nearest antheap at
least fifty yards away, so the other Grahamstown man disputed the
uitlander theory of his comrade, and insisted on staying. "Confound
you, get away I tell you; your big feet are drawing the fire; if you
don't I'll break your neck." "You shut up," said the other, "this
antheap is as much mine as yours, besides if you talk of breaking
necks, well----" There appeared to be no further conversation, but the
officer observed the two men suddenly arise and a hot set-to followed.
The fire was too hot for immediate inquiry, but after a prolonged
round one man was knocked down, the other drew him behind the disputed
shelter, and resumed patient firing at the enemy.

Later a request was made for orders regarding the possession of
antheaps by irregulars.

       *       *       *       *       *

A well-known scout returning from Kimberley last week was taken
prisoner at Modder River by a party of eight Boers. He was sent in
charge of two burghers to the Boer camp near Brandfort. On the way the
Boers off-saddled and their horses strayed. Leaving their prisoner
alone with their guns and ammunition, which they had laid down, they
went after the horses. Here was an excellent opportunity. Both Boers
were at his mercy, but it looked too much like murder, so awaiting
their return, the scout, who could speak the Taal, appealed to them
to let him go, telling them that he could easily have shot them, but
the war was nearly over, and he would not take men's lives in that
way; further, that it would greatly inconvenience him to be taken
North, and he might be able to put in a good word for them soon, if
their farms should be in danger. After an hour's palaver they agreed
to give him a show, and told him he could go. They then escorted him
to the river and showed him the road to Bloemfontein.

       *       *       *       *       *


This is the story of two men who, unarmed, and without a guard brought
£25,000 in bullion from Capetown to Bloemfontein, through a country
still seething with dangers of war. The men were L. L. Michell,
general manager of the Standard Bank of South Africa, and W. Munro du
Preez, formerly of the National Bank of Harrismith, now teller of the
Standard Bank's new Bloemfontein branch, which opened to-day in the
building on Market Square, formerly occupied by the Café Royal and
later by the Military Post Office.

They left Capetown on Thursday a week ago, with twelve boxes of
specie, each one of which weighed eighty pounds. For six days they
lived, ate, and slept on those boxes. Their only holiday was at
Naauwpoort, when they paid a high compliment to six A. and S.
Highlanders by putting the boxes in their charge and going out to
stretch their legs. For hundreds of miles the train ran through
desolate karoo in which a band of train robbers would have stood a
fair chance of success. At Colesberg the twelve heavy boxes were
piled out again on the platform and into the ladies' waiting-room and
the weary bankers stretched out on them, for the night.

There was to have been a military guard for the gold at Norval's Pont,
but somehow the guard did not connect. The bank men found themselves
stalled at a broken bridge, with the choice of trusting their bullion
to a thin wire rope slung across the broken spans, or putting it on a
pont that formed a rope ferry across the river. They chose the pont.

The train from Capetown reached Orange River at 2 o'clock on Tuesday
afternoon. The train on the north side of the river had to wait until
7 o'clock for the gold.

The transfer across the river was the most interesting part of the
journey. Messrs. Michell and du Preez deny that their interest had
anything of anxiety in it. They trusted the twelve sweating volunteers
who wandered wide from the train to the pont with its 960 pounds
avoirdupois and 25,000 pounds sterling. Du Preez walked at the head of
the volunteers and Michell at the tail. The volunteers seemed to be
walking all over the country.

So the twelve boxes were finally slammed into the guard's van on the
north side of the river, and the bank manager and his teller clambered
in on top of them. If there was a military guard on the train they
didn't have the comfort of knowing it. They had been told that all the
Boers were giving in their arms and that the country through which
they rode was thoroughly pacified, but then, as du Preez said, "when
you are travelling with twelve boxes of bullion you can't be dead sure
of anything."

When the train reached Bloemfontein on Wednesday, the boxes were
taken at once to the vaults of the National Bank of the Orange Free
State, and the two men, wearied by their six days' vigil, went at once
to bed, and to sleep.

Mr. Michell, who manages the Standard Bank affairs in all parts of
South Africa, is only temporarily in Bloemfontein. Mr. D. Savory,
formerly of the branch bank at Oudtshoorn, will be manager of the
Bloemfontein branch. Mr. A. S. D. Robertson, formerly in the branch
bank at Ceres, will be accountant, and Mr. du Preez will be teller.



     _The Thirteenth Number, produced by Mr. James Barnes of New

The last of the dinner was still in our mouths, the last words in
answer to the toasts had not been spoken five hours when, at daybreak
on the 29th, we were all, except Mr. James Barnes, on the way to the
battle of the Glen (or of Karree Siding, as it is sometimes called).
Mr. Barnes most kindly remained to take entire control of THE FRIEND,
which is to say that he undertook the work of four men, and had as his
only assistant a bright young American journalist from Philadelphia,
Mr. Joseph W. Jenkins. This young gentleman had worked hard and
gratuitously for us from the first as the gatherer of the news of the
little capital, and very fertile and versatile he proved.

Mr. Bennet Burleigh took Mr. Kipling to the fight in his Cape-cart,
and they started out with more style and comfort than an Oriental
general swaying on the cushioned howdah of his elephant charger. But
the course of a day in war is as uncertain as that of love or as the
nature of the white men, and, early in the day, the Poet of the Empire
was under a hot Mauser fire. Far from being nervous or regretting the
experience, he seemed to feel only the tingle of the excitement. If
you could get him to refer to it you saw that he rejoiced to have felt
the breath and heard the weird, low song of the leaden rain.

For myself I had such an inglorious escapade as no man would care to
dwell upon who was in a war to get the best or the worst, but not to
be incapacitated by what could have happened at home. In a word, I
went into a wire fence off the back of a frightened racehorse, and was
obliged to go on to the battle, belated and with both fore-arms torn
into strips, not to speak of injuries which must stay by me as
mementoes of the day so long as I live.

Mr. Barnes's number of THE FRIEND was a good one. His editorial, "As
to the Future," was very vigorous, and must have pleased Sir Alfred
Milner, who did us the honour to say that he valued the paper as a
most efficient arm of the effort to pacify and reconcile to their fate
our neighbours of the Free State. He suggested to me that we should
address ourselves more directly to the Boers, and always with a view
to impressing them with our magnanimous intentions, and the benefits
and advantages of enlightened British rule. It was his suggestion,
also, that all articles calculated to encourage resignation on their
part should be duplicated in the Taal language, and this wise plan we
began at once to endeavour to follow. We succeeded but feebly, because
we did not know the Taal ourselves, and we could not trust the
majority of the sometimes "slim" ones among the few who were able to
perform the work of translation creditably.

In this number of the paper Mr. Barnes published No. 4 of Mr.
Kipling's "Fables for the Staff," and the poem by Mr. Kipling on
Perceval Landon's birthday. "A Realistic Comedy," by an anonymous
writer, the third of Mr. Gwynne's articles on the art of war, and a
bit of a brief correspondence between the army telegraphists and Mr.
Bennet Burleigh were also in this entertaining number.

Mr. Barnes was exceedingly well liked by all who knew him in the army,
and was much sought as a companion, for his unvarying good humour and
for such a fund of anecdotes, songs, and imitations as was possessed
by no one else of our acquaintance. I think the best of his anecdotes
of his own experiences in the war was concerning the Boer losses at
Driefontein. The British had found more than sixty bodies, and knew
that fifty other Boers had been killed. (I will not say that these are
the exact figures, but they give a just idea of the actual losses of
the Boers.) Nevertheless, when Barnes questioned a Boer prisoner taken
at that battle, the man said that his force had suffered a loss of
only eight killed.

"Then who is it that gets killed by our bullets in all these fights?"
Barnes asked. "We fight you, and after each battle we see the dead
being carried off; we find other dead on the field, and we see the
loose mounds of earth under which you have hastily buried others. Who
are these dead men?"

"I don't know," said the prisoner, "our commandant said we only had
eight men killed at Abraham's Kraal (Driefontein)."

"I understand," said Barnes. "He must know how many you lost. But we
saw over sixty dead bodies where you had been fighting. Whose bodies
do you suppose they were? Not Boers, of course, but still, they
belonged to some people who had been shot. There seems to be in South
Africa a mysterious race of people who follow you around in this war
and persist in getting in the way of our bullets. I should think you
would warn them of their danger, or give orders for them to stop
coming to all the battles. They may have wives and children who mourn
them; at all events, they are not needed as filters in all the rivers,
or for starting informal cemeteries all over the veldt as they have
been doing ever since the fighting began. I wonder what people they

"I don't know. We only lost eight," said the Boer.

"And we buried sixty," said Barnes. "Really you ought to find out who
these bullet-stoppers are, and warn them not to be always getting
killed by us who have no quarrel with them and are only trying to
shoot Boers."

Another of Mr. Barnes's tales is of that awful daybreak massacre at
Maghersfontein. Mr. Barnes was forging ahead to learn what had
happened when he met three men in kilts dashing over the veldt, away
from the battle.

"Here," Mr. Barnes cried, "who are you? Where are you going?"

"Oh, mon," said one of the poor unnerved chaps, "we are a' that's left
o' the ---- ----."

In defence of themselves against some inconvenience which Mr. Burleigh
had complained, some telegraphers of the R.E. Corps declared that the
staff in Bloemfontein "performed seventeen hours last Sunday in order
to remove pressure produced to a great extent by work other than
military. Whilst every other arm of the service had been enjoying a
brief and well-earned rest, our portion has consisted of at least
twelve hours' hard work at the instrument, cooped up in a room reeking
with a pestilential atmosphere which has, in several cases, produced
violent vomiting.

"After all, we can nurse to our breasts the satisfaction that our
gallant Commander-in-Chief has been pleased to specially thank the
much-despised corps for the indispensable services rendered by it."

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 11.] BLOEMFONTEIN, THURSDAY, MARCH 29, 1900. [Price One Penny


By order of his Lordship the Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief the
British Forces in South Africa, it is notified that Quit Rents on
Farms should now be paid in to the Receiver at the Landdrost's Office.
Amounts not paid on or before the 31st May, 1900, are liable to be

                                     JAMES A. COLLINS, Landdrost.
                Landdrost's Office, Bloemfontein, March 26, 1900.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 9: Copyrighted, used by the author's permission.]




A Cavalry-horse of indubitable Valour, carrying a complete Wardrobe
Office and Housekeeping Apparatus on his back, met by chance a Boer
pony of unprepossessing Exterior.

"My ungroomed Friend," said the Horse, "let me draw your attention to
my Master's portable Bath, Umbrella, Typewriter, Hair Brushes,
Dressing-case, and complete Service of Plate; also to my own spare
Shoes and cold Collation for the next Week. Few I opine enjoy such
luxurious appointments."

"They are indeed _fin de siècle_ and _non-plus-ultra_," remarked the
ewe-necked Son of the Veldt, "but You must excuse Me for I see my
Master approaching. He does not use Hair-brushes, and I have neither
spare shoes nor curry combs."

"Then I must trouble you to return as my Prisoner," said the Horse.

"On the contrary," replied the Child of the ungrassed Kopje; "it is a
condition and not a theory that confronts us. Let me draw your
attention to my scintillatery heels."

So saying the Unkempt Equine departed in a neat cloud of Dust, from
the Centre of which his Master scientifically shot the Cavalry Horse
in the Abdomen.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 10: The birthday of Mr. Perceval Landon. Copyrighted, and
used here by permission.]

(29th March.)


  Tell the smiling Afric morn,
    Let the stony kopje know,
  Landon of the _Times_ was born
    One and thirty years ago.

  Whisper greetings soft and low,
    Pour the whisky, deal the bun,
  Only Bell and Buckle know
    All the evil he has done.

       *       *       *       *       *


In accordance with the public notice printed in this journal, a
meeting of war correspondents was held yesterday afternoon at the Free
State Hotel, Bloemfontein, when the arrangements for a concert to be
given in the Town Hall "in aid of widows and orphans" were discussed.
Messrs. Bennet Burleigh (_Daily Telegraph_), Pearse (_Daily News_),
Maxwell (_Standard_), and Haarburgher, were appointed members of the
Executive Committee with power to add to their number, and it was
decided that the proceeds of the concert should be divided equally
between the London and Bloemfontein funds. The date, which remains to
be fixed, will probably be Friday of next week, and the prices of
admission 5s., 3s., and 1s., the latter for soldiers in uniform.

       *       *       *       *       *


I haven't often been really defeated, but I felt very like it that
Black Monday.

My convoy consisted of self and Jimmy (my subaltern), two conductors,
100 native drivers, about 500 oxen, and 40 waggons. We were hundreds
of miles from the front so had no escort, and were fifteen miles from
anywhere. The country was simply a succession of kopjes as like each
other as a pair of ammunition boots, the map was much too small a
scale to be of any use, and our native guide had lost the way!

We ought to have struck water about dawn, after trekking all night,
but there wasn't a sign of it. The heat was awful as we toiled our
dusty way between those glaring kopjes, until about noon we sighted a
stagnant dam, half full, and we went for it like savages, men, oxen
and all.

It must have been absolute rank poison. In a couple of hours two men
were writhing on the ground, a score more, blue and shivering, were
feeling touched, and the whole lot were thoroughly funked. It was just
like a native cholera camp in India, and to those who have experienced
that I need say no more.

We sent out our most useful men on our best horses, to hunt the
country, five miles round for a farm or well; we started fires to boil
water and worked our wretched little filters for all they were worth.
Jimmy and I had a bottle of chlorodyne apiece, but they were empty in
an hour or so and our whisky was finished soon afterward. I had meant
to trek again as soon as it got dark, but before the sun touched the
horizon all our scouts were back--not a drop of water anywhere! Had
there been any, I doubt if we could have got to it--half our oxen were
incapable of moving and the blacks were simply off their heads. But I
noticed that our chlorodyne, either by its own power, or by the belief
they put in it, had really done good. So I made up my mind to a night
there and called up one of the conductors.--"Take the native guide and
bring me two of the best horses you can find--ride straight on for all
you are worth--find a farm--offer them any sum to send on this note
of mine to Viten Siding for a doctor and medicines--bring back any
drugs they've got and brandy or spirits--come back as hard as you

Then we settled down to the most ghastly night I've ever spent; we
walked the bed cases up and down--don't know what good this is but had
seen it done in India--put on mustard poultices till we fairly took
the black's skins off--and knocked down a few who were howling about
the camp in sheer panic. I don't know what I should have done without
Jimmy, but even his chaff couldn't keep the poor devils amused. About
midnight I had a bad turn myself and Jimmy put me to bed, but it wore
off, and I fell into a nightmared slumber. Just before dawn I awoke;
Jimmy was brewing coffee and whistling: "When we are married."

"How do you feel?" he said.

"Perfectly fit again. Any dead?"

"Only two, but they were sick before. All the lot in blue funks

"Conductor back?"

"No." Then we strained our eyes in the direction where he had

I remember wondering dreamily why Jimmy whistled so damned out of
tune, and whether any of us would ever get out of this death-trap,
when we saw a speck far up the road. Jimmy stopped in the middle of
"Dolly Day Dreams," spilt his coffee, and dashed off up the road.

The conductor had killed his own horse and the guide's; had found a
farm ten miles away; had sent on my note but Doctor could not arrive
till to-morrow; there were no drugs at the farm, but he'd brought us
two bottles of Dop[11] and four loaves of fresh bread done up in a
brown parcel!

[Footnote 11: Cape Good Hope brandy.]

A crowd of niggers were hovering round as near my tent as they dared
come, hoping to catch an inkling of the news, and I could tell from
the tone of their low mutterings that they expected nothing good. For
a moment I was badly defeated.

Then a Heaven-sent inspiration seized me--"Well, Brown," I said,
raising my voice, "So that's the chlorodyne is it?"--I seized the big
brown-paper parcel--"It's five o'clock now; tell every Jack man in
camp he's to fall in here sharp at six for a dose of chlorodyne."

The conductor stared at me; I suppose he thought I was mad.

"Don't you hear," I cried; "go off at once, and don't let anybody
interrupt us while we have breakfast." And I managed to give him the
faintest wink--in another minute I heard him shouting my order through
the camp.

"Jimmy, let's make chlorodyne." Jimmy grinned. "Collis Browne's is the
best," he said; "twenty drops for an adult."

Then he started whistling again while we shut up the tent and went to

"Small bottles are no use," I said, "must have wholesale manufactory;
we'll find that demi-john."

We started with two tins of condensed milk--to give it a bit of
body--and a tin of Van Houten's cocoa made a grand colouring. Two big
spoonfuls of red pepper, "to ginger it up." "Must mix our flavour,"
said Jimmy, "or they'll recognize the brand"--so in went Bengal
chutney and strawberry jam. We were rummaging out our grocery
box--"Sardines ain't much use, nor cheese, nor Danish butter; but
here's a bottle of the nastiest pickles I ever tasted, let's give them
the juice of that; they won't believe it's medicine unless it tastes

"My tooth powder is nasty enough," said Jimmy, "Carbolic something,
and warranted to do no harm--in it goes."

The two bottles of Dop were chucked in as a finish and the mixture was
nasty enough for anybody--rich brown, creamy, and fiery hot.

Jimmy had entered heart and soul into the business.--"None's genuine
without the label," he cried, and rushed at our small stationery box.
"Hullo, sealing wax, here, you find a cork and seal it up; these cards
will do for labels. Some of these niggers can read and write, so we
must play the game right through. If they spot us we're done. Now,
men--Genuine Chlorodyne--for coughs, colds, &c.--every three hours
till the pain ceases; to be well shaken before taken. And another
label--To O.C. No. 2, General Hospital, Viten Sideing,--On H.M.
Service--free--franked. Dirty the paper a bit to show it's come a long
way--then when we throw the jar away they'll see it's genuine."

"They don't have chlorodyne in our hospitals," I suggested.

"Go to blazes! the niggers aren't cute enough for that. But look here,
old chap, you look a bit cheap; we'll resurrect you to start with. I'm
afraid you'll have to take some, but I'll make it as small a dose as I

Then I lay down huddled up in a corner. The opening tableau was ready,
and we rang up the curtain, or rather the tent-flap. Jimmy was as
serious as a judge: "All present, conductor? All right; where's that
medicine got to? Oh, there; now then, anybody got a corkscrew?" A hum
went up from the figures squatting round. Jimmy held up his hand:
"Quiet there, the captain is very bad; I must see to him first." He
lifted my drooping head and forced a spoonful of the filth between my

I heaved a sigh, patted myself below the belt, rolled my eyes open,
and stood up, fully recovered!

Astonishment mingled with applause!

We selected a hulking, big brute as the next victim. He was palpably
shamming; he spluttered a bit over his dose, but took the cue from me:
patted himself, rolled his eyes, and was recovered.

Genuine plaudits.

"Next," said Jimmy. It reminded me of the brimstone and treacle at
Dotheboys Hall.

Applause gave way to regular hilarity, and the blacks were soon
ragging each other on the faces they made.

"This is the biggest thing of modern times," said Jimmy as the last man
went off grinning and spluttering. "Talk about faith-healing--well,
either it's an absolute fact, or else we two are the leading medical
stars of the new century."

Then Jimmy and I shook hands, and he tried to whistle "Dolly Day
Dreams" again, but couldn't manage it for a minute or two.

There were a few real bad cases still, but they all pulled through.

Then we served out to the men the best rations we could raise and a
bit of 'baccy apiece. They cooked away with a will, filled themselves
out with breakfast, lay down beneath their wagons, and went to sleep.

Jimmy and I went to sleep too. At sunset we inspanned and made the 10
miles to the farm early. Our doctor met us there.

But I shall never hear "Dolly Day Dreams" again without thinking of
bare veldt, black faces, and chlorodyne.


       *       *       *       *       *

THE "N.C.O."

  There's some one in the Army that I'd like to write about,
    For it's seldom that he gets his share of praise;
  He's as gallant as most lions and you can always hear him shout,
    Through the rattle of the battle now-a-days.

  When we read in all the papers of the Comp'ny officers killed,
    We don't stop to think who has to take their place;
  But if we knew, our hearts with admiration would be filled
    For the N.C.O. with grim and grimy face.

  His language on the barrack square, ain't quite what it should be,
    And it's probable he likes his whack of beer,
  But there's nothing like that voice of his, and never yet will be
    To steady the young soldier when he's feeling "Bullet-queer."

  He's ahead in all the rushes, he's the last one to retire,
    And in battle's got a joke for every one;
  He doesn't seem to mind a damn, when under Mauser fire,
    And he don't forget the wounded when the day is fought and won.

  Then, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, here's more work for you to do,
    You've sung of gallant "Tommies" and their deeds,
  Just write about their N.C.O.'s and give them all their due,
    For good N.C.O.'s are what the Army needs.


       *       *       *       *       *




The "Art of War," which, I must confess, is but a feeble equivalent
for the _art militaire_ of the French, covers strategy and tactics. In
discussing the duties of any particular arm in warfare it is obvious
that the discussion must necessarily deal with tactics rather than
strategy, which, I take it, will not undergo any great change as long
as human nature remains subject to its present limitations. But the
arm which I am now discussing has been and will be in the future even
more the chief instrument used by a general who wishes to carry out
big strategic movements. Wherefore cavalry must, above all things, be
mobile, ready to move at the shortest moment, prepared in every
respect to carry out quickly the ideas of the commander.

The "strategic arm," as the cavalry has been styled, has been called
upon, during the present campaign, to face difficulties which have
been almost unknown in former campaigns. First and foremost it has had
to operate against an army of mounted infantry, more mobile than
itself. Waterless plains, heat, and short rations, have been
difficulties which in Europe would be absent. Foreign criticisms on
the operations of our cavalry in the present campaign are based on
false premises, inasmuch that their authors assume a plentiful supply
of water, an equable climate, an easy transport, and a fair amount of
supplies. They have not taken into account the fact that our cavalry
have had to cut themselves off from all supplies in what, for all
practical purposes, is a howling desert, for the English horses have
steadily refused to touch the veldt-grass. If there is one criticism
on the operations of our cavalry which can in any sense be justified,
it is that in many cases we have made it an objective of our movements
to charge the enemy. By doing so, we have perhaps sacrificed
opportunities of outflanking the Boers for the illusive chance of
proving the efficiency of the _arme blanche_ on an enemy, whose only
weapon is a rifle. I once heard a distinguished cavalry officer
declare that it was his conviction that in a two-mile race, starting
fair, the Boer, mounted on his little African pony, would outpace our
troopers riding a big English horse and carrying an equipment which
reminded him of the picture of Father Christmas. But as over two
million people have at different times criticised the weight of
cavalry equipment, and nobody, except the Boer, has given us a remedy,
we may leave this portion of our subject to lecturer--the U.S.

The great question which will have to be answered in the near future
is whether the mounted force of an army is to be cavalry or mounted
infantry. To my mind there can be no doubt about the answer. The
mounted forces of the future will be cavalry, and in much greater
proportion to infantry than at present. The great force of mounted
infantry which we have raised in the present war is intended to cope
with an army of Mounted Infantry opposed to us. Whether they will ever
be used again is doubtful. But what certainly will be the case is that
the cavalry of the future will have to know how to shoot, and must be
provided with something better than a carbine to shoot with. And
practically they will then be Mounted Infantry with an _arme blanche_.
"Shock tactics" will have to give place to long-range firing, and the
cavalrymen of the future will be seen digging and holding trenches,
holding kopjes, and _repelling with rifle fire the advance of the
enemy's Cavalry_. This indeed will be a revolution.



     _Kipling at last writes something that pleases the Boers--A
     Predikant's letter._

In the paper of March 30th we offered as complete and--you may be
sure--as unique a newspaper as it was possible to produce. It
contained the fresh news of the world, and it was at the same time
full of the atmosphere of the army and the battlefield; of the
outpourings of men who had laid down the sword and rifle to take up
the pen. I wish I could reproduce the entire paper, but after all it
was like many that followed, and to reproduce them all would make a
book too cumbrous to handle and too full of warlike and military
subjects to interest at least half of the public. Practically the
entire first page was given up to proclamations, and looked like a
miniature hoarding hidden under miniature posters. These crowded over
into two columns of the second page, which also contained the still
swelling display of advertisements of lost horses and horses for sale.
Among the latter was this--


     Julian Ralph desires to sell his blooded hunter
     "Rattlesnake," a superb horse with noted pedigree. He is in
     splendid working condition (_aside--has caused his owner to
     wear a casing of lint, and to walk with difficulty on a
     heavy stick_.) The horse can be seen at the Red House behind
     the Dutch Reformed Church.

The italics in the above advertisement are inserted here, and were not
in the newspaper. They suggest what novel forms advertisements would
often take if the advertisers always truthfully explained why they
wished to part with their property.

W. A. Koller, the town clerk, notified all residents to call upon him
and make a true statement of the _bonâ fides_ of all their possessions
in horseflesh. Captain P. Holland-Pryor, A.A.G., requested every
burgher who had not given up any Government horse in his possession to
do so without delay. Truly, the horse occupied a large share of
interest and attention--much larger now that we were in need of horses
than when they had come in abundance from every corner of the earth.

We published a remarkable address to the Free Staters by the Rev. A.
A. Van der Lingen, once a candidate for the Presidency. He asked them
if it was right for them to assail the peaceful territories of the
British when thousands of their kith and kin are enjoying a full and
perfect measure of equality and justice. He demanded to know "what you
think seriously, in your own minds, will become of you if you
prosecute the war and lose." The "old soldiers of Bloemfontein"--it
seems there were eight retired veterans--cheered the Field-Marshal
with an address.

[Illustration: _Julian Ralph and his horse "Rattlesnake._"]

Our five-guinea competition for the renaming of the Colony went on
apace, and we recorded a great day of sport among the men of the Sixth
Division, who enjoyed the band of the Buffs and the pipes of the
Seaforths, Gordons, Black Watch, and Argyle and Sutherland
Highlanders. Major the Honourable Robert White directed the sports
with greater success than had attended anything of the kind among our
troops on this side of Natal.

The soldiers still filed into our bare and dirty quarters asking for
the paper, and one of them complained that it was not sent out to his
camp, and that he had to come in and get it.

"Canadian, aren't you?" Mr. Kipling asked, "from out on the wheat

"Yes, sir."

"Why, man, then what are you talking about? You'd ride in to Winnipeg,
twenty miles, to get a paper if you were at home."

Mr. Kipling on this day wrote a tribute to General Joubert, whose
death had just been made known to us. Hours after he wrote the poem,
when tired of waiting to see the proof, he walked over to the
printing-office, broke in by way of a window, and set up the last line
of it at one of the printers' cases. What the printers thought of him
we never knew, but he never forgot that the first bit of paper he
picked up from the floor of the editorial room, when he was looking
for something that had fallen from the table, was a violent attack
upon himself in a piece of a Free State newspaper.

The only bit of all our work that our compositors saved was this poem
to Joubert. That and a portrait of the late firebrand, Borckenhagen,
were the only ornaments they deemed worthy to decorate their
composing-room walls.

There were at least two English-speaking men among them. I grant to
them the benefit of the doubt whether my reflections should extend to
them also.

       *       *       *       *       *


_(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)_

  No. 12] BLOEMFONTEIN, FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 1900. [Price One Penny




_His Honour President Kruger, President of the South African
Republic, Pretoria._

(Clear the line.) I have just received the news of General Joubert's
death, and I desire at once to offer my sincere condolence to your
Honour and the Burghers of the South African Republic on this sad
event. I would ask you to convey to General Joubert's family the
expression of my most respectful sympathy in their sad bereavement,
and to assure them also from me that all ranks of Her Majesty's forces
now serving in South Africa share my feeling of deep regret at the
sudden and untimely end of so distinguished a General who devoted his
life to the service of his country and whose personal gallantry was
only surpassed by his humane conduct and chivalrous bearing under all

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 12: Copyrighted in England and America; used here by

(Died March 27, 1900.)


  With those that bred, with those that loosed the strife,
    He had no part whose hands were clear of gain;
  But, subtle, strong and stubborn, gave his life
    To a lost cause, and knew the gift was vain.

  Later shall rise a People, sane and great,
    Forged in strong fires, by equal war made one--
  Telling old battles over without hate,
    Not least his name shall pass from sire to son.

  He shall not meet the onsweep of our van
    In the doomed city where we close the score;
  Yet o'er his grave--his grave that holds a Man--
    Our deep-tongued guns shall answer his once more!

       *       *       *       *       *



No words of ours are needed to supplement the telegram of Lord ROBERTS
and the three stanzas by Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING, which we print to-day,
upon the news we have received of General JOUBERT'S death. We feel
that we are but giving expression to the feeling of every man in the
army of occupation in expressing our most sincere regret in hearing of
the sudden decease of the great leader of our enemy.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 13: Copyrighted; used here by permission.]



A General, having offered libations to Fortuna, went out to fight a
Battle in the course of which his Frontal Attack developed into a Rear
Guard action, and his left Flank became a Modulus of varying
Elasticity for several hours, owing to his right Flank having wandered
towards the Equator.

The Enemy seeing these Inexplicable Evolutions, were so overcome with
Amazement that They retired in large Numbers and left the General a
complete Victory.

A week later, the General, learning from the Reports of his Staff that
he was a Heaven-born Strategist, diligently read a Book and gave
Battle upon the lines therein laid down.

After this he was never seen to smile but frequently heard to murmur:
"If I had only trusted my bally Luck instead of a bally Book, I should
not be now travelling first-class to Stellenbosch."

MORAL.--Invention is a good servant, but the Letter killeth.

       *       *       *       *       *


                                      BLOEMFONTEIN, _March 28th_.

DEAR SIR,--In answer to a paragraph appearing in your paper of a past
date under the heading of "Acts of Bravery performed during the War,"
allow me to quote one which I witnessed at Paardeberg on the morning of
Cronje's surrender on February 27th. Every one knows of the gallant
display made by the Royal Canadians on that never-to-be-forgotten
morning, and how, as daylight broke, they had again occupied their
trenches, leaving sixty killed and wounded on the field. As the sun came
up behind the kopjes, revealing once more to Cronje and his men the
exact position of our trenches, they opened a heavy fire upon them, and
woe to the man who was indiscreet enough to show his head and shoulders
over the earthworks! Between the trenches and the Boer position lay
Canadian dead and dying. About 5.30 a wounded man about five hundred
yards away was seen to be trying to make for our trenches under a heavy
fire, but was at last observed to fall. Now and then, between the
volleys, he was seen to wave his hands as if for assistance. Suddenly
from the left of us a form was seen to climb the earthworks in front of
our trenches, jumping down to make straight for the place where the
wounded man lay, about ninety yards from the Boer trenches. Utterly
regardless of the scathing fire which hissed about him, he ran on, and
at last reached the wounded man and tried to lift him, but it was too
late, for the poor fellow had breathed his last. Seeing it was of no
avail, his would-be rescuer walked back over the ground he had covered,
and although bullets whistled around him and tore up the ground in every
direction, he coolly regained his trenches with a pipe stuck between his
teeth. I have since ascertained his name was Private Thompson, of the
Royal Canadians, and although I do not know whether his case is one
_recommended_ for distinction or not, still I have never during the
campaign seen a case of such coolness and pluck as that displayed by
Private Thompson. Considering the galling fire that swept the distance
of four or five hundred yards which he covered in his endeavour to reach
the wounded man, also his close proximity to the Boer trenches, it seems
marvellous that he ever lived to get within four hundred yards of him,
not to mention getting back without a scratch. His case is one of the
most deserving of recognition, coming, as it does, from amongst the
ranks of the gallant Canadian Volunteers, by whose side we have fought
and marched since we left Graspan, and than whom a jollier or pluckier
lot of boys never lived.

                                ONE OF THE GORDONS WHO WAS THERE.

       *       *       *       *       *



  See, they come marching over the plain,
  Cheerfully bearing their wounds and pain,
  Soldiers and sailors alike to the work,
  Never a man of them doing a shirk.
  These are the men that you owe a debt;
  England, remember it; never forget.

  Scorched and parched 'neath the broiling sun,
  Not a word of complaint, work _must_ be done.
  Wounded and shattered, bespattered with blood,
  Drinking of water akin to mud.
  These are the men you owe a debt;
  England, remember it; never forget.

  Ponder it well in your leisured ease,
  These, the soldiers of lands and seas,
  Building the Empire hour by hour,
  These, the foundation of all thy power.
  These are the men whom you owe a debt;
  Empire, remember; you dare not forget.

       *       *       *       *       *


BY A. E. C.

  The Silent Army 'as its work,
  Duties that it cannot shirk,
  Six days a week; then there's kirk
      For us in the Silent Army.
  There's guards ter mount, fatigues to do,
  Bread ter make an' meat ter stew.
  If yer think there's time ter write to you,
      Well! strite! yer must be barmy.

  Yer says yer owns as we can fight,
  Able to read, but not to write;
  We tries to fly our own kite,
      Us chaps in the Silent Army.
  We're glad enough ter git your print,
  Glad enough when bound with lint,
  Y're dull if yer can't take the 'int;
      Indeed! yer must be barmy.

  It isn't always that us men
  Finds the time to use a pen,
  For we've work to do, sir, when
      We are in the Silent Army.
  We 'as our duties to attend,
  Food to cook and clothes to mend;
  Arsk Kiplin', he's the sojers' friend--
      The friend of the Silent Army.

[The hint has been taken as far as the hospitals are concerned. They
get THE FRIEND on application.--THE EDS.]

       *       *       *       *       *


  That a soldier's life is a merry one
    Is what some people say,
  But when you're on short rations,
    Well, it isn't half so gay;
  And you can't "live fat" in Bloemfontein
    Upon a bob a day.

     _Grumble No. 1._--This is a recognised fact with bread at
     1s. per loaf, tea at 6d. per cup, and sugar at 1s. 6d. per

  If you've had a present sent from home,
    You can take the tip from me,
  It's been "commandeered" by somebody,
    And it's one you'll never see,
  So as each mail arrives you ask,
    "Where can that parcel be?"

     _Grumble No. 2._--Almost every man has a complaint to make
     regarding the non-receipt of parcels despatched from home.

  Then when you see the water-cart,
    You rush up for a drink,
  You're going to get a "quencher,"
    At least, that's what you think;
  But it's only there for ornament,
    And you're threatened with the "clink."

     _Grumble No. 3._--According to some authorities, the
     soldier, like the camel, can go for lengthened periods
     without water. The soldier himself thinks otherwise.

  By night we had to stand the cold,
    By day we stood the heat,
  And we got lots of duty,
    But not too much to eat;
  We had two biscuits daily,
    Some tea(?) and half-cooked meat.

     _Grumble No. 4._--Some one having said that eating was a
     habit, it was decided that several experiments should be
     tried. The first (half-rations) having proved an unqualified
     success, should be followed by another of a more exhaustive
     nature. Tommy suggests that this one (no rations for a
     fortnight) should be tried upon the officers.

  We're rugged in appearance,
    Of a tint distinctly brown,
  We're bearded and we're dirty,
    As well as broken down:
  So why the dickens don't they send
    Our kit-bags from Capetown?

     _Grumble No. 5._--This is what we would like to know.




     _A Visit to his Headquarters, and a Feast of "Tommy"

At this time--on the very night before this, if recollection serves me
right--I went up to the quarters of the Staats Artillerie, and there
found General Pole-Carew in his headquarters. It was always like a
breath of new life to see him, to hear his vigorous views on the war
he believed in conducting against the Boers, and to note how
thoroughly he was the master of all the information of value that
could be obtained wherever he was.

His headquarters--remember he was the dandy of the army as well as one
of its shrewdest and bravest men--was a bare-walled building that a
monk would have considered cheerless. The dining-room, where his
guests were received, was not as attractive as any dining-room in any
Tommy's barracks at home. It contained a little table heaped with
papers and a large table set with kitchen knives and forks, enamelled
iron mugs, and sparklet bottles by way of combined service and
ornament. I stayed to dinner of beef and potatoes, bread and butter,
and whisky and water, and sat next to Colonel Crabbe, of the
Grenadiers, with his arm in a sling from his second wounding in the
war. A brave and gallant company was there--of beaux sabreurs and
veterans who took life as it came and enjoyed its every phase.

Two titled ladies had been the last guests of that mess. I wonder what
they thought when they realised how their idols of the Guards were
living. And what they would have thought had they farther realised
that these officers were really feeling up to their knees in clover,
being vastly better off than they had been at any time in the previous
five or six months. When they were enjoying the serious phases of
campaigning--out on the veldt in tents, or oftener still with no
shelter at all--the ladies would have found them just as spirited and
gay--except that no ladies could ever have found them at all or
ventured where they were.

Those men of the Guards have long been called the "London Pets" and
"stay at homes" and "feather-bed soldiers," but they very quickly
lived down their nicknames in South Africa. There nobody petted them;
they had no beds (or even tents) between Modder of evil memory and
Koomati Poort some six or seven months distant, in time, nor did they
manage to get sent home--or want to do so, either. Lord! what brave
chaps they are! and what fighters! I saw them fight at Belmont, at
Modder, and at Maghersfontein, and I know. Through all the killing and
wounding and sickness, the forty-four miles of marching in one spell
of twenty-two hours, the half-rations, the tropic heat and the intense
cold, the officers were ever jocular and spirited. One said to me, as
he pointed at Maghersfontein Kopje, "Set a brewery up on top of that
and my regiment will take the place in a romp." But the most
characteristic anecdote I have to tell of one of these West-end London
dandies is told by himself in a letter he sent to me: "It is cold and
wet here now. I have got a bad attack of lumbago, and it took me ten
minutes to straighten up and get on my feet when I woke this morning.
I went off on outpost duty, and some Boers began sniping at my men
until we could not put up with it any longer, when I gave the order to
rush over to where they were and do them up. The devils ran away
before we could kill them. I am sorry you are down with that leg. You
should be here, enjoying all the fun."

We published the sixth of Mr. Kipling's fables in this number, among
scores of articles most interesting there and then, but not repeatable
to advantage here and now.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 13.] BLOEMFONTEIN, SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1900. [Price one penny.


[Footnote 14: Copyrighted; used here by permission.]



An Intelligence Officer, meeting a strayed Kaffir without visible
Means of Subsistence, reprobated him for a Spy and Forthwith cast him
into Jail, where he languished for two Days.

At the Expiration of his Incarceration the Kaffir fell into the hands
of a Discerning Colonial who filled him with Cape Smoke and engaged
him in idle Persiflage for three Hours.

"My Word!" said the Colonial when the grateful Son of Ham had
departed, "that Ethiop is full to the back Teeth of most valuable
Information! Let us give him a new Coat and a Pound of Tobacco."

"On the Contrary," said the I.O., "He is a Wastrel and a Stinker. He
cannot reply to Direct Questions and habitually contradicts himself."

"That," said the Discerning Colonial, "is just It! I am about to act
upon his Inaccuracies."

This the Colonial did with great Success, and wiped up Seven of the
Enemy advancing up a Spruit in the Cool of the Evening.

On reporting his Achievement, the Intelligence Officer reported the
Colonial for supplying the Kaffir with Illicit Liquor.

MORAL. Oh Cæsar!

       *       *       *       *       *




You cannot argue with a Shell, a Mule or a Press Censor.

The nearer to the Press Censor the further from Truth.

(N.B.--This is generally guaranteed by the Press Censor.)

It's a wise Field Marshal that knows his own Generals.

It's a long front that has no turning.

"A shell in time saves nine," as the 4'7 said when it opened on the

"Heaven helps those who help themselves," as ----'s Horse said when
they found the poultry yard.

Providence and the Company Officer have a great deal to look after.

Between two rivers, drink Modderietly.

It's always the next shell that will do the trick.

Five under cover is fifty in the open.

       *       *       *       *       *


  When you've tightened up your waistbelt just a pair of holes or so,
    When you've tackled your last bit of armoured "duff,"
  Then you put your bally pipe on, and you puff and spit and blow,
    And you realize half ration ain't enough.
  You go into the market and you purchase lots of grub
    Off the farmers whom friend Steyn has done a scoot from,
  And when you ask the price of it, that's where you cop the rub,
    For it takes away your breath just like a pom-pom.

    Duke's son, Cook's son, all of 'em want their scoff,
      Fifty thousand horse and foot struggling to get some grub,
    Each of 'em doing his country's work, and each being _done_ in turn,
      If you want to buy things in Bloemfontein you must pay! pay! pay!

  When they charge a "bob" for hair-cut and a tanner for a shave,
    It makes you say things that you didn't ought,
  And the 'umble loaf of "rootey" costs a tanner, or a bob,
    Is this the kind of sympathy they're taught?
  There's a luxury called butter that Tommy likes to buy,
    And he'll have it if he's got the oof, you bet,
  But three bob a bloomin' pound makes a hole in Atkins' pay
    'Cos he ain't paid C'lonial wages (not just yet).

    Clerk's son, Grocer's son, son of a Haberdasher,
      All the Gents in Khaki chucking their pelf away,
    Each of 'em's done his country's work,
      It's hard to be done in turn,
    If you want to buy grub in Bloemfontein you've to pay! pay! pay!

  When you've tightened up your waistbelt just a pair of holes or so,
    When you lay yourself out flat and go to sleep,
  Then you dream of home and mother and some glorious feasts to go,
    And you wake up, pray, and find you've done a weep;
  For you've dreamt that bread and butter's gone up 3d. more in price,
  (These loyal (?) folks charge really what they choose, sir),
  Then you say, "Well, roll on, England," where there ain't no
       bloomin' lice,
    And where there's many a cheap and comfy booser.

    Merchant's son, Cook's son, sons of the plebs galore,
      Rushing, in ragged Khaki, anxious to spend their brass,
    Each of 'em's done his country's work, but the extra bob a day
      Don't go far in Bloemfontein, where you've always to pay! pay! pay!


       *       *       *       *       *



  When the bugle call to battle sounds
    Afar in the land of our birth,
  In the cause of race and Queen to fight,
    We rise from the ends of the earth.
      Wherever the battle may be
      We rally by land and by sea
      To join in the fight of the free,
  And our foemen have Britons to face.


    Then Britain's sons again
    Fill up the ranks with men,
    Who'll fight! who'll die!
      Whose battle-cry:
    "True Britons we remain."

  We are sons of Britain every one
    With pride of the blood of our race,
  And we'll carry Britain's story on
    As our fathers did in their place.
      Whatever the work to be done,
      We seek a full share, every one,
      And fighting till victory's won
  Of the burden and glory we claim,


    Then Britain's sons again, &c.

  The glorious deeds her great have done
    Are ours, whether Saxon or Celt,
  As heirs of their name and fame we come
    From snows and from bush and from veldt.
      Our honour we'll ever keep bright,
      By holding the front of the fight,
      And jealously guarding the right
  For our sons and their sons again.


    Then Britain's sons again, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


It may interest our friends at the Cape to know that a certain doctor,
who lives not 1,000 miles from the Paarl--and who came on ambulance
business to the Free State--was very busy on his arrival here, giving
it out as the news of the day that "officers of the English Army were
busy with sjamboks driving Tommy off the boats as Tommy did not want
to fight." This statement was made in the Bloemfontein Club before
several witnesses and is quite authentic.

       *       *       *       *       *


It was at the battle of Abraham's Kraal. The Boers had fled from a
position which we now occupied. They, in their flight, had to cross
the open veldt to another kopje three-quarters of a mile from the
first. We fired volley after volley into their huddled masses. My old
friend standing by me noticed a wounded Boer trying to escape. He
immediately dashed out amid a perfect hail of bullets, caught the
escaping Boer, threw him across his shoulders and dashed back to
cover, the bullets falling all round him. Unscathed himself, his
burden was shot to death.

  Private A. J. HARD,
          N.S.W. Mounted Infantry, Australia.

       *       *       *       *       *

DEAR SIR,--The bravest deed I witnessed while with the 6th Division
was the following:--

It was at Paardeberg on Sunday, 18th February, about 5 p.m. We were
watching a hill overlooking Osfontein farm-house, when some of the
enemy were seen to enter the garden surrounding that house. So an
order was given by Second Lieutenant Romilly for No. 1 section of the
above-named company to advance and try and drive them out. We
commenced the advance by short rushes, meanwhile the enemy sending
down a few shots. We succeeded in getting to within four hundred yards
of the house when a perfect hail of bullets came, both from the house
and hill. Then the order came to retire, as the fire was becoming too
hot to attempt to get any closer. It was during this retirement that
what I saw happened. One of our men, Pte. Driscoll, was shot in the
back, and down he fell, badly hurt, when Second Lieutenant Romilly,
on seeing him fall, at once knelt down and dressed his wound, doing it
as coolly as if on a drawing-room floor. After doing this, with the
help of Pte. Brown of the same Company, he hurried the man back to
safer quarters, having to go a distance of over four hundred yards
before being out of danger. The bullets fell all around them quite
thick. How they managed to escape is quite marvellous, as several
bullets went through their clothing, and one, as I heard the officer
say, went between his lips--a close shave indeed!

Whether any recognition will be forthcoming for the above gallant
deed, I cannot say, as there were none of those who occupy higher
positions to testify as to its correctness; but the men certainly
deserve something for so brave a deed.

  I am, Sir, yours faithfully,
                             AN EYE-WITNESS.



     _The Departure of Mr. Kipling, leaving_ THE FRIEND _vigorous
     with the Impetus he gave it._

Rudyard Kipling left Bloemfontein for Capetown on the night of April
1st, in the same train that bore away Sir Alfred Milner, Colonel
Hanbury Williams, and Colonel Girouard. The High Commissioner had been
declared to be leaving a day or two later, but started at once in
order to avoid giving the Boers notice to prepare mischief.

Of the happy days of boyish delight we editors spent with Mr. Kipling
many brought incidents too trifling to be noted here, yet which went
to fill a heaping loving cup of pleasant memories. "Heavens!" he once
exclaimed, "how good it is to be with men who are doing things!" There
was, for instance, the day when--as the reader may have perceived--two
poems bore a note of merely suggested complaint from the sick in the
hospitals. That note struck Mr. Kipling's sensibility, and he and Mr.
Landon and I seized armsful of FRIENDS and set out upon a tour of the
hospitals--then far too numerous in the public and semi-public
buildings of the place. Mr. Kipling went ahead and distributed the
papers, and we followed and whispered who he was to the sufferers in
the cots. I never shall forget the look that came in each man's eyes,
or how every one of them who was able raised himself upon an elbow to
stare after the poet as he passed from room to room.

"God bless him," they said; "he's the soldier's friend."

And surely a blessing proceeded from him, in response to that which he
received, for, at the knowledge of his presence, a new vigour and a
sense of delight, such as they had almost forgotten how to feel, came
to the sufferers. He had nothing of the theatrical about him, made no
speeches, conversed in hushed tones, halted nowhere, posed not even to
the slightest extent--but went on with doctor or nurse through the
wards, listening and looking. I think that Mr. Landon and I were more
conscious of the reflection of his fame than was he from whom it

At one stage of our adventure we determined to cross from one hospital
to another, over some intervening gardens. What an unsuspected
wildness lay among those walled enclosures in the confines of a
nation's capital. Little hills, little rivers, marshes, precipices,
walls on the edges of tiny cliffs! It proved a better feat for Italian
cavalrymen than for a stout poet, a man with a game leg and arms in
lint, and a third one who did not know it, but who was already
poisoned with fever germs. However, we had set it for ourselves to do,
and we did it--without any more serious mishap than a kick in the
equatorial region which I bestowed on the poet in dropping over a

Mr. Kipling had other experiences with hospitals when we were with him
and when he was by himself. He was qualified to testify as he did
before the Commission that looked into the manner in which the care of
the sick and wounded was bestowed.

While I was in Capetown I heard a story of an adventure of his, in
which the parts played by him and by the hospital people were
eminently characteristic of both. To begin with, he discovered that
there were no bandages in a certain hospital! The reader imagines that
such a state of things must have been most extraordinary--but it was
not. Why should we conceal facts or mince words if we are earnestly
endeavouring to probe our own weaknesses and mend our faults? I knew
of hospitals without cots, without sheets, without pillows, without
measuring glasses, without thermometers. These "hospitals" must have
been little more than mere surgeons and staffs, for they applied to
the Red Cross people for nearly everything--except medicines--which is
required in the care of the sick. Thus Peter was robbed to pay Paul,
for Tommy's "comforts" were swallowed up in getting him his
necessaries. This was the case in Kimberley after the relief of the
town, and it was again the case in Bloemfontein. But to return to
Capetown. There Mr. Kipling discovered a hospital without bandages, in
desperate need of bandages, in a city containing stores of bandages on
sale in many places.

Mr. Kipling mentioned to an acquaintance that he was going to supply
that establishment with bandages, and this acquaintance, who was
connected with the _Daily Mail's_ "Absent Minded Beggar Fund," at once
offered to pay for all that Mr. Kipling would buy and take to the
hospital. A cart was quickly loaded with bandages, and then Mr.
Kipling was told that under the army rules the hospital authorities
could not receive supplies from a private individual. "Well," said he,
"I will dump the packages on the pavement before the door, and then
tell them to come out and clear up the litter. They will get them into
the building that way without tearing any red tape, I hope."

He drove off with the bandages, I am told by the gentleman who footed
the bill, but how the supplies were smuggled in I have never heard. I
suspect that the rule against receiving supplies from civilians got a
great many wrenches and fractures. But for civilians such as at least
one Red Cross Commissioner of my acquaintance, Heaven only knows what
these hospitals, that consisted of little else than a corps of men,
would have been able to do. I asked my friend how it could be possible
that an arm of the Government of Great Britain could find itself in
such helpless and pitiable plights, and he replied that red tape was
the root of the evil. Nobody dared to buy a measuring glass or a
pillow-case or a cot for fear that his enterprise might bring him a
reprimand and his bill might be repudiated. The hospitals had made
demands outmeasuring the supplies, or the supplies had not come up
from the Cape, or to the Cape from London. If private generosity was
not appealed to circumlocution must be resorted to by means of
requisitions which would be slowly forwarded to London and there
passed upon. By this means the supplies would reach the front within
three months after the patients were dead--provided that all should go
smoothly with the circumlocution machinery.

Mind, I know how extraordinary, excessive, and sudden were the demands
made upon the Medical Corps after such a shocking affair as the Sunday
fight at Paardeberg and during the enteric epidemic at Bloemfontein. I
am in no position to say that any one was blameable or that better and
ampler means of caring for the disabled could have been arranged. But
let us not deny the facts or try to deceive any one with regard to
them. That is no way for an earnest and ambitious and healthy people
to meet an unpleasant situation.

On the contrary, that is the very way to make certain of a worse
"breakdown" of the hospital service in the next war.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 14.] BLOEMFONTEIN, MONDAY, APRIL 2, 1900. [Price One Penny.


[Footnote 15: The poem by Rudyard Kipling which we publish in this
issue was written some time ago to be read at a dinner in Canada and
then published in the _Toronto Globe_. It has never been read in
public, and it has never before been published. Like all his poems and
writings, it is for all time--as good next year as to-day and always
excellent in all seasons. It is copyrighted in England and America,
and used here by Mr. Kipling's permission.]


  Now, this is the cup the White Men drink
    When they go to right a wrong,
  And that is the cup of the old world's hate--
    Cruel and strained and strong.
  We have drunk that cup--and a bitter, bitter cup--
    And tossed the dregs away,
  But well for the world when the White Men drink
    To the dawn of the White Men's day.

  Now, this is the road that the White Men tread
    When they go to clean a land--
  Iron underfoot and levin overhead
    And the deep on either hand.
  We have trod that road--and a wet and windy road--
    Our chosen star for guide.
  Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread
    Their highway side by side.

  Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold
    When they build their homes afar:--
  "Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons
    And, failing freedom, War."
  We have proved our faith--bear witness to our faith,
    Dear souls of freemen slain!
  Oh, well for the world when the White Men join
    To prove their faith again!

       *       *       *       *       *



Mr. Rudyard Kipling left Bloemfontein for Capetown last night to
rejoin his family and, presently, to sail with them to England.
Believing that the arrangement of terms of settlement with the people
of the Boer Republics will be the next important work for the British,
he desires to be in London, there to speak and write for such a finish
to the war as he deems best for Britons and Boers, for Africanders,
for intending new settlers, for the future quiet and prosperity of
South Africa, and for the honour and glory of the Empire.

The editors of THE FRIEND bade him God speed and knew, when they
wished him health, prosperity, and a long life, that there is not a
man in the British Army or man or woman in the Empire in whose name
they could not have warmly and sincerely repeated their own hearts'

Mr. KIPLING came to the editorial rooms of this unique journal with an
offer to assist us War Correspondents who are in charge, but he
quickly and easily led us in the clearness of his views upon the
paper's policy, in the wealth of talent he lavished upon its columns,
and in the enthusiasm with which he collaborated with us. He evidently
enjoyed this brief return to his old profession--as what man would not
who ever fell under its exciting and fascinating influence? We do not
doubt that he found an added and a powerful charm in the peculiar
conditions under which we work--upon a journal created by and for a
conquering army and published in a conquered capital.

But it is of the pleasure we have known in being co-workers with him
that we would write if it were fit that we should share our emotion
with the public. Pleasure would be a trifling word to use were we to
let our emotions flow. Honour and Pride were better terms, expressive
of our stronger feelings.

We can congratulate the friends of THE FRIEND that they shall read his
work again in these columns before he sails for home. They have not
lost him, but we have lost his company, we who knew his genius so well
yet could not conceive it possible that to his talent he joined a
personality so rich in varied charms as we have found it. For we have
learned that he is sweet to the core, lovable, magnetic, modest, and
sincere. He has the crystal frankness and the tireless enthusiasm of
ever fresh and unsullied youth. Great as our readers know him to be in
literature, we know him to be even greater as a man.

Good luck to RUDYARD KIPLING, always, everywhere, to the end--and,
then, to eternity.

                                                  J. R.

       *       *       *       *       *



And thou also hast gone over to the majority! To God's rest, most
honest English gentleman. I saw thy bier go by but the other day in
the streets of Bloemfontein. They gave thee, rightly, a soldier's
funeral, and for love of thee many sorrowed and followed afoot to
God's acre. Troopers with arms reversed were thine escort, our band
played the "Dead March in Saul," and behind thy coffin, covered with
the Union Jack and set upon a gun-carriage, walked that British
Paladin, Field Marshal Lord Roberts, accompanied by a long concourse
of all ranks--comrades of thine, men of distinguished service.
Veterans and juniors were there, and besides these, for further token
of the affection and esteem in which thou wert held by all who knew
thee, a throng of the rank and file of the army.

All was as it should be, for we had come to say our English "Goodbye;
God be with thee." Sprung from the loins of a race of soldiers, thou
wert all a true soldier should be, tender, brave, and true, a
gentleman above gentlemen.

It seems but a breath or so that I was wont to meet thee almost daily
in London at the War Office. Lord Wolseley will miss thee, for he will
never find a better Military Secretary than thou. Thy courtesy was
uniform to all, thy frankness beyond question, as was thy readiness to
do kindnesses; whilst thy fidelity to thy Military Chief was to thee a
sacred duty.

Cheery and pleasant, Gough of the 14th Hussars was a "beau sabreur," a
man who inspired friendship and commanded respect. I could recall many
incidents in all of which thou acquitted thyself like a Gough. There
was the morning of Abu Klea in the Soudan, after the night of alarms
that found thy fortitude undisturbed. I stood beside thee by the screw
guns when the Dervish bullet smote thee upon the head and thou wert
felled to earth as with the blow of a hammer. None who saw thee as
thou lay unconscious doubted but that thou had been killed outright.
Even when we learned that thou survived we held to the conviction that
to the weight of such a stroke thou must succumb. But thou recovered
and we rejoiced. Yet such a blow must have left its impress.

None can ever know how in secret thou must have stoically suffered,
for thy patience was as afore, unwearied, thy fondness for work and
duty as untiring, and thy Christian spirit as unbounded. We, thy
friends, thank thee for thy life of gallant bearing, thy sympathies,
thy uncomplaining bearing of burdens.

I deplore that I was not permitted to meet thee again in thy new
office, a member of the Staff here in South Africa, serving under the
worthiest of leaders, the chivalrous Field Marshal, Lord Roberts. Thou
art in God's hands, most excellent Gough. There mayst thou abide. So
let it be.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Not with vain boastfulness, careless, unheeding,
    Left we our homes and prepared for the fray.
  Sadly we answered our wives' gentle pleading,
    Hearing the summons we turned to obey.

  Not for the worth of the Rand's golden treasures,
    Neither dominion, nor riches, nor power,
  Ever had moved us to leave city pleasures,
    Ever had held us together an hour.

  'Twas not for this that we turned to assail you,
    'Twas not for this that we entered the strife.
  Loud though your country with tears may bewail you,
    Can she blame us for this waste of young life?

  What we have asked of you that we have given.
    Down in the South you may live and be free.
  When we have gained that for which we have striven,
    Then we will come and will share it with thee.

  Freedom you value but hoard as a miser;
    Freedom we value but offer to all.
  But of the conflict now sadder and wiser,
    Blame you not us, but yourself, for your fall.



     _Finding us without a "Leader" for the Day, Lord Stanley
     writes one._

"The Friend" of April 3rd began its reading matter with a leader by
the Censor. When he came to look over our proofs on that day he
learned that we had not been able to find time to write an editorial.
The value of a series of leading articles calculated either to inspire
the army or to pacify or instruct the Boers had been newly impressed
upon us by Sir Alfred Milner, and had, without doubt, been discussed
at the headquarters of the Field Marshal.

"I will see if I can write one," said Lord Stanley, and, seating
himself by the smaller table, where pens and paper were at hand, he
began and finished the editorial here reproduced, without even one of
the "false starts" which even we who are most practised so often make;
and, so far as I recollect, without more than two or three erasures of
words. This gave me a new view of the capabilities of our censor--a
view in which he appeared more than ever the fittest man in all the
army for his exacting post.


  Mr. Ralph,
  Mr. Scull, of Chicago,
  Mr. Buxton, of _The Friend_
  are the 3 men behind the Censor.
  Mr. Pearse, _Morning Post_.
  Mr. Bennett Burleigh, _Daily Telegraph_.
  W. B. Wollen, R.I.
  Mr. Maxwell, of the _Standard_.
  Mr. Melton Prior.
  Mr. Rennet, of "Laffan's Bureau."

_Lord Stanley Censoring Reports of a Battle. Photographed by Mr. H.
Mackern, of "Scribner's Magazine."_]

Perhaps the reader will see at this date and stage of the discussion
over the lessons of the war that the practical, and with him wholly
original, words spoken by Lord Dundonald in London on December 15th,
were in some measure anticipated by Lord Stanley in this editorial.
Both these noblemen set the same high value upon the services of the
men of England without regard to class. Lord Dundonald said they would
fight when called upon, but the best of them would not willingly or
comfortably undergo the exactions of long-sustained military
discipline. Our Censor was, at that time, for making their service an
instantly ready organised source of strength to the Empire.

Though there is little to republish from the columns of THE FRIEND of
that day, the newspaper was a very complete and excellent collation of
news of South Africa, the war, and the world. On this particular day,
April 3rd, we published one of Mr. G. W. Steevens's artistic letters
from the Natal front, taken from the _Daily Mail_; we copied an
important article on the lessons of the war written by Mr. Amery for
the _Times_, and altogether the army found the number very readable.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 15.] BLOEMFONTEIN, TUESDAY, APRIL 3, 1900. [Price One Penny.



This war, with the opportunity it has offered to all branches of the
service to see how the military machinery works when running at high
pressure, must teach not only those who are out here superintending
and running the machine, but also those at home who are paying for its
running, many a useful lesson.

That the machine has worked smoothly nobody for one minute will
assert--but it certainly has run sufficiently smoothly to show that,
with some alteration which experience alone could suggest to be
desirable, our military engine may very easily be made as perfect as
those of the Continental Powers are popularly supposed to be.

But it is not our intention to show what failings have been
discovered, and what lessons in manoeuvring--in transport--in
equipment--are required to be learned. Our object to-day is to
congratulate ourselves that one lesson at least which had to be
learned has been partially learned--and that is that England must look
not to one class or two classes of men for her soldiers and sailors,
but must be able to draw upon all sorts and conditions of men, the
rich alike with the poor, when she has to defend her honour at home or

The first part of the lesson has been learned, and men of all ranks in
life are vying with each other in their desire to serve their country
in any capacity, however humble. This is good, but the lesson has not
been entirely taken to heart yet. It will not do for England to have
to wait for an hour of danger before these men come to the front. They
must always be there at hand when required, and it behoves the
Government at home to so legislate as to make permanent in the ranks
of our army those classes of men who are now in it temporarily.

Conscription may be a nasty pill for some to swallow. But what is in a
name? Let us call it universal service, and let us ask our fellow
countrymen at home to be prepared to emulate the example of those who
are on service here and to be ready at all times and in all places to
guard and defend the national flag--the symbol of British prestige and

       *       *       *       *       *


  Driven from pillar to post,
    Battered with shot and shell,
  Knowing full well his cause was lost,
    When the last of his burghers fell.
  Surrounded on every hand,
    He and his Army lay,
  Determined to make a final stand,
    Like a wounded stag at bay.

  When the British guns belched forth,
    The burghers held their breath,
  And down in the trenches deep they hid
    From these Messengers of Death.
  But the British had the range,
    And their lyddite and shrapnel fell
  Into their trenches till they thought
    We'd opened the gates of hell.

  Then Cronje had enough,
    And a message came to say
  That he and his army surrendered,
    And this on Majuba Day:
  The day that the Boers held
    And rejoiced with might and main,
  The day they laid their arms on the veldt;
    The day they'll ne'er hold again.

  For Cronje's day is done,
    The despot's rule is o'er,
  Their hell-fire on the Women
    And the Red-cross is no more.
  For under escort he jogs along
    With never a word to say;
  He and his army four thousand strong
    All bound for Table Bay.

  And Cronje can pray as long as he may,
    Till his poor old knees are sore;
  But it seems Lord Roberts has found the way
    To outwit the wily Boer,
  And St. Helena is his quarters
    Till the Transvaal War is o'er.

                         JAS. L. WATSON,
                          _1st Scots Guards._

       *       *       *       *       *


Below we give a translation of a Dutch proclamation issued by Sir
George Cathcart nearly half a century ago. The Capetown _Argus_ says
that it shows a marked similarity to Lord Roberts' recent proclamation
explaining the cause of the present war, but this we confess we are
not so certain of, as that the proclamation is of interest in and for


By His Excellency Lieutenant-General the Hon. George Cathcart,
Commander-in-Chief of the Colony of the Cape of Good Hope in South
Africa, and Territories and Dependencies thereof, and Vice-Admiral of
the same; and Her Majesty's High Commissioner for the execution and
adjustment of affairs of the Territory in South Africa bordering on
and annexed to the Eastern and Northern Boundaries of the said Colony,
and Governor of the Orange River Territory, &c., &c.

Be it hereby made known to all leaders and people of all classes and
nationalities within Her Majesty's borders of the Orange River
Territory that I have come amongst you to offer equal rights and
justice to all in the name of Her Majesty. I have come not to make
War, but to settle all disputes and to establish the blessings of

I therefore instruct and command all of you to remain quiet, every one
of you in your own territory, and to await my judgment and decision.

I have with me a sufficient number of troops of the Queen to command
obedience, and to punish severely and punctually any Leader, Class, or
Tribe who would dare to resist my lawful authority.

All loyal subjects of Her Majesty will be prepared to join me, if I
deem it necessary to call upon them for co-operation against any
stubborn culprits.


Given under my Hand and Seal, at Graham's Town, this 15th day of
November, 1852.

         Lieut.-General, Governor.

  By order of His Excellency the Governor,
                  WM. F. LIDDLE,



     _I declare the Original War ended and a New One
     begun--Enteric's ravages._

"The Friend" of April 4th contained a column of offers of a new name
for the Orange Free State in response to our promise of a five guinea
prize to the propounder of the most suitable new title for the
country. We published a ballot form for use by our readers in voting
for whichever five of the proposed names they preferred. All our
readers were asked to vote, and it was to be our part to discover what
person was the earliest to send in either the five most popular names
or the greater number of them. This gave us such an addition to our
labours that I suspect we were all as sorry as I know that one of us
was for having gone into this gift enterprise.

I was the author of the "leader" of the day upon "The End of the War."
In this I said that the war first planned by the Boers was already
over and won by the British. That was a war of extermination of the
British in Natal and the Cape, which two colonies were to be the scene
of the fighting, and to be captured by the Dutch. "It was to be
fought out on British soil to the damage of British property and the
slaughter of such British as did not flee from their homes. That war
ended quickly in a complete failure. Now," I continued, "another
struggle is going on to settle whether the two races are to live in
peace together, whether the Boers are to continue to obstruct modern
progress, and whether white men who live in South Africa are to enjoy
white men's rights and white men's liberty."

We published an interesting review of the life of the late Sir Donald
Stewart, who had just died in England.

Mr. Landon wrote an editorial requesting the editors of the
mischievous Capetown organ of the Bond, _Ons Land_, not to send their
wretched paper to our office, and he added that if we could have our
way no such publication would exist.

Mr. Gwynne was the author of the witty paragraph on "How History is

Enteric, the ravages of which were assuming extraordinary proportions,
now began to exact attention from our contributors. One of these wrote
recommending the transfer of enteric patients to a building put up as
a retreat for lepers six miles away, at Sydenham. He argued that it
was "not fair" to mass the fever patients in the buildings of
Bloemfontein. I cannot have seen this article at the time, or it would
have been either left out or answered by me with a modest suggestion
that the "unfairness" might possibly be in allowing those of us who
were well and strong to remain in the hotels, all of which, together
with as many dwellings as were needed, could, perhaps, be turned into
hospitals. To leave the fever-stricken men out in rain-soaked tents
set up on muddy ground, where the most ordinary demands of nature had
to be met at a risk of death--if this could be avoided, this was the
unfair thing. I would have proposed that the sick soldiers and the too
vigorous pro-Boers of Bloemfontein change places, putting our enemies
in the tents, if such a course were possible.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 16.] BLOEMFONTEIN, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 4, 1900.   [Price One Penny.



There is a great want of bedsteads for the use of the sick and wounded
in the various hospitals here.

An appeal is hereby made to the charity of the general public. All who
can possibly spare any single bedsteads with mattresses and pillows
complete, are earnestly requested to communicate with Colonel
Stevenson, Principal Medical Officer, Maitland Street, who will
arrange to receive them. Labels, with name and address of owner,
should be affixed to each bedstead lent, so as to ensure its return
when no longer required.

                         Military Governor.
  April 3rd.


WHEREAS: it is deemed expedient and necessary for the welfare of the
Orange Free State that the Railway Service shall be resumed in the
aforesaid Republic as far as circumstances permit,


G.C.I.E., V.C., Field Marshal and Commanding-in-Chief of the British
forces in South Africa, do hereby appoint Lieutenant Colonel Edouard
Percy Cranwill Girouard, D.S.O., Director of Railways, South African
Field Force, Administrator of the State Railways in such portions of
the Orange Free State as have been or may hereafter be occupied by
British Troops. And I do hereby order that the Railway and Railway
Telegraph Services shall be resumed in the portions of the aforesaid
Republic already referred to, from the nineteenth day of March, 1900,
under the existing Laws and Conventions of the Orange Free State,
subject to such alterations as may from time to time be notified, and
to the requirements of the army.

Given under my hand at Bloemfontein, this Thirtieth Day of March,


              ROBERTS, Field-Marshal,
                      Commanding-in-Chief British Forces
                                                  in South Africa.

       *       *       *       *       *



BLOEMFONTEIN, Thursday, received Friday.

Kruger is reported to have proclaimed the annexation of the Free State
to the Transvaal.

It is also reported that he is circulating a proclamation that England
is in dire straits, the Russians have occupied London and proclaimed
it Russian territory (Reuter).

It is painful to think that Lord Roberts is totally unaware that he is
fighting for a country that has ceased to exist, that St. Paul's is
now a Greek Chapel, that the Thames is called the Temsky River, that
our beloved Queen is a prisoner at Moscow, and that Lord Salisbury is
already trudging on the weary snow-bound way to the mines at Kara, in

Why do you laugh?

To us it seems awful!

       *       *       *       *       *


After three weeks spent in "bluffing" the Colesberg Boers, by holding
various kopjes with a half company at the bottom, I found myself one
fine February morning seized with a sudden attack of "Mauseritis," and
so forced to watch the rest of a disastrous rear-guard action without
taking part in it.

My company and one other, having spent a very cold night on a kopje
N.W. of Rensburg, came down at 5 a.m. to find our other companies "not
lost but gone before" to Arundel, and a sudden and unexpected Boer
cross-fire brought on the aforesaid "attack." From 6 to 8 I lay
watching little puffs of dust in the immediate vicinity, caused by our
men returning the fire, as a lot of the Boers had followed us up and
were lying down about 300 yards from me.

At 8 our fire stopped, and up galloped batches of the ragged
ruffians, the first two pointing Mausers at me and asking, "Rooinek
wounded?" My answer, "Yes," seemed to relieve them, and they jumped
off their horses, and quickly relieving me of carbine and belt (the
only things they took) galloped on. At intervals of ten minutes all
sorts and conditions followed them with, "Good morning, old chap," and
they seemed very sorry at seeing me wounded. At 10, four of them,
under the guidance of a commandant, carried me in a bit of sacking a
mile to Rensburg Station, to the "Station Commandant's" Room, and I
spent a happy day till 5 p.m. with 11 of our men, all air prevented
from coming in by our inquisitive friends, the enemy, who "held" both
doors and windows with great success, making the place a regular Black

They seemed quite happy, just standing still, staring at us, and never
uttering a syllable, though they would do anything we asked. At last,
after hours of waiting, they moved us to a coachhouse close by and
"dressed" us. We stayed there till 5 the next day, and had many
interesting talks with them. One old man gave us a blessing, with "I
wish Chamberlain was here to see you now." Their sole idea was that
Jos. C. and Rhodes were entirely responsible for the war. Many such
questions as "Were you compelled to fight?" &c., were asked you, and a
small box of "sparklets" cartridges was a source of much wonder. My
next move was to an empty store in Colesberg, where Hofman (of the
Cape Parliament) had a Russian-German and Dutch Ambulance combined
(one of his men had been fighting against us and now, covered with Red
Crosses, helped to carry us about). I stayed there a week, having
devoured more figs and grapes than ever before.

All the English ladies and the Dutch Minister in particular brought us
fruit, and I should like to thank them personally. Only the Dutch
people were allowed in to see us, and were very keen on getting our
buttons and badges as keep-sakes.

They turned us out of the field hospital one night at 9, and we were
jolted along in buck-waggons till 5 the next morning, then a halt of 5
hours, and at last we got to Norval's Pont at 5 p.m., after the worst
journey I ever hope to have. It was quite a treat seeing trees again,
as some of the country we passed through was really pretty. Our
ambulance train consisted of layers of stretchers, one above the
other, on a large "bogey" truck. At Springfontein, we were entrusted
to a German ambulance, from Hamburg, covered with crosses, doctors,
nurses and patient helps, but they were very kind to us.

We got news daily from the station telegraphist, Mr. Fryer, and Mr.
Shipp, also employed on the station, till the escape from Pretoria put
an end to our visitors. The hospital was half full of Boers, and they
seemed perfectly happy sitting still the whole day long doing nothing,
but smoking hard. Two engines were always left ready for emergency,
the line being 100 yards away, so sleep at night was a matter of
difficulty. Just when I was hoping we should be relieved, they moved
us under the safe keeping of a Bloemfontein policeman in a gorgeous
blue uniform to the Volks Hospital here, passing through hundreds of
sleeping burghers in the station. Here we languished in the utmost
comfort, till the famous Tuesday when little black specks on the veldt
and the arrival here of "Bobs" made our scarce-believing eyes quite
certain that we were no longer Boer prisoners.


       *       *       *       *       *



No disease causes such havoc in modern campaigns as typhoid or enteric
fever, and it becomes the duty of every one having authority to
impress this fact upon the men committed to their charge. More
especially is this duty imperative when troops are on the march, for
many a valuable life is thrown away by the want of the strong hand of
a wise discipline. When thirsty, men will drink anything, and it is
here that good may be done. It is reported that one regiment on the
march recently made the use of water-bottles a matter of drill, the
word of command being given every hour for a mouthful of water to be
drunk. As a result, men arrived in many cases at their bivouac with
some water still left from their morning supply, without being one
whit more thirsty than their neighbours.

Typhoid in the vast majority of cases is waterborne, and hence the
greatest care should be taken to avoid any dubious pan or pool. The
only real preventative of this disease is to boil all water used, and
although this may be impracticable on service, surely discipline will
prevent the drinking of doubtful water. No medical observer can help
wondering why more men were not inoculated on their way out from home.
The inoculation does no harm, its pain is a small matter, and its
utility in modifying the severity of the disease is now well
established. Take a case in point: two officers in the same regiment,
one aged 31 and the other 24, contracted the disease on the same day
from the same source. On the usual lines, the younger man should have
had the worst attack, and yet, although physically the weaker, he
recovered and his senior died. The younger man had been inoculated but
the other had not! Some will say that it was the senior's kismet, but
let that pass. The campaign is now well begun, and it is not too late
even now to furnish supplies of lymph to Medical Officers for use with
their units.

The disease now so rife is marked by an absence of abdominal symptoms
and may, in its early stage, be overlooked. It is during this period
of uncertainty that harm may be done by a solid diet, and it is safer
by far for any one suspecting himself to be suffering from influenza
or other vague disease to restrict himself for a few days to a milk
diet. Then if the febrile condition passes off, no harm is done, but
it is to be feared that few will take this amount of trouble over



     _British Leniency and Credulity abused Past Endurance._

For several days THE FRIEND had been publishing this short but
imperative announcement:--


From to-day (inclusive) all civilians must be in their homes after 8
p.m., unless provided with a SPECIAL PASS allowing them to be out.

The Police have orders to arrest all persons breaking this rule.

N.B.--This does not refer to civilians who are in the employ of the
British Government, who will have a pass to this effect. By order,

            B. BURNETT-HITCHCOCK, Lieutenant,
                       Asst. Provost Marshal to Military Governor.
      Government Buildings, April 1st, 1900.

This notice was but one of many of the signs we gave forth that we
were being fooled by the tricky Boers, and that at last we were
compelled to admit it. Far back at De Aar I had seen how
constitutionally unsuspicious was the average army officer, how
certain he felt that, because he would not himself stoop to deception
and treachery, no one else could miss the ennobling contagion of his
example; how set he was upon carrying leniency and magnanimity to
unheard of lengths, even with an enemy which neither practiced nor
appreciated such treatment.

Back in the days at De Aar the Boer spies were thick among us,
pretending to have horses or forage for sale, but in reality watching
us, and making daily reports to the enemy. Even then I begged my
friends among the officers to observe what was going on, and to take
steps to keep all Dutch-speaking men out of our slenderly guarded
great storage camp of supplies. But the typical officer said then, as
he said afterwards for months, "Oh, there's nothing to worry about.
These people are our friends." And the occasional wide-awake
non-typical officer ground his teeth and whispered, "Lord! Lord! how
we are being played with! They know everything about us at every hour,
in every move--and we not only know nothing of them, but are being fed
up with lies."

Far from merely keeping the Dutch out of our camps, we engaged the
people of the country as transport drivers and waggon hands, and
even--it used to be said--let them find their way into our corps of
scouts and regimental guides. We demanded that they should know the
Taal lingo and the country, and the result was that when we marched
into a Boer village or hamlet we saw our own people hobnobbing with
the residents, and asking, "Where's Piet? How's Billy? How have all of
you been getting on?"--hail-fellow-well-met with these alleged
"loyalists," who were among the most tricky, shuffling hypocrites I
have ever met in any of my travels. On and on we went, never knowing
anything of the Boers, and the Boers always thoroughly informed about

Everywhere the slimy, slippery ranchers and tavern-keepers and
merchants welcomed us with the heartiest speech, and always were we
fooled by it. They had been born in the country, half the people or
more in all that great region were out "on commando," no man except a
pro-Boer or a born Boer could have been where we found these
double-faced people, with their Judas-like pretence of friendship. It
was self-evident that they must have been siding with our enemies. Had
they been for us when our backs were turned, the Boers would have
offered them a choice between joining their fighting forces or losing
their property and their right to stay in the land. Capetown, Durban,
and Port Elizabeth were crowded by the refugees who had taken an open
stand for the British side, and been obliged to leave their homes.
Nothing of this needed telling; it was indisputable, it was logical,
it was common knowledge.

At last we came to fighting battles that were surprises--to meeting
Boer forces where we were told there were no Boers. When, at Modder
River, Mr. Knox, of Reuter's, and I saw a large force of Boers ahead,
and rode back to tell our friends in the army what we had seen, we
were informed that what we announced was ridiculous. There were only
"three hundred Boers within a dozen miles," and these would be quickly
dislodged by our Ninth Lancers. We were to meet the Boers at
Spytfontein, miles and miles ahead. Nevertheless, in fifteen minutes
we began one of the chief battles of the war, against the largest
force that had up to that time opposed our army.

The next day saw us in the village of Modder River, welcomed by the
men of the place, whose shops and taverns had been preserved in the
very midst of the Boer army by--by what shall we say? It must have
been either by the force of comradeship with the Boers or by
miraculous and Divine intervention; one or the other, for there is no
explanation of the phenomenon outside of these two alternatives. Did a
single man from that village manage to cross the drift and warn us
that six miles of trenches were ready to be filled by Boers when we
should reach there? And why did no single individual among all these
"friends" do us that service? Our guides and others rode far forward,
and were gone for hours. What did they see or find, and why did they
not discover the facts?

We were fooled! fooled!! fooled!!!

Without martial law in force behind us, as it should have been in
force from Capetown to Kimberley, at the very beginning of the war,
without maps of the country, surrounded by malignant enemies, who were
the more dangerous in that they declared themselves friends. Knowing
nothing, but betrayed in everything, we stumbled on--into Modder
battle, up against Maghersfontein Kopje--fooled and tricked and played
with for months on end.

We caught one of two men who fired at us from beneath the white flag
at Belmont. The other one our soldiers killed, but the one we
caught--what of him? The quicker he was hanged and left hanging on top
of a high kopje the sooner would have ended the contempt of the Boers
for our methods, and the sooner would have come the end of the war.
But I never was able to learn that he was treated otherwise than were
the rest of our prisoners.

When we came to a village like Modder River, where the Boers had been
entertained and assisted in bridge-destroying and trench-digging, did
we _reconcentrado_ the little population? What a lesson to the
disloyal, what a strength to our arms that would have been! We did
nothing; we left them in their homes; we found them with Boer warrants
for pay for forage on their persons; we saw them slipping to and from
our camp at night, while by day they loitered around our headquarters
and told us how loyal they were. Fooled were we--to the brim, up to
our eyes, past all understanding.

Lord Roberts came, and the Boers tried the same old tricks. It is true
that he maintained the same mistaken course of leniency--making war as
light as possible for the Boers while they heaped its terrors upon
us--but this mischievous, war-prolonging policy was so unvarying from
Capetown to Bloemfontein that I always suspected it to have been
ordered from home--perhaps by whoever it was that "preferred unmounted
men" to catch the De Wets of the veldt. I cannot believe that Lord
Roberts fought England's enemies in India in that way, or that he is
blamable for that policy in South Africa. He was fooled, however, but
not as others had been, nor did he evince the same fondness for being
victimised as did certain of his subordinates. From the outset he took
all ordinary precautions against treachery and double-dealing, and he
was the first general to insist that the coloured native (very often a
Boer spy) should be kept under supervision and should be at least as
orderly, civil, and well behaved as white men were required to be.

It was while we were at Bloemfontein that the Boers presumed too much
upon our credulity and trustfulness at last. They did this by the most
barefaced and wholesale act of hoaxing ever practised upon a modern
army. We sent out our forces, small and large, over the whole southern
half of the Free State, distributing Lord Roberts' promise of
protection to all who surrendered their arms and signed an agreement
to fight us no more. Gaily and trustingly our troops went here and
there, and everywhere the people came out to meet them in apparently
the same cordial spirit of goodwill. As they handed in their
grandfathers' old elephant rifles and whatever other fire-arm curios
had been thrown aside in their garrets, they assured us that they were
sick of the war, that they had been tricked by Steyn, that they had
only fought to prevent the Transvaalers from confiscating their cattle
and perhaps to save themselves from being murdered. It was a beautiful
spectacle of erring brotherhood repentant--for those who enjoy being
played upon and laughed at.

Even while the old junk was being brought to the railway we began to
hear that wherever, in isolated cases, a man had honestly given up his
Mauser and signed the British papers he was being plundered and
persecuted by his neighbours, most of whom were still either fighting
or awaiting orders to resume hostilities. My printers told me of
friends whom they believed to have been shot for failing to take part
in the hoax, and for seriously giving up the contest.

And at Ladybrand the "friendly" and "repentant" Boers, who had been
giving tea and entertainment to General Broadwood to hold his force
until the enemy could capture it, fired on him from the very houses in
which he had been drinking tea, when he got wind of the trap and
slipped away--to Sanna's Post.

The air began to fill with rumours of murder and pillage, the veldt
again resounded with the hoof-beats of fighting commandos. We had the
affairs at Reddersburg, Wepener, Karree Siding, Sanna's Post. We found
that we were brushing our coatsleeves against those of active enemies
in Bloemfontein--men who were apprising the enemy of our army
movements and plans, who were even said to be slipping out at night,
armed sometimes with messages and sometimes with Mausers.

Thus the Boer cunning over-reached itself. It was the biggest hoax,
the climax of the long course of hoaxing. It was the first time it had
been practised upon Lord Roberts, but I also believe it was the last
time as well.

This was the meaning of the notices that now began to appear in
different forms in THE FRIEND: that the Army was to be fooled no
longer by mere lies and Iscariot handshakings. This was the purport of
Lieutenant Burnett-Hitchcock's command that we should all carry
passes; of Town Clerk Koller's order for all the Free Staters to give
an account of their horses with proofs of ownership; of General
Kelly's command that all troops "when out in positions" (around the
town and elsewhere) "should invariably entrench themselves ... being
careful that their flanks are secure"; of Lord Roberts's warning that
our "friends" and others were to be held responsible in their persons
and property for all wanton destruction of or damage to public or
private property, which meant railway-wrecking principally.

The Army at last was tired of being fooled.

The editorial of the day was conceived in the same spirit of
resistance to a farther continuance of the experiences of the Army in
the past. It was headed "British Leniency," and was, I am almost
certain, written by Mr. Gwynne under "inspiration."

     What about British leniency and long-suffering? (the writer
     asked). Let it be remembered we are still an army on active
     service fighting a vigorous enemy. There are people to whom
     British magnanimity has always and will always spell
     weakness. We cordially welcome and will gladly receive our
     new fellow-subjects. We shall not make our welcome depend
     upon whether they fought against us or not. Those who stood
     in the enemy's trenches and fought bravely for what they
     considered to be their liberty will soon be convinced that
     their struggle was prompted by men who knew not liberty, and
     that Great Britain will extend to them a degree of freedom
     which they never knew before. But--and let us here emphasise
     the "but"--we will have no half measures. We do not ask the
     newly-conquered Free Staters to take up arms against their
     kinsmen now fighting against us, but we do ask and shall
     maintain, with sternness, if necessary, a strict and rigid
     neutrality on the part of those who have promised it by
     oath. Let all take to heart this decision, that while Great
     Britain will remorselessly punish all and any who interfere
     with those who claim her protection, so will she as sternly
     and severely bring heavy punishment on those who misuse her
     tolerance and leniency.

     The great extent of country through which the British army
     has to operate has made difficult to afford that adequate
     protection to those who have laid down their arms, convinced
     that they were risking their lives uselessly. In some cases
     these men have been molested and ill-treated by the enemy.
     Full punishment will be meted out to those who have been
     guilty of such acts. We have shown an example of leniency
     and tolerance towards rebels, taken with arms in their hand,
     which we did expect would have been followed by those who
     direct the affairs of our enemies, and we shall exact of the
     two Presidents a full and complete reparation for acts of
     cruelty and inhumanity committed by those under their

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 17.] BLOEMFONTEIN, THURSDAY, APRIL 5, 1900 [Price One Penny.


The following Military Officers are hereby appointed Justices of the
Peace for the District of Bloemfontein during pleasure:--

Major-General G. T. PRETYMAN, C.B., Military Governor.

Lieutenant-Colonel C. V. F. TOWNSHEND, C.B., D.S.O., Assistant to
Military Governor.

Lieutenant-Colonel B. E. B. LORD CASTLETOWN, Special Service Officer.

Major R. M. POORE, Provost Marshal.

Captain W. A. J. O'MEARA, Chief Intelligence Officer.

Captain P. HOLLAND-PRYOR, D.A.A., General.

Given under my hand at Bloemfontein, this Fourth Day of April, 1900.


                            ROBERTS, Field Marshal,
                   Commanding-in-Chief British Forces in South Africa.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Far in a land so distant,
    Out on the battle-field,
  Raising the lance or carbine,
    Or a sharp-edged sword they wield.
  There lie the British Soldiers,
    Fighting for home and Queen,
  Marching by day, and by night as well,
    Hard times are often seen.

  Weary they tramp for their Country,
    Marching when only half fed;
  He'll rest where he can when they're halted,
    Without sheet or blanket or bed.
  Dreams of sweet home and of childhood
    Will pass through his weary brain,
  Restless he'll lie till morning,
    Then he'll move on the march again.

  But what of his wife and baby,
    That he's left far behind at home?
  Where is their love's protection?
    Where is his heart to roam?
  Urged on by a stern Commander,
    Pushed by a Sergeant there,
  Bullied by bits of Lance Corporals,
    No wonder the poor soldiers swear.

  Now then he's fighting like blazes,
    The artillery guns loudly boom,
  His rifle comes up to his shoulder,
    And another brave Boer meets his doom.
  Crack! crack! 'tis the brave soldier's music,
    His spirits rise up--he can feel,
  It's this music that raises his spirits,
    And makes them as fearless as steel.

  He is fighting for Queen and for country,
    For his dear little baby and wife,
  He knows that the foe must be beaten
    And for this end he'll risk his dear life.
  At last the day's fighting is over,
    The wounded and dead lie around,
  All now is quiet and peaceful,
    From the guns we can hear not a sound.

  But his poor wounded comrades lie moaning,
    And gasping for life's loving breath,
  But the great God of Love calls their spirits,
    And they're clasped in the cold arms of death.
  All things seem so strange and so dreary,
    As sadly he gazes around,
  He heaves a deep sigh and a tear dims his eye,
    As he lies on the cold sodden ground.

       *       *       *       *       *


  But still we are here, what is left of us,
    Noble and brave to be seen,
  We've proved ourselves brave British soldiers,
    _And willing to die for our Queen_.

       *       *       *       *       *


_To the Editors of_ THE FRIEND.--SIRS,--Is it true that a certain
cavalry general, on finding good grass for his horses for the first
time at Koodoesrand, exclaimed, "By Jove, this will supply a
long-veldt want"?

That, to remind the burghers of the disgrace of Bloemfontein's fall
into British hands, President Kruger has changed the name of the
Transvaal capital to "Oomfontein"?

That the landdrost has caused to be written on the gates of Kroonstad,
"Nil sine Laboere"?

That the Welshman called Mr. Kruger's son "ap-Paul" and the son's
father "appalling"?

That the man who said that President Steyn "showed no signs of
stayin'" when we got near Bloemfontein was shot on the spot by his
rear-rank man?

That "The Gay Lord Treks" and the "Manoeuvres of Steyn" will be acted
in London in the winter?

That, in view of the late change of political opinion of the chief
Bloemfontein newspaper, its name is to be changed to "Our Mutual

An early answer to some of these important questions will oblige,

  Yours truly,
             H. ATTER.
                     Glen Siding, O.F.S., March 30th.

       *       *       *       *       *



A most interesting meeting was held at the Town Hall on Monday evening
in connection with the "Army Temperance Association," an organisation
which owes its existence to the efforts and personal interest of
Field-Marshal Lord Roberts which, as one of the speakers on the
platform so rightly said, are always exercised in everything which is
to the benefit of the British soldier. As, therefore, there are at
present with our troops at Bloemfontein the President and Founder of
the Association, two members of the Executive Committee, and many
hundreds of members, it was a happy conception to call a meeting of
those interested in Temperance work under the auspices of the
Association, and one which commended itself to the approval of the
Commander-in-Chief, who, in spite of many things which daily press
upon him, readily consented to preside and speak at the meeting.

Much is due to the energy of the Rev. Canon Orford for arrangements
made, and the kindness of residents in the city, all of which tended
greatly to the success of the meeting. Disappointments were
inevitable. Sudden movements and the exigencies of the service robbed
us of the company of many who would otherwise have been present, and
we missed the promised help of the band of "The Buffs."

On the platform were, besides the Commander-in-Chief and his personal
staff, the Very Rev. the Dean; the Venerable the Archdeacon; Mr.
Meiring, of the Customs, Mr. Falck, of the Post-Office; the Revs. T.
F. Faulkner, F. B. N. Norman-Lee, and H. T. Coney, Chaplains to the
Forces; Captain A. H. Webb, R.A.; Mr. Goddard, and R. Grindel, Esq.,
2nd Coldstream Guards.

Lord Roberts in his address expressed his great pleasure in being able
to preside, and sketched clearly and briefly the history of the
beginning of the Association in India, its rapid growth in spite of
antagonism, its ultimate and acknowledged success, and eventually its
introduction into England, where now it can boast of a branch in
almost every regiment and depôt in the kingdom. He particularly
emphasised its being a _temperance_ and not only a "total abstainer"
society, and lastly pointed to the work done by the troops under his
command during the past few weeks as an evidence of what can be done
by temperate, or in this case almost entire non-abstaining, men, than
whom (he said) he had never seen any to march better, endure
privations more contentedly, or to be better behaved.

Mr. Lodge followed with an excellent song, admirably sung, which
promptly elicited an "encore," which he kindly granted.

Rev. T. F. Faulkner then gave a short address about the principles of
the Association and how they might affect and be affected by the
exigencies of the march, and expressed the feeling of gratitude and
pleasure which all A.T.A. members must share at the interest shown in
their undertaking by the clergy and citizens of Bloemfontein.

A treat was then accorded to the audience in two songs sung by Miss
Fraser, who most willingly responded to the vigorous appeal of our
soldiers. Such singing by a lady we had not heard for a long time,
and the men were not slow to detect the high order of Miss Fraser's
powers. The Very Rev. the Dean gave a warm welcome as temperance
workers in the name of those in Bloemfontein who had the work at
heart, and spoke of the encouragement to them which such a meeting

An amusing song by Capt. Webb, R.A., also loudly encored, formed a
pleasing contrast in the programme. Mr. Lodge and Miss Fraser were so
good as to sing yet another song each, much to the delight of our
members. Two short speeches by Mr. Grindel and Capt. Webb on the
subject of the Association's worth and object and the members' duties
in connection with it, brought the programme to a close save for the
few graceful words spoken by Rev. F. B. N. Norman-Lee, in expressing
the thanks of the meeting to Lord Roberts for his presence, and to
those who had, by their kind help, conduced towards the success of the
meeting and the pleasure of those who had attended it. The Rev. H. T.
Coney, who had taken an active part in getting up the meeting, proved
himself an excellent accompanist. The National Anthem closed the

       *       *       *       *       *

_The same by Another Contributor._

The presence of the Field Marshal, who may be called the father of the
Association, attracted many who, perhaps, have not been identified
with the movement. All who attended were repaid by getting a sight of
the man of the hour in South Africa, and listening to his speech of
introduction. In well-chosen words he gave a brief outline of the
founding of the Association, its growth from the Total Abstinence
Association first founded in India, and the gradual broadening of its
scope and purposes. He told of the influence of the A.T.A. in the
army, how it was free from prejudice and sectarianism, and he pointed
out to the soldiers the advantages of joining. Every member was known
to his commanding officer, and for important posts men were often
chosen because of this membership.

The soldiers who filled the body of the hall dwelt on every word that
fell from the lips of the man they loved. When he spoke of the "Army
it was now his great honour to command," the Field Marshal showed his
depth of feeling in his voice. He was proud to be the leader of "the
best-behaved army in the world"; he spoke of the splendid way in which
the troops had marched, of how uncomplainingly they had endured the
hardships of the campaign and how well they had fought. In a
half-joking manner he spoke of them as having all been members of the
A.T.A. Modder River water was all they had to drink, and sometimes
little of that. In a graceful way the Field Marshal thanked the people
of Bloemfontein for the interest shown by their attendance, and he
expressed his gratitude to Miss Fraser and Mr. Lodge for voluntarily
helping the success of the meeting with their songs. Constantly the
soldiers interrupted the speech with applause, and when Lord Roberts
had concluded, it was some time before it died away.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Though thirteen thousand miles of foam
    Divide us from the land
  That bred our sires, yet we their sons
    With you united stand,
  And in this year of warring strife
    From over all the earth
  We haste to help the grand old land
    That gave our fathers birth.

  From inland plain, from mountain height,
    From city and from coast,
  From divers ends of all the earth,
    From the dear land we boast
  Our proud descent; and never where
    Our language may be spoken
  Shall the strong tie that binds us to
    Our mother land be broken.

  All round the world we live in lands
    Thy enterprise has won,
  And when the day with you is past
    With us the rising sun
  Brings light to carry on the work
    Bequeathed to us by Thee;
  We make and shape an Empire that
    Extends from sea to sea.

  The same clear head, the same firm tread
    And independent air
  That made all other men seem mean
    Who with thy sons compare;
  The same cool, prudent common-sense
    And strong decision that
  Conquer with the tools of peace
    Or weapons of defence.

  Nor Greece, or Rome, or France, or Spain
    Had at their highest hour
  One-half thy Empire, half thy wealth
    Or world-embracing power,
  And not to any race that lives
    In History's wondrous story
  Has ever been vouchsafed on earth
    Such universal glory.

  And we thy sons as much as those
    Who stay at home with thee,
  All seedlings planted far away
    From the ancestral tree,
  Breed true and show in branch and sap
    The same old sturdy merit,
  And plant our British customs in
    The lands that we inherit.

  And now from all your distant lands
    With haste we come to show
  We do not wait for you to ask
    Our help against the foe,
  But gather round thee pleased to have
    The opportunity
  Of proving to the world in arms
    Our splendid unity.

       *       *       *       *       *




Events have followed each other during the last week in such rapid
succession that it is impossible to give more than a short epitome of
the engagements at Karree Siding and Waterfall Drift. The cavalry
reconnaissance to Brandfort showed that there was a considerable
concentration of the enemy in that town, and as the Intelligence
Department had information that a large force of Boers, re-equipped
and remounted, had come down from Kroonstadt, it was deemed necessary
to occupy the clump of kopjes in which Karee lies.

The enemy forestalled this move, and on 27th March the hills round
Karee were reported held. As both flanks of the Karee position
presented ground over which it was possible for cavalry to work, a
plan of operations was made by which it was hoped that our occupation
would result in the capture of the enemy's advance guard.

With this object a Cavalry division under General French, a brigade of
Mounted Infantry and an Infantry division under Lieut.-Gen. Tucker
concentrated at Glen on April 28th. On the following morning the
Cavalry made a detour round the right of the enemy's position, the
mounted Infantry under Lieut.-Col. Le Gallais making a similar
movement round the left. The object of this operation was obvious. The
mounted Corps were to be prepared to come into action at the rear of
the Boer position as soon as General Tucker delivered his Infantry

At 10 a.m., having received heliographic communication from Gen.
French, Gen. Tucker put his division in motion--he advanced it across
the four miles of plain leading to the foot of the range of kopjes in
echelon of battalions, Gen. Chermside's Brigade on the right, General
Wavell's on the left. The position which he essayed to attack, in the
vicinity of Karee, may be roughly termed three parallel ridges with a
stretch of valley between each.

Contrary to all expectation, the first ridge was found unoccupied and
the infantry advanced without opposition, until the leading battalion
(Lincolns) reached the foot of the second parallel. Here they were
fired into by a patrol, which itself fell back at once. Under cover of
a few rounds from the guns which came into action on the left of the
advance, the second range was occupied. Beneath this lay the plain of
Karee, a flat of about 2,000 yards, the station standing in the

At first it was not evident that the third parallel of hills was held.
But as the Norfolks, Lincolns, and six companies of the King's Own
Scottish Borderers scaled a considerable kopje which commanded the
left of the final parallel, shrapnel was burst over them from a field
gun which appeared to be in the valley below. The rest of Chermside's
brigade, covered by a few of the C.I.V., were pushing across the open.
The mounted men and two companies of the K.O.S.B.'s advanced to within
200 yards of the final position before the enemy declared their
presence by opening fire. The reception which the advanced line
received from the marksmen lining the hill east and from individuals
ensconced in the bushes on the slopes of the hills was so sharp that
the line was checked and part of it forced to retire. The three field
batteries then came into action against a high tableland kop which
formed the right of the held position, the advance remaining checked
the while.

A battery was detached to aid the right, as the K.O.S.B.'s were
suffering from a well-directed and well-ranged shrapnel fire. This
battery was not able to come into action, as the teams were unable to
bring the guns up the slope of the position chosen. But three of
Wavell's battalions were brought across the open and an assault was
attempted on the main kopje.

Matters practically remained at a deadlock until four p.m., when the
sound of French's guns was heard in the rear of the enemy's position.
Three shrapnel burst on the nek connecting the left and centre of the
Boer position. The Mauser fire stopped as if by magic, and the enemy
vacated. The whole line then advanced and occupied the enemy's
position, the latter retreating across the plain in the direction of
Brandfort, taking their guns with them, which they unlimbered at
intervals to shell the cavalry.

       *       *       *       *       *


Lady Edward Cecil and Lady Charles Bentinck are here on a visit.

       *       *       *       *       *

An amusing incident occurred the other day at the Glen. An officer of
one of the Guards Battalions, whose name resembles that of the
station, was found bathing in the Modder by a flying sentry stationed
there to prevent the men from bathing. The sentry knew his duty, and
unceremoniously ordered the delinquent to come out of the water,
whereupon the gallant captain, in all his nakedness, approached the
bank and indignantly asked the man, "Can't you see I am an officer?"



     _And this suggests a few remarks about the much-discussed
     Treatment of our Sick._

The editorial in the number of April 6th was written by me, with the
assistance of Mr. Kipling, who aided me in phrasing concisely and with
force the declaration of British principles in the body of the
article. The manuscript was set up and "proved" while he was with us,
and then was sent to the Residency in order that the authorities might
look up some one capable of translating it into the Taal language. It
was the first of our editorials to be printed, like Lord Roberts's
proclamation, in both tongues. In English it was entitled, "to the
People of the Free State," and this line was paralleled in our columns
with this counterpart in Taal:


Dr. A. Conan Doyle, who has since written so excellent a book upon
"The Great Boer War," had recently arrived in Bloemfontein, and
enjoyed his first welcoming dinner with the editors of THE FRIEND at
the Free State Hotel. He took a keen interest in our strange newspaper
venture, and willingly wrote for us when we asked him to do so. The
ringing, sturdily-phrased article, "A First Impression," which
appeared in this number of April 6th, was by him.

But he came at the head of the Langman Field Hospital, and was, at
first, busy in establishing that most excellent, much-needed
institution on the cricket-ground; then busier far in looking after
the enteric patients who passed under his care in numbers startling to
record. It fell to me to write a notice of his arrival, in which I
said--and from my heart--"We welcome him to the British Army. We had
hoped to welcome him to the staff of THE FRIEND, but, in view of the
humane and philanthropic work which busies him night and day, we
cannot betray such selfishness as to express any disappointment over
this loss.

"So true a talent as his compels him to write, whether he will or no,
and he has promised us a thought or an observation, now and then, out
of his golden store. Perhaps at the end of the war he may give to the
world a companion book to his undying 'White Company.' If it is called
the 'Khaki Company,' and deals with the exploits of Englishmen of
to-day, there will be, thank God, no lack of deeds of valour as
stirring, courage as calm, and warfare as enthusiastic as he found to
electrify the pages of the earlier work."

[Illustration: A first Impression

It was only Smith-Dorrien's brigade marching into Bloemfontein but if
it could have passed just as it was, down Piccadilly and the Strand it
would have driven London crazy. I got down from the truck which we
were unloading and watched them, the ragged bearded fierce-eyed
infantry straggling along under their cloud of dust. Who could
conceive who has seen the prim soldier of peace that he could as
quickly transform himself into this grim virile barbarian. Bulldog
faces, hawk faces, hungry wolf faces--every kind of face except a weak
one. Here and there a reeking pipe--here and there a man who
smiled--but the most have their swarthy faces leaned a little forward,
their eyes steadfast, their features impassive but resolute. Baggage
waggons were passing, the mules all shin & ribs, with the escort
tramping beside the wheels.

_A Page of Dr. Conan Doyle's "Copy."_]

All who were in Bloemfontein spoke as highly of the Langman Hospital
as I have done, and in the same--even in a more ardent manner--had we
all praised the Australian Field Hospital, which we got to know
before Lord Roberts took command. Especially did we exalt these
institutions in our mind, because of the way in which we contrasted
them with the outfits of the R.A. Medical Corps. We could not then see
why it was that private individuals and colonies should surpass the
richest nation on earth in their equipments for the care of the sick
and wounded, or why the richest nation on earth should have to rely on
these outside establishments, and beg of the Red Cross agents and of
the people of South Africa for the means to complete the equipment of
her own field hospitals.

It is not a pleasant subject. It does not force itself into a book
upon "the brighter side of war" by reason of any especial harmony with
that title. But it suggests a story which England needs to know--which
England must wish to know if she means to keep her place among the
fighting powers by the only means by which that status can be
maintained--which is the stopping of every source of weakness and the
reform of every evil in her army. As I said when I was urged to
testify before the Commission which inquired into the subject, I did
not study the matter when I was with the army. I was conscious of the
general belief that the hospital service did not meet the demands of
the situation either after the awful losses at Paardeberg, or, later,
when enteric claimed between 5,000 and 7,000 victims at Bloemfontein.

Death was thick in the air. Nearly every correspondent and officer
counted more friends who were sick than he had known to be wounded or
killed in battle. The rains had set in. The veldt was like a marsh.
The nights were bitterly cold. The dead in their blankets pursued us
in the streets of the town and on every ride we took upon the veldt.
My concern for my son took me daily to the Volks Hospital, where the
doctor and nurses said that enteric in Bloemfontein took on so mild a
form that they should "consider it a lasting disgrace to have a
patient die of that disease," and yet every time I went to that
hospital I heard from other visitors how many were the deaths in the
army hospitals. I heard, too, how bad were the sanitary arrangements,
how inefficient were the often untrained "Tommy" nurses, how dreadful
were the risks the patients were obliged to take (in some field
hospitals) in obeying the commands of nature.

Now that I have returned to England I have had a high official of the
Medical Corps say to me, "It was known beforehand that the service
must break down in war because it was undermanned; it was never made
familiar with its work, it had too few reserves to draw upon; when it
was distended by the sudden and extraordinary demands of war it had to
grow on paper, but not in fit and proper _personnel_ or _materiel_."

Here, then, is the basis for what must, sooner or later, be exposed to
all the nation. Knowing that things were amiss, and that they could
not have been otherwise, the people need not wait two or five years
for all the facts, or for the creation of a mis-applied "sensation."
Let them doggedly and firmly insist that the loudly promised reform of
the army shall be certain to include the establishment of a properly
trained, equipped, and proportioned R.A.M.C., and that the lingering
prejudice of the regular army officer against this most useful,
economic, and essential corps shall vanish before the will of the
people as stubble is swept up by a prairie fire.

Mr. Gwynne wrote the obituary notice of Archibald Forbes, Mr. Fred W.
Unger wrote a descriptive article called "The Inexpressible Veldt,"
and we were rejoiced once again to publish a contribution in verse by
Mr. A. B. Paterson, of Sydney.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 18. BLOEMFONTEIN, FRIDAY, APRIL 6, 1900 [Price One Penny.


Monday or Tuesday, a pair of Field Glasses, a pair of Wire Cutters,
and Leather Pouch. Please return same and claim reward.[16]

[Footnote 16: The victim of this bold theft out of our sanctum was Mr.
James Barnes, our occasional contributor and assistant.]

       *       *       *       *       *


The time by which Civilians have to be in their houses is extended to
9 p.m. on Sundays, to enable them to return from Church.

              B. BURNETT HITCHCOCK, Lieutenant,
       Asst. Provost-Marshal to Military Governor.
  April 6th, 1900.

       *       *       *       *       *



  'Twas in the days of front attack,
    This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it,
  That every "front" has got a "back,"
    And French is just the man to turn it.

  A wounded soldier on the ground
    Was lying flat behind a hummock;
  He proved the good old proverb sound,
    "An army travels on its stomach!"

  He lay as flat as any fish,
    His nose had worn a little furrow,
  He only had one frantic wish--
    That like an ant-bear he could burrow.

  The bullets whistled into space,
    The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
  The four-point seven supplied the bass;
    You'd think the Devil's band was playing.

  A valiant comrade crawling near
    Observed his most supine behaviour
  And crawled towards him, "Eh! what cheer?
    Buck up," says he "I've come to save yer!"

  "You get up on my shoulders, mate!
    And if we live beyond the firing,
  I'll get a V.C. sure as fate,
    Because our blokes is all retiring.

  "It's fifty pound a year," says he,
    "I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky."
  "No," says the wounded man, "not me,
    I won't be saved; it's far too risky!

  "I'm fairly safe behind this mound,
    I've worn a hole that seems to fit me,
  But if you lift me off the ground
    It's fifty pound to one they'll hit me!"

  So off towards the firing-line
    His mate crept slowly to the rear, oh!
  Remarking, "What a selfish swine!
    He might have let me be a hero!"

       *       *       *       *       *



The British have come to stay.

Our students of political economy have taught us that the constitution
and laws of the old Free State were as nearly perfect as any that
could be framed for a democracy.

The basis of the British Government is that of an enlightened and
progressive democracy.

It is therefore certain that British rule will not bring any violent
or revolutionary changes to the conditions under which you citizens
have been living.

What are British principles?

The absolute independence of the individual, so long as he does not
interfere with his neighbour's rights.

Prompt and equal justice, before the Lord, to all men.

A natural and rooted antipathy to anything savouring of military
despotism, in any shape or form.

Absolute religious toleration and freedom of belief for all peoples.

Prompt and incorruptible justice to all men in every walk of life.

The right of every man to make his home his castle.

In view of these things and of the unalterable fact that the country
has passed under a new rule, why should burghers hesitate or delay in
making friends with the new situation?

We are your friends. We have never felt unfriendly toward you; for
even in war we realised that you were deceived by unwise and selfish

Let us, then, repeat the new motto of the Free State, printed at the
head of the newspaper, "All has come right," for we are certain that
as soon as your people realise what is to be the new rule under which
you are to live, you will know and acknowledge that the right has
prevailed, and that never again shall you stand in fear of a military
oligarchy like the Transvaal; or of tyranny or injustice in any form.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Footnote 17: Copyrighted. Used here with the author's permission.]


It was only Smith-Dorrien's Brigade marching into Bloemfontein, but if
it could have been passed, just as it was, down Piccadilly and the
Strand it would have driven London crazy. I got down from the truck
which we were unloading and watched them, the ragged, bearded,
fierce-eyed infantry, straggling along under their cloud of dust. Who
could conceive, who has seen the prim soldier of peace, that he could
so quickly transform himself into this grim, virile barbarian? Bulldog
faces, hawk faces, hungry wolf faces, every sort of face except a
weak one. Here and there a reeking pipe, here and there a man who
smiled, but the most have their swarthy faces leaned a little forward,
their eyes steadfast, their features impassive but resolute. Baggage
waggons were passing, the mules all skin and ribs, with the escort
tramping beside the wheels. Here are a clump of Highlanders, their
workmanlike aprons in front, their keen faces burned black with months
of the veldt.

It is an honoured name that they bear on their shoulder-straps. "Good
old Gordons!" I cried as they passed me. The sergeant glanced at the
dirty enthusiast in the undershirt. "What cheer, matey!" he cried, and
his men squared their shoulders and put a touch of ginger into their
stride. Here are a clump of Mounted Infantry, a grizzled fellow like a
fierce old eagle at the head of them. Some are maned like lions, some
have young, keen faces, but all leave an impression of familiarity
upon me. And yet I have not seen irregular British cavalry before. Why
should I be so familiar with this loose-limbed, head-erect, swaggering
type; of course it is the American cow-boy over again. Strange that a
few months of the veldt has produced exactly the same man that springs
from the western prairie. But these men are warriors in the midst of
war. Their eyes are hard and quick. They have the gaunt, intent look
of men who live always under the shadow of danger. What splendid
fellows there are among them!

Here is one who hails me; the last time I saw him we put on seventy
runs together when they were rather badly needed, and here we are,
partners in quite another game. Here is a man of fortune, young,
handsome, the world at his feet, he comes out and throws himself into
the thick of it. He is a great heavy-game shot, and has brought two
other "dangerous men" out with him. Next him is an East London farmer,
next him a fighting tea-planter of Ceylon, next him a sporting
baronet, next him a journalist, next him a cricketer, whose name is a
household word. Those are the men who press into the skirmish-line of
England's battle.

And here are other men again, taller and sturdier than infantry of the
line, grim, solid men, as straight as poplars. There is a maple-leaf,
I think, upon their shoulder straps, and a British brigade is glad
enough to have those maples beside them. For these are the Canadians,
the men of Paardeberg, and there behind them are their comrades in
glory, the Shropshire Light Infantry, slinging along with a touch of
the spirit of their grand sporting colonel, the man who at forty-five
is still the racquet champion of the British army. You see the dirty
private with the rifle under his arm and the skin hanging from his
nose. There are two little stars upon his strained shoulders, if you
could see them under the dirt. That is the dandy captain who used to
grumble about the food on the P. and O. "Nothing fit to eat," he used
to cry as he glanced at his menu. I wonder what he would say now? Well
he stands for his country, and England also may be a little less
coddled and a little more adaptive before these brave, brave sons of
hers have hoisted her flag over the "raad zaal" of Pretoria.

       *       *       *       *       *



(_From the Household Brigade Magazine._)


  When you've done your meat and jipper--when you've 'ad your go o' beer--
    When your duff 'as filled the corners of your shape--
  P'raps you'll kindly spare some sympathy, and drop a silent tear
    For a gentleman in khaki at the Cape.
  'E's an absent-bodied beggar--as it's needless to relate--
    An' 'is most frequented pub'll fail to find him,
  For 'e doesn't get a chance to chalk 'is drinks up on a slate
    'Cause 'e's left Three-thick and Drug-'ole far behind 'im.

  _Lime-juice mixed with water the colour of mud
    (Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we),
  Bully beef and rooty, and where shall we find a spud?
    Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_

  Now we falls in of a mornin', an' we knows there's work to do
    Simultaneous with the risin' of the sun;
  We can see 'em on the kopjes, and their numbers isn't few,
    An' it's more than rather likely there's a gun.

  When we get within "fixed sights" it's ten to one the blighter's gone,
    And an absent-bodied beggar we shall find 'im,
  For 'e mounts 'is 'orse an' offs it when 'e finds us comin' on,
    An' e' never leaves a drop o' drink be'ind 'im.

  _Pile arms! Lie down! Now let the Transport come!
    (Am I 'ungry and thirsty? Wait till I let you see!)
  Bully beef and rooty, and somebody's pinched my rum.
    Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_

  There's a chap called Wilfrid Lawson as is always on the squeak,
    An' 'e turns the liquor question inside out;
  But a bloke can do a gallon--if the tiddley's fairly weak--
    Without actually going on the shout.
  But the absent-bodied tippler feels a temporary check
    When 'e tastes a kind of something to remind him,
  There's a Boer up the river with a stone around 'is neck
    'As a filter what old Cronje's left be'ind 'im.

  _Fill mine! Mine too! (Smells like a bloomin' drain!)
    Fill at the nearest water, spite of the M.F.P.
  Bully beef and rooty, and something's give me a pain,
    Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_

  Don't you fancy I'm a-grousin'. You can look me in the face
    An' judge if I'm a coward or a cur,
  When I tells you 'ow I scrambled up each blood-an'-thunder place
    Without any 'esitation or demur.
  Still, your absent-bodied comrade's got a thirst what's run to waste,
    And 'e'll show you in the future, when you find 'im
  Back in Wellington or Chelsea, as 'e's not forgot the taste
    Of the beer what 'e's at present left be'ind 'im.

  _Wayo! 'Ere's luck! Drink to your sweet-'eart dear
    (Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we),
  Wait till the war is over, then for the pint o' beer,
    Pass your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_



     _A chapter in which we also tell of a modest Prince and a
     gallant Adventurer._

"THE FRIEND" contained notices of Kruger sovereigns and Transvaal
pennies for sale, of Boer rifles and saddles, but none of the postage
stamps of the former Free State or the newly surcharged ones in use by
the Army. Though Transvaal pennies fetched twenty-five shillings and
were in great demand, the real enthusiasm of collectors was for
postage stamps, and officers and others were busy as bees buying
stamps and having them erased to make them the more valuable.

South Africa is as bare and barren a place for collectors, and even
for the modest traveller who wishes for merely one trifling souvenir,
as can be imagined. The war provided some trophies in the way of
shells and Mauser rifles, but outside these there was nothing except,
perhaps, the empty ostrich eggs to be found in every Boer house--and
also to be found everywhere else in the civilised world.

The most coveted war trophies were: first, the Transvaal and Free
State flags; second, the extraordinary waistcoats worn by a few Boers,
and covered all over with cartridge slits or pockets made especially
to hold the Mauser "clips" of five cartridges each; third, old Dutch
Bibles illustrated by quaint woodcuts, and fourth, Boer rifles.
However, even the war trophies were few and hard to get, and the
singular energy of collectors expended itself in the gathering of new
and old postage stamps, at which generals, colonels, and Tommies
busied themselves, and a well-known London man of my acquaintance
cleared a profit of £300, still reserving for himself a handsome

The name of Prince Francis of Teck no longer appeared in THE FRIEND
beneath the demand he had been making for horses. I remember that the
circus-ground he had pre-empted for the safe-keeping of his stock was
now full of animals one day, half-empty the next day, and full again
on the third, as he bought and distributed his live stock. I want,
before I forget it, to tell how some of us editors entertained him
without having the vaguest idea who he was.

He was invited to dinner at the Free State Hotel by Mr. Landon, who
saw him seated and then introduced him to the rest of us, but in so
indistinct a manner that we did not catch his name. We simply saw in
our company a handsome and stalwart young officer of imposing stature,
and evidently profound good-nature. We all conversed upon the current
topics of the day and place, and one of us, I remember, had occasion
to differ with our guest, diametrically, upon some point--doing so as
bluntly, though not at all rudely, as men were apt to do in such a
place and at such a time--when the extra and more elaborate
formalities are apt to be laid aside for future use at the Mount
Nelson Hotel, and later in the routine of life at home.

After dinner our guest suggested that he should enjoy a chat and smoke
in our company elsewhere than in the noisy dining-room, so we invited
him to Mr. Kipling's bedroom, which was larger than Mr. Landon's or
Mr. Gwynne's or mine. We spent a very pleasant hour in freest
converse, one of us being prone upon one bed and rolling around on it
pipe in mouth, while our guest lolled upon a cot beside the chest of
drawers, and the others held down two chairs and looked after the
distribution of the cigarettes and the less dry refreshments at our

We were not able, by any means, to agree with some of the propositions
of our guest, but he accepted our views in a spirit of good-humour, or
of a desire to learn what we had seen and studied. He talked a great
deal about horses, and about the fertile ingenuity of the native horse
trader, as well as of his own ability to defeat him at his wiles--but
we took no hint from this. When he had gone we asked Mr. Landon, "Who
was that? We did not catch his name."

The largest advertisement in the paper was that of Murray Guthrie,
Esq., M.P., whose address just then was "the Railway Station." He was
most generously giving up his time to the receipt and distribution of
those parcels for the troops which were now beginning to come from
England in great and little packing-cases, and large and small bundles
numbering enough to be reckoned by the car-load.

[Illustration: _The Capitulation of Bloemfontein._

_From a painting by Lester Ralph._]

We had received the news of the killing of Colonel de
Villebois-Mareuil in an engagement with Lord Methuen's force, and
Mr. Gwynne wrote a spirited leader in honour of the Frenchman's

We heard some interesting details about the capture of Villebois,
which I think have never been published. His commando threatened
Boshof, and when our force began to attack the kopje where he was
lodged our second shell killed him. He was not the only nobleman in
his commando, for among the prisoners we captured one was a Russian
prince and another was the Comte Breda, a Frenchman, like his leader.
Another prisoner was a stalwart Englishman named Simpson, whose long
beard was braided to keep it out of the way when he was shooting.
Physically, he was the most splendid specimen of manhood our soldiers
had seen in the Boer ranks. Lord Methuen ordered a military burial,
and commanded Colonel Higgins of the Third Welsh Borderers to obtain a
fitting tombstone. The English general attended the funeral, which
took place in Boshof cemetery. "General" Villebois was buried in a
blanket, but this was covered by the Union Jack when the body was
solemnly borne to the grave between the lines of the men of the Loyal
North Lancashire Regiment. No chaplain officiated, but none of the
formalities of a complete military service were omitted. The Comte
Breda made a little speech at the close, thanking the British for
their courtesy and kindness. After that our own dead were buried in
the same little cemetery.

The affair provoked great and deep discussion, and so many British
officers were displeased by what Lord Methuen had seen fit to do that
THE FRIEND was at pains to try and clear the air of the false
impression that one brave general had not a right to honour another
in this soldierly way. We also pictured Villebois as he appeared to
us, a knight of ancient pattern, a restless, gallant warrior, who had
political reasons for wishing to keep himself in the mind of his
people while waiting for the ripening of his plans. The line on his
gravestone, "died on the field of Honour," was originally written "on
the field of battle," and was ordered to be changed at the last
moment. This phrase also angered many British, who, presumably,
thought that a grand monument had been set up over the unfortunate
Frenchman. In fact, the stone only cost ten pounds when dressed and
inscribed, and in a country where such things fetch twice their value

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 19.] BLOEMFONTEIN, SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1900. [Price One Penny.



     (_The following message has been received by F.M. Lord
     Roberts from Lord Methuen: "Arrangements have been made for
     the burial of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil this evening with
     military honours."_)

A short, well-built, admirably proportioned man, with quick,
expressive eyes, and an open, frank countenance was the late Colonel
de Villebois-Mareuil. He was a soldier, and a gallant soldier, from
the top of his close-cropped head to the soles of his daintily-shod
feet. Wherever there was war, or the possibilities of war, de
Villebois-Mareuil was on the spot ready to fight for whichever side,
in his eyes, appeared to have the greater claims on justice. Impulsive
to a degree, he was often drawn to conclusions for which he could
never give logical grounds. The picturesqueness of the Boer side of
the war, the presence of old Huguenot names among those of the Boer
leaders, the imagined wrongs of the two Republics, were quite
sufficient to attract the generous and emotional Frenchman into the
struggle. And once in the struggle, he gave the whole of his energy to
it. Not content with drawing the sword for the two Republics, he
wielded a charming pen on their behalf. Some of his letters to the
Paris _Liberté_ prove that if the world has lost a gallant soldier, it
has also lost a brilliant war correspondent.

To us English, imbued as we are with a full appreciation of everything
which appears manly or sporting, the figure of Colonel de
Villebois-Mareuil is particularly sympathetic. We overlook his
somewhat illogical defence of what appears to us the gross injustice
of the Transvaal's dealings with Englishmen, and we only see a gallant
Frenchman fighting and laying down his life for a cause which he
espoused with the warmth of a generous nature. There is something
touching in a sentence of his which appears in one of his letters from
South Africa. "When I came here I believed I was going to the
sacrifice." Gallant, generous, chivalrous soldier: May God rest his

Over his grave we forget that he fought against us, and we think only
of the gallant soldier. A British bullet laid him low, but a British
General lays him to rest with full military honours.

       *       *       *       *       *


BY J. H. M. A.

  Kopjes are steep, and the veldt is brown--
    (Utterly true, if you pause to think)
  Biscuits are done and your luck is down;
    "Modder" is not an inspiriting drink
  (Dead Boers' taint, and defunct mules stink).
    Better the sound of the screaming bomb,
  Excitement and hurry of Hell's own brink--
    Alas! for a tune on the gay Pom-pom.

  "Action front!"--And the guns are round,
    Teams go back with the chains a-clink.
  We're reaping the storm that the scouts have sown
    (The sun gets red and the clouds are pink).
  "Show for the lyddite, that's all"--you think
    (Frenchmen would shrug, with a _sacré nom_),
  When out in the dusk, in the half of a jink,
    Suddenly singeth the brisk Pom-pom.

  "Pom-pom-pom"--and the shells have flown;
    "Bang-bang-bang"--without rise or sink--
  Accurate sameness to half a tone--
    Whizzing one-pounders--don't stop to think--
  Open the ranks like a "spieler's" wink.
    This is a speedy and frolicsome bomb,
  Do not despise it, but do not shrink,
    This is a nerve-test, this swift Pom-pom.


  Oom, when you sit in the dark and think,
    After the war, and your nights are long,
  Bitterness sweeten of cups you drink
    With a memory sad of your sweet Pom-pom.

       *       *       *       *       *



It happened about the time of the Paardeberg affair, or, to be exact,
at 12.10 a.m. on the 22nd of February, 1900, our battery (the 82nd
R.F.A.) had throughout the day catered diligently and well for the
tastes of Cronje and his followers. They had breakfast betimes in the
shape of shrapnel (unboiled), liberally and impartially distributed to
all and sundry within the laager; luncheon, tea, and supper followed
in due succession, each consisting principally of the same palatable
diet, flavoured at intervals with the celebrated Lyddite sauce. This
same is noted for its piquancy and marvellous power of imparting
elasticity to the lower extremities (gouty and dropsical people please

We returned to camp that night pretty well tired out, and hungry
enough to eat "beef" (troop horse, isn't it?), and wondering what our
good Poulter, the battery _chef_, had prepared in the shape of
grub--we had fought all day on a couple of "Spratt's gum-hardeners."
As we neared the camp a most appetising odour smote our olfactory
nerves. "Beef stew," says our No. 1, who has a wonderful nose for
odours. "Garn," retorts Driver Jones, who loves a joke; "more likely
an old goat that's 'scorfed' the inside of one of 'Redfern's trenches'
(this is a battery joke); too strong for beef." Well, by this time we
had arrived, and some one who knew said it was veal, and that Mason,
our Mason, Mason the mighty hunter and what-not, had commandeered it.

Presently arrived the cooks and camp kettles, and we settled down to a
good "buster." When nothing was left but empty pots and vain
longings, we lit our pipes, and the aromatic fumes of our Boer's Head
_cabbagio_ were wafted heavenwards, our veracious raconteur related
how he had captured the calf. How our pulses throbbed and our blood
rose to fever heat as he told how he tore away his game from under the
very horns of its enraged mother; and how, with the calf on his back,
he had been chased five miles and over a big kopje strewn with
boulders as big as an A.S.C. waggon, and finally, seeing no other mode
of escape, had hurled the animal (the calf, not its maternal relative)
from the top of the kopje, and in sheer desperation had leaped down
after it, breaking his fall by alighting on its body.

Bidding us good-night, he left us to imagine what he would have broken
had he alighted off its body.

Feeling the spirit of contentment hovering o'er us, we prepared to
turn in. The guns had previously been unlimbered and were ready for
action, with their muzzles pointing to the enemy. Formed up in rear
were the six gun limbers and six ammunition waggons, each with its
team of six horses still hooked in in case of any emergency. In
addition were the horses of the single riders, tied by their headropes
to different parts of the carriages, making a total of somewhere about
a hundred horses.

Well, we had comfortably settled down and were enjoying our first
sleep when the sentries were startled by a most unearthly noise from
the vicinity of the camp. It sounded like a dyspeptic groan from a
more than ordinarily cavernous stomach. The horses pricked up their
ears and the sentries clutched their carbines tighter as they peered
into the darkness. Suddenly came the sound again--a mournful,
melancholy, hair-raising sound. Like a flash the whole battery of
horses, as though acting on a signal, stampeded into the night, taking
the waggons with them; over sleeping men they went, stopping for no
obstacles, overturning guns in their mad career, and heading straight
for the enemy's trenches. The outposts, thinking the Boers were trying
to break through the lines, opened fire at nothing. The Boers,
thinking they were attacked, did ditto. It was a perfect pandemonium
for a few minutes. The spiteful spit-puff of the Mauser and sharp
crack of the Lee-Metford, the whole blending with the cries of the
injured and the shouts of the men who were trying to stop the
runaways, made an impression that few who witnessed the scene will
ever forget.

We had several more or less severely injured, lost about thirty horses
and one waggon, besides several that were overturned and smashed.

All this damage was caused by the lowing of an old cow who had
wandered through the camp seeking her lost offspring.

MORAL.--Hanker ye after the fleshpots, commandeer ye not, but buy!
buy! buy!

NOTE.--Wanted to know--_vide_ the Press report of Paardeberg
action--Since when has the 82nd Battery, R.F.A., become a mule

       *       *       *       *       *



(_A Song of the Household Brigade._)


  It ain't a fatigue to see him,
    'E's a taller than usual man,
  As 'e struts down the road 'e's as smart as be blowed,
    And 'is swagger would stop Big Ben,
  'E's a fair take-in for the ladies,
    For of course it's a maxim trite
  When a cove's in the Guards, why it's just on the cards
    'E's a bit of the best All-Right.


      Whether 'e wears a 'elmet,
          Or 'airy 'at on 'is nut,
  When all's done and said, 'E is 'Ousehold Brigade,
          Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
          (_Shouted ad lib._): THAT'S RIGHT
          Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.


  O' course 'e's fond of 'is lady,
    'Is lady she doats on 'im,
  And it's princip'ly that what's the cause of 'er 'at,
    With its feathers and twisted brim.
  When 'e takes 'er out of a Sunday
    She says, "What a lovely sight!
  "Oh! there isn't a doubt, But I'm walking about
    "With a bit of the best All-Right."


        And when 'e looks in promisc'ous
            'Taint often the door is shut,
  For she's fond of a mash, with a curly moustache,
             Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
             (_As before_): That's Right
             Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.


  And then, when the war-clouds gather,
    On Service 'e goes away;
  And it's "Goodbye, Sal, God bless you, my gal!"
    And the woman is left to pray.
  Then whether it's toil and 'ardship,
    Or whether it's march and fight,
  'E's a joker, we know, As is certain to show
    'E's a bit of the best All-Right.


        Whether it's sword or bayonet,
            Whether it's lance or butt,
  'E's bound to go large When they're sounding the Charge,
            Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.
            (_As before--only more so_): That's Right!
            Whether 'e's 'Orse or Fut.

       *       *       *       *       *


The Cradock Dutch newspaper, the _Middellandsche Afrikaander_, says:
"Our English contemporaries are greatly mistaken in thinking that the
war has now virtually ended. The Republicans are now going to act on
the defensive, and now one can expect a deathly struggle. The war has
now lasted nearly six months, and, however much we desire it, there is
no prospect of peace as yet."



     _We try to Name the New Colony, and describe the Kornespruit

Our ten thousand readers had been invited to send in their suggestions
for a new name for the Free State, and then to express their opinions
upon the names thus suggested. The first person to have sent in the
name preferred by the greater number of readers was to receive five
guineas, and perhaps the honour of naming a new colony of the greater
Empire. The names suggested by the Army and the Bloemfontein readers
of THE FRIEND were as follows:--

     Alexandra, Adamantia, Albertia, Altruria, Atkinsdom,
     Aurania, Brand State, Brandesia, British South Africa,
     Britannia, British Colonia, Brandsland, Buckland, Burghers'
     State, Central Colony, Centuria, Campania, Carnatia,
     Cameraria, Chamberlainia, Cecilia, Crucipatria, Colonia,
     Cisvaal, Closer Union, Conquered Territories, Crown State,
     Centralia, Capricornia, Cilionia, Concordia, Diamond Colony,
     Diadem State, Empire State, Esicia, Empressland, Frere
     State, Fonteinland, Fonteinia, Freer State, Frereland,
     Federalia, Filia State, Federaldom, Grassland, Gariep
     Sovereignty, Guelfland, Helenia, Immigratia, Imperial Orange
     Colony, Imperia, Jubileeland, Kandaharia, Khaki State,
     Khakiland, Kopjesia, Lanceria, Leonida, Marchland,
     Mimosaland, Malaria, Milneria, Midland, Middle Colony,
     Mid-South Africa, Modrieta, New Ireland, New Alexandria, New
     Victoria, North Cape Colony, New Albion, New Era, New
     Canada, New Colony, New Rietana, Northern Province, New
     Gualia, New Victoria, New Edward's Land, New Egypt, Orange
     State, Orange, Orangia, Orangeland, Orange Colony, Orange
     Sovereignty, Provincia, Pasturia, Pastoria, Queen's Free
     State, Robertsland, Rietania, Robertesia, Robertsin,
     Robertina, Robertonia, Robertshire, Roberterre, Roberton,
     Robertsdale, Robertsia, Robiana, Robermain, Reconquered
     Land, Regina Land, Stellaland, Stellarland, Sylvania,
     Suzerainia, Steyn's Folly, Salisbury, Tableland, Trans
     Garep, Transgarepian Territory, Trans Orange, Uitland, Union
     Era, United British Empire, Union State, U.S. South Africa,
     Victory, Victorialand, Victoria Robertsia, Victoriafontein,
     Veldtland, Veldt.

The voting closed on April 7th, and on April 9th we announced that the
name Brandesia, honouring a late President of the State, an upright
man and a friend of Great Britain, had secured by far the greater
number of votes. Taking the whole vote, and separating from it the
votes for those names which were formed upon or out of the name of
Roberts, it was seen that the desire of the Army to honour its Chief
was stronger than the expression of the Free Staters in remembrance of
President Brand. But "Brandesia" secured the most votes, and Mr. P.
Johnson, whom we were not able to discover afterwards, won the five
guineas. Private W. Cooper, H Company, 5th Regiment of Mounted
Infantry, won the two-guinea prize for guessing nearest to the five
names that secured the greatest number of votes. Now that the
Government has named the country "The Orange River Colony" we see that
whoever sent in the name "Orange Colony" really deserved the most of
whatever credit goes with guessing blindly.

Coming upon Mr. James' clear and accurate account of the Corne Drift
(Kornespruit or Sanna's Post) ambuscade reminds me of how the heroic
survivors of that red-hot fight drifted back to town, drifted into the
hotel dining-rooms--actually drifted into my bedroom in the case of
Colonel Pilcher--and I missed the chance at the time of looking at
them with eyes that saw the hell they had been through; without the
understanding by which I could measure their pluck.

There had been a fight at the Waterworks, and we had been beaten, and
had suffered a shocking loss of men and guns--that was all that most
of us knew on the Sunday that followed the fighting on Saturday, March
31st. Afterwards I saw a score of the dare-devils who had squeezed out
between the fingers of Death's clenched hands, and I made the fight my
most serious study in the war--but I missed the chance of seeing it
for myself, and then I lost the glow of knowing what I looked at when
I saw the survivors come in.

Mr. Gwynne went out to the scene and caught a glimpse of the end of
it. As there are few living correspondents better equipped to judge
events in war, and as it is the pride of more than one general to
obtain his views and accounts of the actions he witnesses, I will
quote a bit of his editorial of April 5th, in which he touches upon
the Sanna's Post affair: "Perhaps never in the history of British
campaigns have our soldiers shown more splendid courage, more dogged
resistance and greater coolness. General Broadwood has covered himself
with glory by the masterly way in which he extricated his little force
from a veritable death-trap. And who is there who can pay adequate
tribute to the behaviour of our gunners, and the gallant band of
British soldiers who held off a greatly superior force under most
difficult and trying circumstances?"

It was while Mr. Gwynne was at the scene that a Boer suddenly appeared
and advanced toward him unarmed like himself; indeed, Mr. Gwynne
believes the man was a war correspondent. The two talked of the fight:
"Your people showed wonderful courage," said the Boer; "we thought we
had bagged your whole force. I am bound to say that had the Boers been
in such a tight place they would have surrendered."

       *       *       *       *       *


     "_The following is a literal translation of a genuine Boer
     document recently discovered. It has been forwarded to us
     for publication by an officer of the Intelligence
     Department, to whom we tender our best thanks._"



(_A Translation._)

In order to form an opinion on the manner of operations of both
hostile parties, at present or in the future, it is necessary, as far
as possible, to endeavour to obtain an understanding of the different
properties and conditions of both belligerents.

From a physical point of view, the Boer stands far above his enemy in
respect to bodily strength and perseverance.

He inherits from his Teuton ancestor a quiet and patient nature,
coupled with a strong frame, which makes him less liable to be
affected by troubles and loss of spirit under the continued strains
which are inseparable from the campaign, while the Huguenot blood
which flows through his veins continually gives him fresh power and
energy, which is much in his favour in a final attack; further he is
filled with an unlimited faith in his God and the assurance of the
righteousness of his cause, which fills him with superhuman strength
and lion-like courage.

Open-air life has given him a clearness of sight, and perseverance
which is probably without equal in the world's history, while his
monotonous life is the cause that he, though a lower member of the
force, can act independently. By lack of discipline and organisation,
his movements are sometimes clumsy, which, however, tends to his
benefit in an uneven field, and taken altogether are little to his
detriment, as he is not bound by special rules respecting formation or
otherwise. In contrast, the British troops are (notwithstanding there
may be many brave soldiers found among them) on account of their
organisation and equipment, &c., little adapted to keep up their heads
against the mental and bodily strain of a continued and wearisome war.

They are mostly obtained out of cities and towns, which leaves much to
be wished for in their clearness of sight, steadiness of arm, and
power of self-reliance, while the discipline, organisation, rules and
directions to which they must hold weaken them more, so that they are
merely tools, standing under their officers' commands, of a fighting
machine. The officers in many instances are young and without
experience, and mentally and bodily unfit to fulfil their serious and
responsible duties, chosen to be officers not for their ability, or
natural talent, but because they are sons of the noble, or of the
respected of the land.

It is, however, not intended here, by any means, to throw the blame on
the valour of the officers or men.

When the nature of both armies is considered, one comes to the
conclusion that the British troops all gain an advantage in an attack
on equal ground, if a strong force is used in it, while the Boers will
obtain one in case there are fewer attackers brought into the field.
The English will benefit by defending, especially if time be given
them to build defences, and also where towns and camps must be held.

Over hilly and uneven ground the Boer has by far the best chance to
attack, while in an eventual defence he has everything in his favour,
and is practically not to be got at.

The British authorities have apparently too much trust in the result
of their Artillery. It is plain that they cherish the idea that it
will have a demoralising effect on the Boers, and therein they have
fortunately been mistaken. They did not calculate that the effect
could not be so great on scattered troops, and that the result cannot
be equal to the expenditure and difficulties of transport. On the
other hand, the Artillery of the Boers necessarily has a powerful
result on troops which, like the British, are formed in close order,
notwithstanding, according to the ideas of the writer of this, enough
use is not made of "black gunpowder" with a view to find the distances
by trial shots with that powder, to be afterwards followed by
burstable shells with "time fuse" to produce great destruction.

As the ground is mostly soft, shells which burst on impact, so-called
percussion shells, cannot mostly be used with favourable results,
except under special circumstances. To bombard camps or towns
"cordite" or "melanite" should not be used, as both explosives contain
no inflammable properties, which are so necessary to set houses,
waggons, forage, &c., on fire.

The greatest care should be taken that the mounted Boers should not be
exposed in the open plain to the attacks of the enemy's cavalry,
unless they are protected by quick-firing Maxim-Vickers guns and
shells, seeing that the British Cavalry have a great advantage at
short distances in the use of lances, swords and pistols.

It is highly desirable that the Boer commandos should not be
accompanied by many commissariat waggons laden with provision, tents
and other things, as they tend to hinder them, and prevent their
executing quick movements.

In calculating the chances in this war, it has always been considered
that the Boers have their greatest advantage in being independent of
commissariat transport, and although provision must be made to be in
touch with certain points with the necessary provision for the
commissariat, these, notwithstanding, must be viewed as items
wherewith, considering the great interests at stake, too much care is
not needed to be taken.

On this ground the British troops are far ahead of the Boers, on
account of their proper organisation, and it is indeed to be regretted
that a like department has not been established, especially as the
Boers would be specially fitted for it, and have up to this time made
so little use of their talent in this direction. Herein a serious
instance is brought as an example, namely, the fact that the English
troops could retreat in order from Dundee, without its being directly
known. Also the disaster at Elandslaagte must be ascribed thereto,
where small isolated troops, consisting of a mixed commando, were
surrounded in positions not advantageous to their mode of warfare,
and, even had our troops at that place been in a defensible position,
they were "not in touch" with other troops, who could hasten to their

As to plans which are reckoned to be the best to obtain the victory
for the Republican arms, it is an axiom that the deeper one penetrates
into an enemy's country, the more one's power is weakened by the
necessity for keeping up communication, but there is an exception to
every rule, and this war at the present time makes the exception. The
Boer forces strengthened their resources, instead of weakening them,
by their invasion of Natal and of the Cape Colony. A great proportion
of the inhabitants of these Colonies are friendly, and they will thus
always keep communication open, even when they take no active part in
warlike operations. Taking this as granted, the conclusion is arrived
at that the whole design of the Republican commanders should be to
push their troops as far as possible, until they reach a war basis or
boundary line.

Our Governments employ too many troops for Bechuanaland and Rhodesia
without obtaining benefit therefrom. A picked commando of 1,000 men
would possibly be sufficient to keep control over Mashonaland, while
1,500 at Mafeking would suffice to cut off the Bulawayo division, and
in that case the troops which are now occupied about Mafeking and
Kimberley could be better employed and with likelihood of good
results, by being pushed South. If a sufficient number of men are left
behind to dispute an eventual sortie from Kimberley and Mafeking,
there is little benefit obtainable in the investment of towns which
probably can hold out six or eight months. As long as they are well
watched they cannot do much harm.

Much more could have been gained in Natal immediately after the
Imperial troops were surrounded at Ladysmith, by sending a strong
commando at once to the "Town Hill" at Pietermaritzburg, and if that
commando was not strong enough to offer resistance, on retirement it
could have broken up the railway, and thereby the siege of Ladysmith,
which is now being prosecuted, would have been a shorter and less
troublesome task.

It appears that the Boer forces have not directed their attention to
making a series of attacks in the night. For such a purpose their
troops are specially adapted, and the result on the enemy would
certainly be terrible, as the loss of sleep would weary them bodily as
well as mentally. A certain number of men could be picked to trouble
the enemy every night; for instance, 500 men at Ladysmith, 100 at
Mafeking, and 250 at Kimberley, without doing that injury to the
Republican troops which would tend to weaken the command of British
officers, and make the men grumble and dissatisfied, even if the
number in killed and wounded was not especially great. There should
also be, when British troops are marching, a division of picked
sharpshooters to be used in attacking them on the flanks, without much
damage to the Republican troops, while doing much damage to the enemy.
The killing of a mule or ox belonging to a waggon or gun necessitates
delay and inconvenience.

Under ordinary circumstances, this war will necessarily continue some
time, possibly even over a year, and seeing that there is such a
number of burghers commandeered, it would be well if the authorities
could arrange a plan to relieve them, say, for instance, ten in each
month per hundred. Some men of every commando will be desirous to
visit their relations in case of sickness, or to rest, or to attend to
private matters. When not relieved it may be that the men may become
listless and dissatisfied; while the force will not be appreciably
weakened by the absence of 10 per cent., such a rule would be pleasing
to the burghers, and in every sense satisfying to their officers.

       *       *       *       *       *



II. _Corne Drift._

The outline of the history of Colonel Broadwood's column appears to be
as follows: When Colonel Pilcher made his dash for Ladybrand, the
place was found teeming with the enemy. In fact, when the Landdrost
was carried away, fire was opened on the abducting _cortège_ from the
very garden gates of professed loyalists. The whole country-side was
so disturbed that it was time for the little column holding Thaba
'Nchu to fall back upon Bloemfontein. Information was despatched to
headquarters and reinforcements urgently asked for. When commenced,
the march from Thaba 'Nchu became virtually a pursuit. The enemy were
reported on the flanks and rear of the column all through Friday,
March 30.

On Friday night the column arrived at a camp this side of the Modder,
about two miles distant from the Waterworks. The actual rear-guard was
not into camp until after 2 a.m. on Saturday. So anxious was Colonel
Broadwood for the safety of his column that he determined upon a start
before daylight. At 6 a.m. the enemy opened on the camp with rifle
fire. The order was immediately given for the force to stand to their
horses, and in a quarter of an hour the head of the transport column
was leading out of camp. At 7 a.m. "U" and "Q" batteries R.H.A. moved
off in battery column, following the transport. Roberts' Horse, in
fours, moved parallel to them on their left.

About three miles from the camp the road crosses a drift known locally
as Corne Drift. The approach to this drift is peculiar. The actual
crossing practically lies in the apex of a triangle, the two sides of
which are formed by a railway embankment under construction and a
bush-grown donga. Opposite the drift is a farm-house and some rising
ground commanding, not only the drift itself, but all the approaches.
This drift the enemy had occupied before daylight, and here they lay
in ambush for the advancing column.

Their dispositions were most perfect, as the head of the column
marched right into their arms, and they were able to take possession
of the transport without a warning shot being fired. When "U" Battery,
which was leading, arrived at the drift it found that it was
surrounded by dismounted enemy. The spokesman called upon the gunners
to surrender. They told the drivers that they might dismount and keep
their coats. The surprise was absolute. Major Taylor commanding the
battery managed to warn "Q" Battery. Then the ruse was "up"--as soon
as the enemy saw this they opened fire from all their points of
vantage. From the rising ground, from the cover of the donga and from
between the wheels of the captured guns and waggons. As soon as the
firing opened, the teams of the captured battery stampeded and added
to the general chaos of the moment.

Under a blaze of fire, four guns of "Q" Battery and one of "U" trotted
clear, and came into action about a thousand yards away at the tin
buildings which are destined to be the Corne Drift Railway Station. A
few seconds later Roberts' Horse rallied upon them. But here the
nucleus of the front was formed which saved the whole force from

The carnage was ghastly for a few minutes, but as the gunners stood
devotedly to their pieces and Roberts' dismounted troopers commenced
to keep down the fire, Broadwood was able to form dispositions by
which to extricate the force. This was done--the British cavalry were
sent to clear the flank of the donga and, covering each other, the
mounted infantry corps were able to withdraw after the remnants of the
batteries had fallen back.

The action of the gunners was magnificent. In the face of a bitter
short-range fire they stood to their pieces until, of the five gun
groups, there were only ten men and one officer left unscathed to
serve the guns. Then with dilapidated teams and manual haulage they
dragged the battery out of action, only to come into action again when
Broadwood strained every nerve to regain the baggage and the guns. And
even while this action was taking place the relieving division was
only four miles distant. It was a sad yet brilliant affair. Sad that
the column ever fell into the ambush--brilliant in the manner in which
the force was extricated.

       *       *       *       *       *


_A Recipe._


  The man what writes a poem
    In praise of our Tommy A.'s
  Ain't got no call to study
    Their manners, nor talk, nor ways,
  'E's only to fake up something
    What's Barracky--more or less--
  And civilians don't know as it's rubbish and so
    The Ballad's a big success.

  Don't 'ave no truck with the drill-book--
    You might get a bit at fault,
  It's best to confine your attentions
    To simple commands, like "'Alt";
  For a 'aporth of 'Industanie
    And a pennorth of Sergeants' mess
  (Though the meanin's all wrong) is enough for a song
    To make it a big success.

  If you wants to say anything coarse-like,
    Well, say it out plain, don't 'int,
  And fill each line with expletives
    As don't look pretty in print--
  If you sneers at the "Widow of Windsor,"
    And laughs at 'er soldiers' dress,
  And connects the word "'Ell" with an orficer, well,
    Your ballad's a big success.

      _Take the slang of the camp
      (What's easy to vamp)
    And some delicate soldier wheeze,
      Call the Guard-room the "Clink,"
      And describe any drink
    As a "Fall in" or "Stand at ease";
      Then you mix the 'ole lot
      And you serve it up 'ot;
    From ingredients sich as these
      Form that singular salad
      A Barrack-room Ballad
    In Rudyardkiplingese._

       *       *       *       *       *


BY W. T. R.

Being among a group of Australians the other day, I noticed them
watching the Guards drill, and, as they seemed to be interested, I
thought it a good opportunity of getting their ideas of Thomas Atkins.
With the object in view, I engaged one of them in conversation. I
ventured a remark on the drill.

"Oh, yes, they drill all right," said the Australian, "but you see
they get a bit too much of it, I think; I mean as regards the
goose-step business. You know, we Australians," he went on, "never
have too much of that. It may give a man more steadiness in marching
on parade, but we don't have many show parades during the year,
Queen's Birthday being the most important."

"How often do you drill there?" I asked.

"Well, you see--of course I'm speaking of New South Wales. There we
have about twenty-five half day drills during the year. These take
place on a Saturday afternoon. Out of these they take sixteen and give
us an encampment at Easter. It is at this encampment that we receive
the most good as regards learning our work. I was almost forgetting
the annual Musketry Course, when we get through our firing. Of course,
we have plenty of firing practice on our other parades as well."

"How did you chaps come to be sent to Africa?" I asked.

"Oh! we all volunteered," he replied, "and a great job they had of it
in selecting the men to come. So many wanted to come and so many were
disappointed, and I can tell you that if they would only send them,
there's thousands who would come. Why, to give you an idea of it, do
you know there are men in the ranks who are worth thousands, and some
of the highest families are represented in the war in the ranks?"

"How do you get on with the soldiers from home?"

"Oh, we get on first-class; but what we would like is more opportunity
of mixing with them and becoming better acquainted. You see, there's
so much work to be done that we don't get a chance to mix together.
Down at the Modder where we did get a bit chummy, Tommy would have
done anything for us. He would have given us the shirt off his back if
we'd wanted it, and we can't help liking him, as the song used to say,
because you can't beat him down. No matter in what circumstances you
find him he's always in a good humour and ready for what's coming
next. You can see him in rags that used to be in khaki, and you can
see him just after he has received his kit-bag and he's always the
same. He seems to have plenty of money and spends it just as readily
as if he had the Bank of England behind him. But I think if you want
to see him in one of his happiest moments, you want to look at him
when he is carrying a bag of bread and other treasures out of

"Then you Australians rather like Tommy?" I said.

"Like him? Of course we do. We've fought alongside of him, and what we
want is more of him--that's all. You know, we want to show the world
that we are all one, no matter what part of the world we Britons come
from, and we're going to do it, too."

I was very pleased with my new-found friend and his outspoken way, and
glad to have got rid of an idea that the Colonials didn't take well to



     _Full of matter which is no longer a tenth as interesting as
     it was there and then._

Number 21 of THE FRIEND, dated April 10th, was a splendid number for
Bloemfontein, and for the time, yet there is nothing to reproduce
except an Australian's trooper's poetic salute to the eucalyptus, or
gum-trees, that he recognised as fellow inhabitants of his distant
land, whence they have been sent to cheer the waste places of
California, the American Plains, and all South Africa.

Three solid columns of the paper were justly given up to Mr. Kipling's
exposure in the London _Times_ of the treacherous element of the Cape
population, and its relations with those neighbours who are honest and
loyal subjects of the Queen and with the army. Two columns of
"Reuter's" despatches from abroad, one column of similar telegrams
from South African points, and a notable leader by Mr. Perceval Landon
on Mr. Kipling's article, made up the contents of the reading page.

Mr. Guthrie, M.P., now required two columns of the paper in which to
announce the cases and parcels he had in hand for the soldiers. The
railway had just delivered to him five truck-loads of those most
welcome necessaries and luxuries sent out from home.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 21.]  BLOEMFONTEIN, TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1900. [Price One Penny.


     The Field-Marshal Commanding in Chief having decided that
     twenty Railway Trucks are to be placed at the disposal of
     the tradesmen of Bloemfontein for the conveyance of food
     necessaries, it is requested that those wishing to take
     advantage thereof will communicate with the Director of
     Supplies at his office at the corner of Green Street and
     Douglas Street, between the hours of 2 and 3 p.m. on
     Wednesday and Thursday next, 11th and 12th inst.

     As the amount of truck accommodation will be divided by the
     Director of Supplies among the various applicants, a
     statement of the Supplies required as a first consignment
     must be submitted. When the statements have been received an
     allotment will be made among the applicants.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Gum trees! Here in the Dutchman's land?
    (You'll lie of a kangaroo)
  Seen them?--Yes--Well, I'll understand
    The truth when I see them too.
  Lord!--There they are, by the old brick wall,
    Shiny and green and high,
  Best of the sights we've seen at all
    Is this, to a Cornstalk's eye.

  Back, by the creeks in the far-off plains;
    Over the ranges blue;
  Out in the West where it never rains;
    We whispered "good-bye" to you.
  We left you alone on the high clay banks,
    On a fringe round the dry lagoon,
  Where your white trunks gleam by its empty bed
    In the pale, soft summer noon.

  It's carry me back to the Castlereagh,
    Or pack me along to Bourke;
  On the Wallaby-track to the west of Hay--
    Wherever there's sheds or work.
  It's cattle on camp or colts to brand;
    It's brumbies about the Peel--
  It's all we've here of our own good land,
    And this is the way we feel.

  Oh, hurry the show, and give us a lead,
    And march us beyond the Vaal,
  For the lambing's near, and the ewes will breed
    And it's close up time to "tail,"
  And we've shearing them, and the wool to load,
    And the ships are at Circ'lar Quay--
  So loot it along the red Veldt road,
    A sight for Oom Paul to see.

  And when we are back on the Murray lands,
    Or up in Mouaro hills,
  You may collar the Fonteins, and Drifts, and Rands,
    And the Boers will pay the bills.
  But we'll be back where the gum-tops wane,
    Or the Myall hangs and droops;
  With a good veranda round the house,
    And none of your dirty stoops.

  So hurry it up, for we've work to do
    In a far better land than here.
  We will swap the veldt and the parched Karoo,
    For the plain and ranges clear.
  But we'll never forget, in the days to come,
    The friends that we've left behind--
  For the Dutchman who planted yon tall, white Gum
    Was a little bit more than kind.

                                    J. H. M. A.

       *       *       *       *       *


_To the Editors of_ THE FRIEND,--SIRS,--In your Saturday's issue an
appreciation of the R.A.M.C. appears, in which the _Morning Post_
correspondent speaks of their services as stretcher-bearers at
Magersfontein with the Highland Brigade, whereas the R.A.M.C. has
furnished no stretcher-bearers to the Highland Brigade, the whole of
this dangerous work having been done by the Regimental bearers, and
"A" Company Volunteer Ambulance (King William's Town), and as this
company--consisting principally of mere striplings--has "faced the
music" right through, and kept shoulder to shoulder with the veterans
of the Highland Brigade, they surely should be credited with the work
they have so gallantly performed.

  Yours very truly,



     _Where only the Women were frank--The art of the War

Miss Bloemfontein was not alone in disliking to recognise the presence
of the British army. Her mother was not the only person who could not
bear to see Englishmen marring the scenery of the pest-ridden little
town. Even while the tricky among the people joined in singing
"Soldiers of the Queen," one man in the crowd turned to a war
correspondent and said, "You English are strutting about very proudly
and confidently, and think you own the country, but when you go away
from here you will be sniped at from every bush and spruit wherever
you show yourself."

I took a little walk up past the English Cathedral one day and saw a
woman seated upon her front _stoep_, sewing. "Good morning," said I,
"do you speak English?" She rose and glared at me with scorn in her
eyes. "No," said she, "but I hate the English."

A little girl ran out of a doorway a few houses farther along and
called to me, "Mister, mister! Please wear the red, white and blue,"
and she pinned a knot of the British and American colours on my coat

"What sort of a lady is it who lives in that house?" I asked; "she
says she hates the English."

"Oh, she is Dutch," the little girl replied; "almost everybody here
hates you."

I turned a corner and went down a side-street. Two young women in a
doorway beamed upon me. I was out to study the town and the people, so
I halted and engaged them in conversation. One was married, and her
husband, who was of English stock, had cleverly managed to be away
when the war broke out, after which he found it impossible to return
and join a Boer commando as he would have had to do, being only a poor
working man.

"We are on the police books as English sympathisers," said one of the
women. "We have had to be very careful, as we were warned that if we
gave further offence we would be punished. What happened was this: You
see the town is full of Germans, who have been most bitter against the
English. We went to the railway station when some English prisoners
were being sent to Pretoria. As the train moved off we waved our hands
to them and wished them better luck. A German saw us do it, and
reported us to the authorities, so we were taken up and examined, and
had our names put in the 'black-book.'"

A score of the honest people of the town who had been avowedly true to
their English blood, which was by no means the case with all the
British Uitlanders, told me that they suffered petty persecution all
the time until the town was captured. Note what "Miss Uitlander" said
in her reply to "Miss Bloemfontein" in THE FRIEND of March 26th:--

     The "loving hand" you boast of having extended to us has
     long since been covered by an iron glove, the weight of
     which we have daily been made to feel, and to _that_ you
     must associate the joyful flaunting of our colours in your
     face. His coming meant freedom--the sweetest thing in the
     world--to us.

     You called our brothers and sisters cowards as they fled
     your oppression and bitter and openly expressed hatred. You
     threw white feathers into our carriages as they passed you
     by. You loudly bemoaned your fate as a woman and longed to
     don masculine garments to aid your beaux in exterminating
     the hated English. Could we remember a "loving hand" then?

     You were quick to tell us that there would be no room for us
     to live beside you so soon as Mr. Englishman was driven back
     to the sea. The hated English had never been wanted, and
     would not be allowed to stay. And since you continue to make
     no secret of your hatred, the same remedy is now in your
     hands. But it will be difficult to find a spot where Mr.
     Englishman is not _en evidence_.

Such was Bloemfontein to those who saw into its heart and knew its
temper. Some of us conquerors saw a little way behind the garlanded
curtain the false-hearted pretenders of friendship drew down before
our faces, but for what now seems a long time the Army fed itself upon
the honeyed lying of those people who had not the courage or honesty
to play the part of open enemies to the last. As for Tommy Atkins, he
seemed oblivious of everything but that which he enjoyed--which was
simply to walk about the town spending his money, and taking insults
and bouquets equally as a matter of course, just as they happened to

Let the reader note two things of the first interest, and of great
human and historic value. The persons who did not come out and pretend
to be our friends were the women. The part of the population that did
not join in singing "Soldiers of the Queen" was the feminine part. The
only person who openly and plainly espoused the cause of the Boers was
Miss Bloemfontein--a woman. The only person who answered her and
proudly asserted her loyalty to Great Britain was Miss Uitlander--a

Everywhere in every war it is Lovely Woman who fans the flames, who
urges on the fighting, who charges the men to win or die, but never to
give up; who nurses the hatreds of the strife to her breast and keeps
them hot. Everywhere it is the civilised and the savage woman who does
this, and only the half-civilised have made a contrary record, for I
am told that in one strife there was an exception. That was "the
Mutiny" in India, where the ayahs and other Indian female servants
stuck to their posts in the British households, and played no part in
the awful affair.

But in the great Civil War in America it was the women who kept the
strife in progress fully a year and a half, if not two years, after
their husbands and brothers realised it was useless, and that the
North must win. "Go, and do not come back while there is a Yankee
alive!" they said to sweethearts, sons, and brothers. So has it ever
been in times of war. The women, roused from their quiet lives and
excited by the animosities which develop war and the horrors which go
with it, remain undisturbed by the considerations which cause men,
with their wider interests and experiences, to waver in their faith.
And among the savage peoples of the earth it is, as a rule, the women
who garnish war with its most fearful accessories. The bucks and
braves do the fighting, the women follow after them to torture the
wounded and mutilate the dead.

Think you that this is a terrible indictment of a sex? Do you see in
this nothing but the anger and the cruelty that lie on the surface?
Then you are to be pitied, for the moral of these reflections is that
in womanhood are treasured the faith which inspires mankind, the
convictions that nerve our arms in a world which progresses only
through strife, the enthusiasm which not even the hell of war can

The leader of April 14th was my own, entitled "Mr. Lecky on the War."
Again we had a complete newspaper full of the too-often delayed or
strangled Reuter despatches, which told us of other wars, in Ashantee
and the Philippines, of the Queen's visit to Ireland, of the Prince's
narrow escape from an assassin, and of all that was going forward in
our own little contention with the Boers.

This number was singular in containing no original verse. It did,
however, contain something more full of sentiment, and, if possible,
more unexpected and foreign to war; to wit: a notice of a wedding:--

       *       *       *       *       *


     By special license, on the 11th inst., by the Rev. Franklin,
     at her father's house, Alexandra Cornelia, youngest daughter
     of W. H. v. B. Van Andel, Orphan Master, to Arthur M. Stone,
     eldest son of the late T. C. Stone, Esq., from Folkestone,
     England. No cards.

Orange-blossoms might, possibly, be looked for in the Orange State,
but blended with the bandages and laurels of war they seem peculiar.
One cynic asked us, when he read the wedding notice, "Is this
prophetic of concord, or is it merely strife breaking out in a new
place?" He was a soulless man. I am sorry I have quoted or noticed one
so deficient in feeling, poetry, humanity, and sentiment.

In furtherance of the knowledge that the Army was tired of being
fooled, and growing weary of the upstart behaviour of the too often
treacherous negro natives, we published a notice by Assistant
Provost-Marshal Burnett-Hitchcock: "No pass is sufficient for a native
to pass through the outpost lines unless countersigned by a Staff
Officer, and it should state where and whence the native is going."
Other rigid restrictions upon the freedom of the negroes are enforced
by this order.

The same energetic officer also forbade the selling of any article
within the town by hawkers and camp sutlers, under a penalty of fine
on conviction. This was in order to protect the local tradesmen from
army competition--including those who barricaded their shops when the
Boer combatants fled from the town, lest we should loot their stores
of goods, who then calmly told us they put up the barricades because
"the Boers were such thieving scoundrels," and who, now that they knew
our temper only too well, regaled us with accounts of how, while they
were in commando, they had fought us at Belmont, Graspan, Modder, and
a dozen other places.

We published on this day an article by Mr. H. Owen Scott on "The War
Artist of To-day," in which he, a photographer, seriously extolled the
work of the camera as compared with that of the genius and training of
the true artist. We hoped the real artists thus relegated to a
subordinate and vanishing place would enliven our columns by their

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

  No. 22] BLOEMFONTEIN, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11, 1900. [Price One Penny.


The Bands of the 12th Brigade will play in the Market Square this
evening between the hours of 4 and 6.

       *       *       *       *       *


The present circulation of THE FRIEND is 4,750 copies daily.

       *       *       *       *       *


In our modest way as Editors of quite the most extraordinary newspaper
on earth, we endeavoured to publish yesterday, with due credit to the
_Times_, for which it was written, Mr. Rudyard Kipling's masterly
article "The Sin of Witchcraft." We may as well acknowledge here and
now that though THE FRIEND is declared to be edited by a committee of
war correspondents, it is, in fact, the daily product of a struggle
between the correspondents and their printers, the latter being the
more numerous, and, we sometimes fear, the more in earnest in their
determination to keep the paper unique. This results in a paper which
is often as great a novelty to the Editors as to the public, being
like Shakespeare's soldier in "The Seven Stages of Man," "full of
strange oaths," and words of which we never heard, as well as ideas to
which we never gave birth.

With this by way of preface, will the _Times_ accept our apology for
not crediting it with Mr. Kipling's article, will it believe us that
we really did write in the "credit" after the article, and will it
commission its correspondent with this Army to go to our printing
works and reason with our printers from "the devil" upwards?

       *       *       *       *       *



     The present campaign has undoubtedly commenced a new era in
     the history of illustrated journalism, which change has been
     brought about by a new school of war artists, whose method
     is camera work, and whose aim is to faithfully produce the
     actualities demanded by a picture-loving, yet critical

     The artistic value of this means of illustrating is becoming
     more and more realised every day, and will prove an
     effectual factor in crowding out the old-fashioned war
     artist who draws on his imagination.

     The only excuse for artists of any description being at the
     front is their capacity for reproducing true and vivid
     impressions of what they have seen.

     This is where the importance of the new school is at once
     apparent, and as long as the men practising this art are
     honest and do not attempt to foist "faked" work on the
     public, their efforts are bound to be acceptable and of
     artistic value.

     In speaking of camera work as an art and the individuals
     adopting it as artists, I do not include the persons who
     simply press a button and expose yards of film, regardless
     of subject, but the few who make pictures intelligently and
     pay as much attention to composition and lighting as a
     painter would when commencing a fresh canvas. The camera is
     not going to destroy the painter--and I say painter
     advisedly--as no black and white artist is any good unless
     he is a painter, and has a keen appreciation of colour
     value. Nature is teeming with colour, and unless this is
     felt how can it be suggested in line?

     Why does Rembrandt stand out as the greatest master of
     etchings? Simply because his etched works suggest colour,
     and it is this power of suggesting colour that placed
     Charles Keene head and shoulders above all other black and
     white men. The power of selection of subject is not
     developed in all artists to an equal extent, but there is
     always room for such men as Melton Prior, W. B. Wollen,
     Lester Ralph, and a few others, whose work will always be
     looked for as representing actuality.

     If the two schools of artists mentioned work with the full
     knowledge of the limitations of their mediums, there will
     always be a place for both.

     The mechanical draughtsman is dead. He has been killed by
     the camera.

     How would it be possible in Fleet Street or De Aar, quietly
     sitting in a little room with a north light, to give a true
     impression of Cronje's surrender, or of that wonderful
     sight, the approach of the captured army, like a cloud of
     locusts, over the expanse of veldt at Klip Drift?

     If ever the surrender at Paardeberg is painted, it must be
     done by a man who saw it.

     I shall never forget the defeated General's arrival, or the
     solemnity of it: this giant, broken sulky, his career
     finished. Everything was shown in the man, and shown in a
     way no imagination could possibly conceive.

     I was privileged to view a sketch of Cronje leaving our
     camp, the work of Mortimer Menpes. It was a vivid slight
     impression. True, yet the economy of means--a few lines
     wonderfully placed--was wonderful, showing the artist a
     great master of technique. Now, talented as he undoubtedly
     is, he could not have imparted such a feeling of actuality
     to his work if he had not been present and studied his
     subject with the greatest attention. The long-haired,
     velvet-coated gentleman of Bond Street is not the man to
     depict the incidents of war, or to put up with the hardships
     of a great march, and I am perfectly sure that the success
     of a war artist depends on physique. He is required to
     tackle his subject quickly and vigorously. Trickery does not
     help actuality, straightforward manly work being absolutely
     necessary to the war artist of to-day.

     (We are sure that if the men in this Army who are engaged as
     artists or who feel strongly and lovingly the relation of
     true art to war, to photography and to the refinement of
     mankind--if these will take the trouble to answer this
     letter, we shall have a rich correspondence.--EDITORS,



     _We arrange to retire from our posts, but still possess the
     enterprise to start a Portrait Gallery._

"THE FRIEND," No. 23--actually the 25th number we had
edited--contained a notice that Mr. Kipling had sailed for England on
the previous day (April 11th), and we were doing our utmost to get rid
of our offspring, to find some one to adopt it.

As long ago before this as when Sir Alfred Milner was with us in
Bloemfontein, we had made known to him and to Lord Roberts, through
Lord Stanley, that the employers of certain ones among us were
complaining of our expending part of their time and our energy upon
this outside work. I am certain that no interest with which any of us
were connected suffered the least slight or injury, for the result of
our labour of love for Lord Roberts was simply that we worked twice as
hard--and learned twice as much of what was going on as those
correspondents who held aloof and let the whole burden fall upon us.
My employer, Mr. Harmsworth, uttered no sound of criticism or
complaint, by the way, and the only word about THE FRIEND that
reached me from the _Daily Mail_ was a cablegram wishing us success.

We were all tiring fast. I was lame with an injury which kept laying
me up, and otherwise my condition was such that for weeks I had not
been able to partake of any food except milk and soda water. I owe a
great deal for moral and physical stimulus to Dr. Kellner, ex-mayor of
Bloemfontein and head of the Free State Hospital, whose services to
the British army should not be allowed to pass into history without
his receiving some substantial honour and acknowledgment from this
government. He told the noble matron, Miss Maud Young, and her nursing
assistants (when they gave notice that they wished to leave at the
outbreak of the war) that he "never heard before that politics had
anything to do with the care of sick and wounded men," and up to that
standard of duty he worked on with them as enthusiastically under the
Union Jack as he had under the four-colour flag.

I did not know how ill and dispirited I was until one evening I went
to the room of my assistant, Mr. Nissen, of the DAILY MAIL, and heard
through his closed window in the Bloemfontein Hotel the sound of a
banjo. It is a purely American instrument, and the plunk-plunk of its
strings made my heart leap. I threw open the window and heard in nasal
tones, affected by a Yankee colleague for the purpose of his song, a
sentiment like this:--

  Oh, I want ter go back to Noo York,
    Ther "tenderloin's" ther place,
  Where the men are square and the women are fair
    And I know evurry face.

  I want ter go back to Noo York
    Ter hear Gawd's people talk.
  Yer may say what yer please
    Only just give ter me
  My little old Noo York.

I felt like shouting, "fellow citizens, them's my sentiments."
Suddenly I, too, wanted "ter go back ter Noo York"--with London as an
alternative. I had not known it or felt it before, but that song, as
new to me as any that will be written five years hence, touched the
button that produced a nostalgia which Heaven knows I had good reason
to feel without any such additional or peculiar incentive.

Mr. Landon was also very ill of what I took to be a slow African
fever. We laid the facts before the authorities, and suggested that
our colleague, Mr. F. W. Buxton, now back at work with us, was able to
promise that the accomplished staff of the _Johannesburg Star_ would
gladly take THE FRIEND off our hands if its members could be passed up
to Bloemfontein on their way to Johannesburg. They were all receiving
salaries though nearly all were idle; the owners had suffered
grievously by the closing of their establishment at the outbreak of
the war, and they certainly deserved well of the British Army.

With this view our military editorial chiefs coincided, and Mr. Buxton
busied himself in arranging for the coming of the editors, reporters,
and printers, and the transfer of the little Organ of the Empire to
their charge.

This number of April 12th began with a leader on "The Queen in
Ireland," and this was followed by a play upon the society notes of
other papers, written by Mr. Gwynne. Our prolific soldier-poet, "Mark
Thyme," contributed two sets of verses, and once again we published
the news of the world, like any genuine newspaper at home.

On this day we printed our first "alleged" portrait, No. 1 of a series
of pictures of the notable characters in town. We selected Mr.
Burdett-Coutts as the leading figure in this gallery, and made a most
modest announcement that we had secured the portrait and were able to
present it to our readers.

I am quite certain that never before in the Free State had a newspaper
published a portrait made on the spot and of a newly arrived visitor.
There were in the Free State no means for doing such work. But such is
the non-thinking habit of the human race that not a soul questioned
what we announced, or asked how the feat was accomplished. It was
declared to be, in a way, like Mr. Burdett-Coutts, and every one took
it for granted that there was nothing THE FRIEND and its editors could
not do if they tried.

       *       *       *       *       *


By kind permission of Lieutenant-General Kelly-Kenny, C.B., the massed
bands of the 6th Division will play on the Market Square from 4 to
5.30 p.m. on Easter Monday.

       *       *       *       *       *



A most successful dinner was given by ---- Battery on Saturday night.
The A.S.C. awning was most artistically arranged between two buck
waggons and was decorated with much taste, the junior subaltern having
attached to it the fashion-plates and pictorial advertisements from
_The Queen_. The "Maggi" soup was pronounced a success, and it was
evident that the battery _chef_ had put his heart into the work. A
somewhat unpleasant incident occurred soon after dinner, which put
rather a damper on the evening's hilarity and dispersed the party. An
order had come for one of the ammunition waggons to go into
Bloemfontein to fetch ammunition, and the sergeant, wholly without
malice prepense, hitched his horses to one of the sides of the
dining-room and removed it suddenly. We are glad to say that the
collapse consequent upon this manoeuvre, although very disagreeable,
produced no injury, and the company was able to leave sound in limb
but swearing strange oaths.

---- Horse, always to the fore, whether bullets are about or the
scarcely less dangerous glances of female eyes, entertained at tea
yesterday a great number of guests of both sexes. It is a pity,
however, that their camp is so far out of town, for most of their
gentlemen guests were obliged to walk home, having "lost" their

The Naval Brigade gave a _soirée musicale_ on Monday night, which was
perhaps the most brilliant affair of the season. The proverbial
hilarity of sailors induced in their guests a corresponding feeling,
and songs, toasts, speeches made the time pass merrily enough. A new
game, the details of which we hope to give in a further issue, was
played with great success. It is called "Hunt the Tompion." At the
beginning of the evening Captain Bearcroft, R.N., gave a most
instructive and bright lecture on the "New Tactics--Horse Marines."

       *       *       *       *       *

A "small and early" was given yesterday by the Royal Diddlesex
Regiment. Dancing went on briskly until a transport mule came and died
in the extemporised ball-room, causing two ladies to faint.

       *       *       *       *       *

A _conversazione_ was given by the A.S.C. in their camp within the
immediate confines of the town. The novel subject, "When will the War
end?" was chosen for discussion. The arguments, which were often of a
highly intellectual grade, were punctuated by sniping from trees and
bushes on the kopje side. Two of the attendants who were distributing
the choice and light viands to the guests were shot. True, their
wounds were slight, yet the incident interrupted the even tenor of the

       *       *       *       *       *



  Now, I always was a 'ardly-treated bloke,
    I'm a martyr to my cause, as you may say--
  I used to own a barrer and a moke,
    And I'd sometimes earn a thick-un in the day.
  But them Socialists they comes along our court,
    And they says as 'ow all things should common be,
  So, to 'elp the cause on quicker, I goes off and lifts a ticker,
    'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me.

  Well, for that I 'ad to do a bit o' time,
    Though I argued it afore the majerstrit
  As I'd done it out o' politics, not crime;
    But the cuckoo couldn't understand a bit.
  So I says when I 'ad left the bloomin' jug,
    "I must strike a bigger blow to set us free;
  I must play a nobler game." So I forges Rothschild's name,
    'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me.

  Now, living in a 'ouse acrost the street,
    There used to be a very tasty gal;
  She'd curly 'air and dainty 'ands and feet,
    And was married to my very dearest pal.
  'E says to me, says 'e, "When you're our way
    Step in, old cull, and 'ave a dish o' tea."
  Thinks I, "My dooty this is." So I offs it with 'is missis,
    'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to 'er than me.

  But I won't be beat by any bloomin' lor,
    To 'ave my rights, I tell yer straight, I'm game;
  And, once I gets outside this prison door,
    I'll strike another blow in Freedom's name--
  The lor and all its engines I defy,
    From the Stepper to the gloomy gallows-tree;
  I'll go and get a knife, and I'll take some joker's life,
    'Cause the bloke 'as no more right to it than me."

  _For my motto is: All should be common to all,
    This covey is equal to that;
  And if I'm short you've no right to be tall,
    If I'm thin you've no right to be fat.
  To call me a criminal's fair tommy-rot,
    It's on principle all what I've done:
  Yet, perish me, all the reward as I've got
    Is my number_--201.

       *       *       *       *       *



(_Being a few hints to any of the fair citizens of this town who may
contemplate spending a season or two in London._)

  Ye Belles of Bloemfontein, pray hearken unto me,
  And I'll show you how to sparkle in polite Society.
  Never fear that you'll be visited with contumely or scorn
  If you happen not to be aristocratically born,
  For mere birth is not essential to means, if only you
  Have the luck to be related to a brewer or a few;
  And if only you have money, you need never be afraid
  To swagger of the swindles of your former days of trade.
    And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
    Each to each will the opinion impart:
          "She is vulgar, I admit,
          I don't like her, not a bit,
  But then you know, my dear, she's smart."

  Your dress must be--well--daring! You must have a tiny waist
  And the colours must be splashed about in execrable taste.
  Your bodice may be decent while you've still the gift of youth,
  But must lower in proportion as you're longer in the tooth.
  The colour of your hair and your complexion must appear
  To vary with the fashionable fancies of the year,
  And though your wit lack lustre, the tiara must be bright
  That you've hired out from a jeweller's at ten-and-six a night.
    And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
    Each to each will the opinion impart:
          "Looks quite odd, I must admit,
          I don't like her, not a bit,
    But then you know, my dear, she's smart."

  Then, as to conversation, let each syllable you speak
  Be vehemently vapid or else pruriently weak;
  Tell some tales distinctly risky, if not actually obscene,
  While artfully pretending that you don't know what they mean.
  In the intervals of slander you must prate in flippant tone
  On some Theologic subject that you'd better leave alone;
  And, though your speech be witless, nay, to some may seem absurd,
  It matters not if reputations die at every word.
    And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
    Each to each the opinion will impart:
          "She's ill-natured, I admit,
          I don't like her, not a bit,
    But then you know, my dear, she's smart."

  Your parties must be "tidy," so to bring about these ends
  Find some lady with a title who likes living on her friends;
  Hint that you'll supply the money that's essential to the task,
  If only she will condescend to tell you whom to ask.
  On your former friends and relatives politely close the door,
  Though they may have been of service in the days when you were poor,
  Be each guest of yours a beauty, full of pride,
  A tiara on her head, a co-respondent by her side.
    And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
    Each to each will the opinion impart:
          "She's a snob, I quite admit,
          I don't like her, not a bit,
    But then you know, my dear, she's smart."

       *       *       *       *       *


We have to announce the arrival in Bloemfontein of Mr. Burdett-Coutts,
of London, of whom we have secured a portrait which we present to our

[Illustration: THE FRIEND's front page.]



     _A number as sparkling as a string of jewels--Joke Portrait
     Number Two._

A singular thing about THE FRIEND was that the readers could make sure
at a glance, each afternoon, what had been the spirits of the editors
earlier in the day. The issue of April 13th was positively frisky. We
were all in our gayest moods, and the principal page was made to
sparkle with most unlooked-for fun and flashes of wit.

Mr. Landon set out with his pen in search of an English millionaire
who would supply us daily with a budget of home news cabled direct to
us from London. Continually disappointed by the non-arrival of the
Reuter despatches, he urged that some wealthy man should pay to have a
long special cablegram sent to us daily, with a hint of all the
world's happenings. "To us," did I say? no; for, as Mr. Landon
expressed it, "All there is of THE FRIEND belongs to the Army. Its
existence began for the soldier, and its profits pass back to his
interests. If some of the kind-hearted people in England who are so
ready to put their hands in their pockets in the interests of 'The
Soldiers of the Queen,' only knew what the dearth of news from
England means to the men, they would at once supply the want." It is
too late now. That editorial never was copied in the English papers, I
suppose; but you millionaires who want to reach Heaven--and you others
who want to earn handles to put before your names--remember this in
the next war, and send news to your army wherever it is halted in the

We found that the newsboys were charging two-pence for THE FRIEND, and
that many complaints were pouring in upon us; therefore, in the
blackest type, I rhymed to the readers--that being the most likely way
to impress them with the truth--in couplets such as this--

  Who pays a penny for THE FRIEND,
  Pays all he needs to gain his end.

and this--

  Whoever pays us more than a penny,
  Should guard his brains, if he has any.

Fancy me dropping into rhyme! But, as I have said, the "Tommies" all
did verse--or worse--and the example was epidemically contagious.
Perhaps in another month we should have all turned versifiers, and
produced copies of THE FRIEND wholly in rhyme.

In this number we published portrait No. 2 of our unique gallery,
selecting Lord Stanley as the subject. My son Lester had made a
cartoon in which the censor figured, and with which, for a very
peculiar reason, Lord Stanley was not pleased, but this second venture
of the family to do him justice in portraiture was eminently
successful. It was precisely the same picture as that which we called
a portrait of Mr. Burdett-Coutts on the previous day, but though Lord
Stanley knew the joke no one else saw it. One of the censor's friends
took from me a damp fresh copy of the paper, as I came out of the
works with an armful, and looking at the portrait remarked, "I say, I
did not know that Lord Stanley had an imperial--'goatee,' as you call
it--funny I never noticed that he wears one. Devilish good portrait;
clever of you to publish it." Mr. Burdett-Coutts was the only other
man beside Lord Stanley to understand what we were doing. He fathomed
the joke because we explained it to him, and I sincerely hope that he
appreciated the pure fun and harmless pleasantry of the spirit in
which it was conceived and carried out.

We had, from a coloured man, a letter complaining that we declared the
British policy to be "equal rights for all white men, without respect
of race or creed." To this he objected. He said that we were
advocating the policy of the Republics, and added, "I would like to
point out to you that when once your policy is known in this colony by
our people it will cause universal dissatisfaction." He was presumably
one of those natives, most numerous in the towns, who, by reason of
their intelligence and ambition, deserve most helpful, generous
consideration. But the "Universal dissatisfaction" which he threatened
would include a myriad negroes of the Karroo and the so-called "farms"
of the Boers. These form the mass of the natives; clothed in their
complexions and living in huts of twigs and matting. Equality with
white men can be offered to them by statute; but they cannot realise
it, and the world has seen mischief, unhappiness, and perplexing
political problems result from over-haste in this direction.

We did succeed in arousing an artist to defend his calling against the
boasts of the mechanical manipulation of the camera. Mr. W. B. Wollen,
R.I., was the champion of art, and he spoke for it with the ardour of
conviction, and the force of one who is right and cannot be gainsaid.

I cannot think why we omitted to call upon Mortimer Menpes, Esq., the
distinguished painter, then in Bloemfontein, to add his views to the
series of letters we hoped to secure upon this subject, the Camera
_v._ Art. Mr. Menpes had come to the war because, he said, nothing
else was talked or thought of in London, and an exhibition of
paintings of ordinary subjects, such as he gives with distinguished
success each year, would have fallen flat. He was very busy, very
popular, and very successful with the army. This issue (April 13)
contained a witty letter by him upon the postage stamp craze.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PRICE:                                        PRICE:
  ONE PENNY.            THE FRIEND.             ONE PENNY.

(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

                            BLOEMFONTEIN, GOOD FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 1900.



On the recent retirement of the enemy to the north of the Orange
River, the rebels who had joined them in the Northern Districts of
Cape Colony were treated by Her Majesty's Government with great
leniency in being permitted, if not the ringleaders of disaffection,
to return to their farms on the condition of surrendering their arms
and of being liable to be called to account for their past conduct.

I now warn the inhabitants of the Northern Districts, and more
particularly those who were misguided enough to join or assist the
enemy, that, in the event of their committing any further act of
hostility against Her Majesty, they will be treated, as regards both
their persons and property, with the utmost rigour, and the extreme
penalties of Martial Law will be enforced against them.

       ROBERTS, Field Marshal,
                Commander-in-Chief, South Africa.
  Army Headquarters, Bloemfontein, _April 9, 1900_.

       *       *       *       *       *


It is with great pleasure that we present to our readers to-day a
portrait of Lord Stanley, the present popular Press Censor with Lord
Roberts' Field Force in South Africa. The portrait is by W. B. Wollen,
R.I., and is a masterpiece. We like it, but we are surprised that the
censor should wear precisely such an antediluvian collar as we saw on
Mr. Burdett-Coutts in yesterday's view of our Portrait Gallery.

[Illustration: Lord Stanley.]

       *       *       *       *       *



     _A Screaming Farce now being played daily with great success
     in the Theatre of War near Bloemfontein._


1. JACOBUS JOHANNES VAN DER MAUSER (The absent-bodied Burgher).


3. REGINALD TALBOT DE VERE-CROESUS (English Cavalry Officer).

     _Scene_: A Farm in the Free State. Pony saddled at the door.
     J. J. van der Mauser preparing to mount.

J. J. VAN DER MAUSER (_Centre of Stage_). Katinka! Katinka! Bring me
the old rifle that is in the barn among the sheep-skins. The old
muzzle-loading Boer rifle, with which my ancestor, the great
Ten-britches van der Mauser shot the lion in the days of the Great

KATINKA: Nay, Jan! Pause and reflect! 'Twill blow thy head off. It has
not been fired these thirty years.

JAN: Nay, woman! I purpose not to fire it. I intend to hand it in to
the British--I only wish they'd try to let it off! Then will I return
speedily, provided with a pass, and go up into the laager to do a
little Rooinek shooting. While I am gone, Katinka, be not afraid. The
English will put a sentry on the farm so that not a blade of grass
shall be touched, not an onion taken from the ground. Be diligent, and
sell them all the butter you can.

KATINKA: The proclamation says the price of butter is to be
two-and-sixpence a pound!

JAN: Then don't take a penny less than three shillings and sixpence.
If you run short of milk, drive in the cows of our neighbour Smith,
who has fled to the English. And Katinka (_whispers tenderly_), if you
see the Rooineks out in the open, don't stand anywhere near them,
darling! You might get hit! You understand? Now, farewell!

(_Proceeds to pull on an extra pair of breeches, and so goes off to
the laager, while the band plays "My dear old Dutch."_)

[Interval of some days, during which the British encamp near the farm,
and Katinka sells them, at famine prices, every drop of milk and every
pound of butter that the cows will yield, and every egg that the hens
can be induced to lay.]

       *       *       *       *       *


The open veldt. Row of kopjes in the middle distance. Enter cavalry
patrol with Reginald Talbot Vere-Croesus at their head. (Band playing,
"Let 'em all come.")

FIRST SOLDIER: I thought I heard a rifle shot.

REGINALD TALBOT DE V.-C.: Nay. 'Twas but a soldier being shot for
stealing a bar of soap from an enemy's cottage. Serve the miscreant
right. Take open order, there. Walk, march!

_They ride round the stage with one eye on the kopjes and the other
admiring the fit of their breeches. Rifle shots are heard from the
kopjes. Band changes to, "You never know your Luck!" Heavy rattle of
musketry from kopjes. Patrol driven back and retire to pom-pom
accompaniment from the big drum_. R. T. de V.-C. _falls prone from his
charger_. KATINKA _rushes in (r.u.e.) weeping hysterically and throws
herself on his body_.

       *       *       *       *       *

rifle, staring gloomily at the scene._

       *       *       *       *       *

JACOBUS: Ha! ha! So it has come to this! She secretly loves the young
English officer who reconnoitres kopjes with an eye-glass! (_Sticks
his chin out, claws the air and ambles about the stage à la Henry
Irving._) But I will be revenged! Ha! ha! I have it! I will go and
join the Johannesburg police! False woman, what sayest thou?

KATINKA (_hysterically_): I am innocent, Johannes. I am innocent!
(_Coils herself round the body of R. T. de V.-C. à la Sarah

JACOBUS: Innocent! Then why weepest thou?

KATINKA (_rising suddenly_): Weep! I should think I _would_ weep.
Didn't he owe us three pound seventeen and sixpence for milk! How am I
to make the dairy pay if you persist in shooting my best customers?

     _being, fortunately, shot exactly through the head with a
     Mauser bullet, recovers at once and embraces her also, and
     joins in a song-and-dance trio, "Be careful what you're
     doing with the gun," and the curtain falls to the tune of,
     "It mustn't occur again_.")

NOTE.--This farce will be continued till further orders.

                                                    A. B. P.

       *       *       *       *       *


_To the Editors of_ THE FRIEND,--SIRS,--The present campaign has most
decidedly, as your correspondent in THE FRIEND of the 11th says,
commenced a new era in the history of illustrated journalism, but not
to the extent that he thinks.

The camera and the pencil can, and will, live together during a
campaign, but I venture to doubt if the camera will be able to do all
that its champion claims for it, and the war artist who knows his
business, which cannot be learnt in a single campaign, will come out
on top. For reproducing and putting before the public scenes
representing the strife and clamour of war, with its accompanying
noise and confusion, the man with the kodak cannot compete for one
single moment with the individual who is using the pencil.

How can he produce a picture that will show the public at large
anything like an accurate bird's-eye view of what a modern battle is
like? The brain of the camera cannot take in all that is going on. The
man with the pencil does so. A few lines to indicate the background
and the characteristics of it, and he is able to put before the world
what has taken place, that is if he knows and has seen what troops
have been doing.

In another paragraph there is a sentence which is a very unjust
reflection upon "the old-fashioned war artists, who draw on their
imagination." I should very much like to know who the old-fashioned
war artists can be who are referred to in this manner. The few men who
are still alive, and there never were many of them, are all men who
have seen a large amount of fighting, have sketched and worked under
fire, sent their work home often under enormous difficulties, and been
in very many tight places. Why should these men be referred to in this

I suppose there has not been one single campaign in which the camera
has been in such frequent use; but is it possible, by this means, to
bring before us the various phases of a battle--a modern battle, I
mean, with its absence of smoke, enormous expanse of front and general
invisibility of both the attackers and defenders? Take a battery in
action. Can it show us the excitement and turmoil round the guns, will
it show us (unless it is a cinematograph) the trouble amongst the
teams when a shell drops near them? I think not. What it can do, and
does, is scenes which are more or less peaceful, such as camp views,
incidents in regimental life and also bits on the line of march, but
of an action--no! None of us artists are at variance with Mr. Scott in
other parts of his very able letter, and we cordially welcome the
camera artist, knowing very well that he has his field of work in
which we cannot hope to compete with him for a moment; but to put the
camera, which, after all, is only a very fine piece of mechanism, on a
par with a sketch is more than most people can put up with, especially

  Yours very faithfully,
                        W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.

       *       *       *       *       *


_To the Editors of_ THE FRIEND,--SIRS,--Is this a chestnut? Johannes
Paulus Kruger sent a commissioner home to England to find out if there
were any more men left there. The commissioner wired from London to
say that there were 4,000,000 men and woman "knocking about the town,"
that there was no excitement, and that men were begging to be sent to
fight the Boers. Kruger wired back "Go North." The commissioner found
himself in Newcastle eventually and wired to Kruger, "For God's sake,
stop the war! England is bringing up men from hell, eight at a time,
in cages!"

He had seen a coal mine.

       *       *       *       *       *


The circulation of THE FRIEND is as large as that of all the
Bloemfontein papers combined.[18]

[Footnote 18: This was a transparent joke, as there was no other paper
in the town. But, joking apart, there never had been a newspaper in
that country or region with such a circulation as ours enjoyed; yet it
could have been twice as large had we employed our carts to circulate
it in the outlying camps.--J. R.]

       *       *       *       *       *


_All about the New Stamp Issue._


     How strange a thing it is that so small a matter as a
     general taste for collecting stamps should, as it were,
     elevate a man at a single bound into a position where his
     slightest tact at discrimination in detecting the difference
     of shades between two bits of paper of the same colour will
     sway and determine the destinies of a horde of fanatical

     That a man should occupy so exalted a position was
     accidentally brought to my notice after a return to
     Bloemfontein from a run to the Cape, where I found the
     Market Square, the club, the hotels and the street corners
     grouped with people who appeared to be intensely interested
     in the discussion of some all-important subject. Thinking
     that some radical proclamation had been issued, I paused to
     listen, but instead of legal phrase and technical form
     greeting my ear, the only intelligible word which I could
     detect in the buzz which emanated from the centre of the
     group was "Dot."

     I passed on to another group, where the same "dot" arrested
     my attention; then to a third, which was also "dotty,"
     until, feeble and bewildered, I helplessly wandered about on
     the verge of an incurable "dottiness" myself.

     Finally, I pulled myself together again and, blind to all
     danger, plunged into a group of "dotters," grasped one of
     them by the arm, and in reply to my appeals heard him hiss,
     as he roughly shook me off, "Surcharged stamps, you fool,
     misprinted, without dots." Then I understood. My curiosity
     was stimulated, I soon learned the subtle differences which
     add to or subtract value from the surcharged Free State
     stamps. Finally I became the proud possessor of a dotless
     one myself. That settled it; I became hopelessly "dotty"
     myself, and to the end of my natural days will always
     realise that affairs of State, literature, art, even money,
     are secondary to the importance of obtaining "the entire
     set," especially if they are from "the bottom row" and
     "dotless." This mania has taken possession of the entire

     From Tommy to General, the last biscuit or a drink of
     whisky, or a pass to be out after 8 p.m. can be extracted
     after a dozen refusals by producing a dotless stamp.

     Kruger could end this cruel war in an afternoon by simply
     sending out a dozen men mounted on swift horses, wearing
     white coats with the entire set without dots pasted on the
     back. These scouts should be unarmed and should ride in
     close to our lines and then turn round showing their backs.
     The moment the army would see the set, they would make a
     rush, and all the scouts would have to do would be to ride
     fast enough and in different directions, and by nightfall
     the Imperial forces would be hopelessly scattered, and lost
     in the boundless veldt. Kruger's scouts would be perfectly
     safe, for no one would dare to raise a rifle in their
     direction. Such an act might bring down a set; but imagine
     if you can the fate of the miscreant if one dotless stamp
     should be punctured or if--horrible thought!--a chance
     scattering of the lead should dot some of the precious bits
     of paper!

In my inquiries during the first stage of this disease, I found that
Major O'Meara was the supreme authority on this subject. I found the
Major seated in a small room of the National Bank sorting out from a
huge collection the stamps which were to be surcharged. For three
hours I watched him, as with wonderful skill and discrimination he
picked out bits of paper which were obsolete and which an accidental
surcharging would have made of untold value, and set the whole world
of collectors into a palpitating hysteria of speculation, until
finally catalogued and bought by some multi-millionaire bent upon
ruining himself to appease his craze. That all the legally surcharged
stamps are carefully catalogued in the Major's busy brain will
doubtless surprise at some no distant date a few rascally speculators,
who, possessing obsolete issues, have surreptitiously surcharged them,
in the hope of creating a rarity to sell at fabulous prices. Leaving
the Major's presence, I realised that the last stage of dotlessphobia
had fastened itself on me, and, knowing that recovery is hopeless,
have abandoned myself to full indulgence, hoping to derive at least
some miserable satisfaction before the end. With this one reservation,
I am determined never to surrender to the universal stamp collector's
weakness of stealing. Others may walk uprightly through six days of
the week about their ordinary affairs and turn aside on Sunday
afternoon from the path of blindness to pilfer another collector's
treasure while his face is turned away, out of politeness, to sneeze.
But I; no, I shall never, never, no--I won't steal.



     _Captain Cecil Lowther joins the Wits and Poets again. A
     Report by Mr. Jenkins, who was "our Staff in himself."_

Mr. Buxton wrote the stern editorial, "Judge ye," with which we led
off the issue of April 14th. He reminded the Free Staters that England
had, at the outset, no quarrel with them, but on the contrary had
given them the "solemn assurance" that their independence and
territory should be respected. The people of the little Republic had
been led astray, had suffered conquest, and now were able to judge
between the wicked whisperings of the two Presidents and the
promptings of common sense and of regard for their future, "for,"
wrote Mr. Buxton, "brothers you must be with us, heirs and possessors
of world-wide citizenship and Empire."

We had recorded our first wedding, and now was the day when we
received the first application from an English firm desiring to
advertise in our columns. A well-known house-furnishing firm were the
enterprising inquirers. They said that they looked for a great
development of the country and meant to send agents there when the
war ended. On our part we made this request the basis of an editorial
in which we said that this business letter "foreshadows the coming
changes in local conditions with a prophetic touch."

Mr. Gwynne concocted a clever set of quotations which he called
"Gleanings from Great Minds," and we published number three of our
series of home-made portraits, choosing Dr. A. Conan Doyle as the
subject. At this the Army at last began to whisper and suspect, and
many a smile greeted each allusion to our enterprise.

But our _chef d'oeuvre_ was a second contribution by "Bertie," whom
all our readers knew to be none other than the handsome, the witty,
the travelled, and the popular Adjutant of the Scots Guards, Captain
Cecil Lowther. As the first letter had already been published in the
_Household Brigade Magazine_ I will not repeat it here, but the one
that is now reproduced will give a lively hint of what our readers
missed by the fact that Captain Lowther was away on duty in the boggy,
sodden veldt, and could neither write nor think of writing, even to

A large collection is made from this issue of the paper of April 14th.
All that is in this book reflects the excitement, the routine, and the
dramatic and picturesque phases of a soldier's life, as well as the
strange situations and conditions produced by the conquest and
occupation of a city in war. If that is true (and it is true in a very
great degree as I believe), then in no chapter are more of all these
novel views of irregular life mirrored than in this. From this you
shall learn what a soldier had in the way of rations, how a great and
majestic mind dealt with the rumours that British prisoners were
being far from generously, or even humanely, dealt with by the
semi-civilised foe; how a polished wit out of his superabundant humour
found time to set down his sparkling thoughts in a soaking wet camp or
a cold, wet plain, within sniping distance of the enemy, and finally,
how drained of almost every line of foodstuffs, medicines, clothing,
and luxuries the over-burdened town we lived in was becoming.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PRICE:                                        PRICE:
  ONE PENNY.            THE FRIEND.             ONE PENNY.

(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

                               BLOEMFONTEIN, SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1900.


The following communication has been addressed to President Kruger:--

     From Field Marshal Lord Roberts, Commanding in Chief in
     South Africa, to His Honour the President, S.A. Republic,

                                                     _April 12, 1900._

It has been reported to me that the Non-Commissioned Officers and men
of Her Majesty's Colonial Forces, who have been made prisoners of war,
are treated as criminals and confined in Pretoria jail, where they are
very badly fed. It has also been brought to my notice that at the
beginning of March there were ninety cases of enteric fever and
dysentery among the Non-Commissioned Officers and men in the camp at
Waterval, and that, as Dr. Haylett, the Medical Officer in charge,
failed to obtain from your Government the medicines and medical
comforts which he required for the sick, he resigned, Dr. von Greldt
being appointed in his place.

It is stated that the prisoners at Waterval have to bivouac on the
open veldt without overhead shelter and with only a layer of straw to
lie on, while the sick are placed under an open shed with iron roof. I
am informed that it was only upon Dr. von Greldt threatening to resign
that medicines and mattresses were supplied for the sick. I can hardly
believe that your Honour is aware or approves of the harsh treatment
of the prisoners belonging to the Colonial Forces, or of the want of
consideration shown to the prisoners at Waterval. The former are Her
Majesty's subjects, are duly enlisted, are subject to military
discipline, and wear uniform. According to the recognised customs of
war, they are entitled to be treated in the same way as any other
soldiers of Her Britannic Majesty, and I must remind your Honour that
all prisoners captured by the troops under my command are equally well
treated, whether they are burghers or foreigners. The utmost care has
been taken of your sick and wounded, and no distinction has been made
in the field hospitals between them and our own soldiers.

[Illustration: _The Front Page of "The Friend" of April 4, 1900._]

I invite your Honour's early attention to this matter, and I request
that orders may be given for the Non-Commissioned Officers and men of
the Colonial Forces to be released from jail and to be treated, not as
criminals, but as prisoners of war.

I also request that the prisoners at Waterval may be provided with
overhead shelter, and that the sick and wounded may be properly
entertained and taken care of in accordance with Article Six of the
Geneva Convention.

       *       *       *       *       *



  When I was quite a young recruit, not very long ago,
  My comrades' conversation was a talk I didn't know;
  I really thought to some far-distant country I'd been shipped
  When they said I was a "jowler," and described me as "just nipped."
  If I was "slightly dragged," or with my "praco" couldn't cope,
  They said I'd "lost my monnicker" and earned an "extra slope,"
  And, though I'm known as Ferdinand to all my kin and kith,
  They went and dropped my Christian name and called me "Dusty Smith."
    They called me "Dusty Smith."

  _But a soldier's life is the life for me,
    And the foe shall ne'er alarm me,
  For you won't feel queer on "Drug-hole beer,"
    What's called "three-thick" in the Army._

  I asked them what my food would be. They said: "Your food? Oh, that's
  'Meat,' 'jipper,' 'spuds' and 'rooti,' with occasional 'top-hats.'"
  They said I'd find coal-hugging quite a lively little job,
  Then they put me "on the timber" and they called me "Junior Swab."
  But when my work was over, after "tapping up" a bit,
  I'd take my own "square missus" out--you bet we made a hit.
  And when I had to go on guard she'd come there every day
  To see me marching down the street and hear the "fiddlers" play.
    Just to hear the "fiddlers" play.

  _So a soldier's life is the life for me,
    And the foe shall ne'er alarm me,
  As I slope my gun in Number One
    What's called "Long-Swabs" in the Army._

  But now I understand them 'cause I know my way about,
  And comprehend the Sergeant's unintelligible shout;
  When he says: "Shooldare Hipe!" I know that he means: "Shoulder hup"
  So I'm never for "Small-dodgers" and I never got "Built-up."
  I'm not a mere "Jam-soldier," I've extended sure enough,
  And been made "Assistant-bully" so I help to cook the "Duff."
  I keep my kit and rifle clean, so's never to be rushed,
  And I've never been "done-tired" and I've never once been "pushed."
    No, I've never once been "pushed."

  _Then a soldier's life is the life for me,
    And the foe shall ne'er alarm me,
  And soon I shall be Corporal,
    What's called "Sauce-Jack" in the Army._

       *       *       *       *       *



"The horse is the natural enemy of Man: the horse is the only animal
that will dash himself over a precipice to avoid the shadow of his own

"All civilians must remain in their houses after eight o'clock at
night."--_Hints on Housekeeping_ (by Lord Roberts).

"Your Mounted Infantry--it is as much as they can do to keep their
hats on."--_Albrecht_, captured Boer Artillerist.

"I call the Cavalry the Oh, Lor! regiments. They ride up to a kopje
and stare about till they are fired at, when they say, "Oh, Lor," and
gallop off."--_Albrecht._

"I'd rather be a coward all my life than a corpse half a
minute."--_Solomon_ (junior).

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 3.


[Illustration: Dr. A. Conan Doyle.]

The accompanying wood-cut is a portrait of the well-known author, Dr.
A. Conan Doyle. The author of "Sherlock Holmes," who is so generously
giving his time and whole-hearted attention to the sick and wounded,
will, by the use of the "Holmesian method," be able to tell, without a
moment's hesitation, at what period of his eventful life the
photograph was taken, of which the accompanying block is a

       *       *       *       *       *



MY DEAR FATHER,--Since I last wrote to you we have been having a quiet
time down South "pacifying the country." This consists in collecting
arms--which we keep--and inviting the burghers to take oaths--which
they don't keep--at least some of them don't. Every one seemed pleased
to see us and very ready to tell all about their neighbours'
misdoings. If one believes only half of what one was told, the smiling
little village where we were quartered must be only one station this
side of a very warm place.

A spice of danger is added to police work if there are other
detachments in the neighbourhood. It is this wise. Two of our captains
who were out after springbok one day were suddenly glued to the
ground by the well-known whistle of bullets over their heads. Leaving
their respective hills after dark, they returned and, with quivering
lips, recounted to us the dangers through which they had passed. An
eviction party was organised and a thorough search made for hidden
rifles on the farm where the incident had occurred.

Not unnaturally, none were found, as we heard on our return that Stoke
had been out with six Non-Commissioned Officers and had walked the
country in line shooting at everything that moved.

You remember Stoke, don't you? He was the fellow who was not going to
bring a knife and fork out with him as everybody on service would of
course eat with his fingers.

Do you remember that rather pretty song that MacRavish in the A.S.C.
used to sing? "Lay down thy lute, my dearest." The Provost-Marshal has
now adopted it for his own, and I have had to give up all the loot I
had collected in the last three months. It is very disappointing, but
I suppose he will give it back when his staff have taken what they

We have been having a bad time the last few days, as there are
detachments of troops constantly passing to the front, and unless one
lies quite quiet they shoot at one. Their scouts, too, bang through
the middle of the kitchens and camp "looking for the enemy," which is
rather annoying for us, but it does not do to interfere.

All the rifles are supposed to have been given up in the
neighbourhood, so I was hurt in two senses--when I sat down on a very
hard sofa in a farm close by and found that the cushion was stuffed
with two Mausers and a lot of ammunition. The farmer professed to be
as surprised as I was, but I don't see why he should have objected to
my taking them away. He said they must have been left there
accidentally by Potgieter or Pienaar. As you cannot throw a stone
without hitting some one of those two names his statement was rather
indefinite, besides being untruthful. It is awfully good of you
sending me out all those woollen comforters and meat tabloids, but
next time you are sending I wish you could send me enough stuff to put
a new seat and knees to my breeches, as they are both deficient at
present and even on active service they scarcely come under the head
of "luxuries."--Your affectionate son, "BERTIE."

       *       *       *       *       *


_Get all you can but don't take less._

It is all right to claim as much as you think you can get and to get
all you really can, but in case of argument it may be just as well to
have this little list stuck inside your helmet. You may know some way
of getting more than this--striking the A.S.C. when it is badly
rushed, or very sleepy--but if you reach the issue depôt when it is
too wide-awake for you, here is the list, just to make sure you'll not
take less than regulations give you.

One man, one day:--Biscuits, 1 lb.; fresh bread, 1-1/2 lb.; preserved
meat, 1 lb.; fresh meat, 1-1/4 lb.; coffee, 2/3 oz., or tea 1/3 oz.,
or 1/2 oz. of each; pepper, 1/36 oz.; salt, 1/2 oz.; sugar, 3 ozs.
(including sugar for lime-juice); compressed vegetables, 1 oz.; fresh
vegetables, 8 oz. (when available); rice, 2 oz. (in lieu of
vegetables); cheese, 2 oz. (in lieu of 4 oz. of meat); jam, 1/4 lb.
(three times a week); rum, 1/64 of gallon--when ordered; lime juice,
1/320 of a gallon, if certified to be necessary by the medical
officer; candles, 1 per officer; office authorised canteen.

Meal or flour for natives 1 lb. a day, which may be increased to 1-1/4
lb. when supplies are plentiful; natives receive the same ration as
soldiers with the exception of vegetables. Meal or flour is usually
substituted for bread.

Indians enjoy a special scale of rations.

Forage:--English horses: oats, 9 lbs.; oat-hay, 7 lbs.; bran, 3 lbs.;
chaff, 2 lbs.

Colonial horses: Mealies, 8 lbs.; oat-hay, 4 lbs.; bran, 2 lbs.;
chaff, 2 lbs.

Mules: Mealies, 5 lbs.; bran or chaff, 2 lbs.

To officers.--If you countersign a claim for any more than this you
had better be sure it is in the hands of a very "trustworthy" man, who
can bluff it through, and get the A.S.C. men mixed up. If he doesn't
know his way about they'll catch him up and send him back.

       *       *       *       *       *



     [_A young Philadelphian who very cleverly united in his own
     work and person the entire reportorial staff of the paper._]

This town is hungry. The shops are practically bare. Nothing worth
speaking of comes to market. The matter has passed from the stage at
which it might be regarded as a joke. Bloemfontein really hungers for
necessary articles of diet, and it has one week in which to raise an
extra appetite before the first train of foodstuffs comes to its
stores. The hopes of two trucks a day for Bloemfontein merchants, held
out two weeks ago by the Imperial Military Railway Officials, have
proved vain. The two trucks never came. The line has been taken up
wholly by the transportation of troops and army supplies. Next
Thursday, however, unless the present plan is changed, a train of 20
trucks will leave Port Elizabeth with goods for merchants here. There
will be one train a week thereafter. All day on Wednesday and Thursday
the business men flocked to the Director of Supplies, who will assign
to each his proportion of tonnage.

For a week the best families of Bloemfontein have been without butter
or sugar. The hospitals have commandeered nearly all the fresh milk.
There is not a can of condensed milk to be bought in town, nor a can
of jam, nor of cocoa, nor a pound of coffee. The last candles sold in
town were sent in from a country store. They disappeared in a day. The
town depends for its potatoes on the few which come into town every

The daily supply of fresh vegetables is so small as to be hardly worth

Toilet soaps and English laundry soap disappeared long ago. You cannot
buy a razor or a shaving-brush or a tooth-brush.

More than one druggist lacks material for putting up prescriptions:
glycerine, cascara, bromide of potassium, boracic acid, carbolic
disinfectants, ginger, zinc oxide, blue ointment, acetate of lead, and
iodoform. Absence of some of these from the prescription shelves might
result seriously.

Eno's Salts and chlorodyne cannot be bought in town. Beecham's Pills
were "all out" four months ago.

The flour mills have been closed for several days for want of water.
They will resume, feeding their boilers with well water, but the end
of the wheat supply is in sight. There is still mealie meal, but
bakers declare that it won't make bread.

Cigars that are worth smoking and whisky worth drinking haven't been
seen for a week. Hospitals take all the soda-water that the factory
can make.

Shoemakers have not even veldschoens in ordinary sizes. They have had
no leather for two weeks, so shoe repairing is out of the question.

Winter is coming on, the mornings are already growing chilly, but
clothiers have no hose and no heavy underwear of white man's quality.
All hats suitable for army wear were sold long ago.

Merchants declare that if they had not been promised two trucks a day
by rail they would have brought supplies from Kimberley by ox-waggon.
It would have taken six days, but would have been worth while.



     _We retire from the paper, leaving it in able and patriotic

The unique and delightful episode had ended. On April 16th, just one
month after we established this new departure in war, we turned THE
FRIEND over to the proprietor of the _Johannesburg Star_, upon an
arrangement quickly and generously made by Lord Stanley. Within a week
I was ordered home by the surgeons who saw the state my battered body
was in. Mr. Landon preceded me by a few days, invalided also. Mr.
Buxton remained upon the paper under its new proprietors, who were old
workmates with him, and Mr. Gwynne remained, and yet remains as a war
correspondent (January, 1901), sturdily doing his always excellent
work in the field. In that work I think he has few superiors among
living English-speaking correspondents, and I know that many military
and journalistic experts agree with me. The pity is that the nature of
his work for Reuter's has kept his genius as a writer practically
hidden from the public.

Mr. Shelley took up the photographer's side of the entertaining duel
between the men of his calling and the actual and proper artists; Mr.
Melton Prior indignantly lamented an indignity or an attempted theft
of which he had been the victim. We reported a great football match
between the officers of the Gordons and those of the First Contingent
of the Royal Canadian Regiment; and, finally, we perpetrated the
fourth hoax, in what we called "Our Portrait Gallery." The "portrait"
was in each case from the same advertisement block which Mr. Gwynne
and I had found on the floor of the _Express_ composing-room, which he
had thought nearly enough like Mr. Burdett-Coutts to bear production
as a likeness, and which we presently resolved to publish every day as
a picture of a different man each time.

The notice of a concert in aid of the Widows' and Orphans' Fund refers
to a notable enterprise engineered by the universally distinguished
Mr. Bennet Burleigh of the _Daily Telegraph_, aided by Mr. Maxwell,
the very talented correspondent of the _Standard_, and others. They
carried it out with such skill that the entertainment proved the
greatest social event, if we may so term it, of the army's sojourn in
the capital. Every one of note who was able to be there attended it,
and the receipts at the doors and in the competition over the works of
Messrs. Prior and Wollen, were very considerable.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PRICE:                                        PRICE:
  ONE PENNY.            THE FRIEND.             ONE PENNY.

(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

                          BLOEMFONTEIN, EASTER MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1900.



At some time all friends must part, and the time and parting have come
to THE FRIEND, its friends of the public and those war correspondents
who have been conducting this journal just one month to-day.

To-morrow this paper will be turned over from the charge of those who
were only writers to the hands of men who are practised and able in
the management of all departments of a daily journal.

In bidding farewell to our trust, we can boast of nothing unless it be
that we have entertained the troops and the town, and made no enemies
of whom we know. The rest of what we have done has only been
trying--though we have tried hard.

We have said before in this column that it has been an unique
experiment--to make one loyal newspaper out of two that were none too
English, to make it with talent unused to the work, to make it, often,
without news and to conduct it so as to produce something palatable to
both the conquerors and the conquered.

We take this occasion to thank the Field Marshal, Lord Roberts, for
the trust he reposed in us, and to express the hope that we did not
disappoint him.

We also wish to thank those who have assisted us, both among our
fellow correspondents and the talented men of the army. Poets we find
the latter to be, for the most part. We hope all these will continue
to give the helpful right hand to the enterprise under its new

And so we say "adieu" to THE FRIEND, and good luck to its new

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 4.


[Illustration: General Pole-Carew.]

We feel that we owe an apology to our readers for presenting the
portrait of one of our first fighting generals in civilian costume,
but our artist left his colours at home and refused to paint at all
unless with plain black. The artist in question is Captain Cecil
Lowther, of the Scots Guards, and this is his first effort in art. For
General Pole-Carew, the subject of this masterpiece, what is there to
say except that his promotion has gratified the entire army and evoked
the heartiest congratulations from THE FRIEND?

       *       *       *       *       *



_Editors_, THE FRIEND,--SIRS,--Can you inform me whether there has
been a sudden exodus from Bloemfontein of war correspondents armed
with cameras? There ought to have been, and yet I have inquired in
vain whether such an event has taken place. For, look you, the
judgment has gone forth from the pen of Mr. Wollen that the "war
artist"--meaning the man with a pencil as opposed to the men with a
camera--"will come out on top." Truly, this is most disheartening. No
one likes to be thrust to a bottom position, and if that is to be the
fate of the man with a camera, why should he any longer endure the
hardships of campaigning and the sorrows of separation from the
comforts and companionships of home?

But the war correspondent with a camera has not gone home. He has no
intention of doing so. He is unrepentant enough to believe that he,
and not the man with a pencil, is going to "come out on top."

Let us have the point at issue clearly defined. War correspondents are
with the army to report the war--some by word pictures, others by
camera or pencil pictures. Sight-seeing is a passion with humanity.
Every inhabitant of the British Isles would like to have a personal
vision of the conflict in South Africa, but--save for two or three
irresponsible persons whose presence at the front no one can
understand--those inhabitants are compelled to rely upon the eyes of
others. Now, leaving aside the correspondents who devote themselves to
word pictures solely, the question to be decided is--does the man with
the camera surpass the man with the pencil in depicting the actuality
of warfare?

An astounding claim is made on behalf of the man with the pencil. He
can, we are told by Mr. Wollen, show the public "an accurate
bird's-eye view of what a battle is like." And he does it by "a few
lines to indicate the background and characteristics of it." The same
authority assures us that "the brain of the camera cannot take in all
that is going on. The man with the pencil does so." Such is the case
for the man with the pencil. Now for the test of cross-examination.

Modder River and Maghersfontein may be cited as two representative
battles of the war, and so may be honestly used as touchstones to try
the claim Mr. Wollen makes on behalf of the man with a pencil. In each
case there was a battle-line of some five or six miles, in each case
the enemy was invisible, in each case it was physically impossible for
any one man to see more than a small portion of the battle. A
spectator on the right flank at Modder River could have no personal
knowledge of incidents which were happening in the centre of the
bridge, or down the river on the left flank. Even of his own
particular section on the right flank that spectator could not attain
to a perfect knowledge. But the man with a pencil is untrammelled by
such minor matters as time and space; he "takes in all that is going
on." Or, if he does not take it all in, he puts it in his sketch. The
result is no more "an accurate bird's-eye view of what a battle is
like" than a photograph of Oom Paul is like a photograph of Mr.
Chamberlain. In short, the facility with which the pencil-man can jot
down what he did not see is his ruin.

It will be obvious that the man with the pencil, not being ubiquitous,
_cannot_ "take in" all that happens on a battlefield; he sees just as
much as, and no more than, the man with the camera; for the
rest--which forms so large a proportion of his sketch--he has to rely
upon the testimony of others. Now, when the public have in their hands
a result attained by this method, what is its value as an "accurate
bird's-eye view of what a battle is like?" Absolutely _nil_. People at
home want to see a battle as they would have seen it if they had been
present, and no sane man will contest the assertion that the best
medium for giving them that vision is the camera rather than the
pencil. Try as he may after the actual, the man with the pencil
thrusts his personality between the event he sees and the people at
home for whom he wishes to reproduce it, and consequently his sketch
becomes a miserable failure when considered as an "accurate bird's-eye
view of what a battle is like."

On the other hand, what does the man with the camera do? He and his
lens see at least so much of a given battle as any man with a pencil,
and what they see they see with unfailing accuracy. Take that battery
in action which Mr. Wollen choses to cite as a subject wherein the
powerlessness of the camera is supposed to be illustrated. The camera
man does not fear the test. He can show the guns coming into action,
record their unlimbering, depict the preparation for firing, and time
a photograph at the actual moment of firing. It is true that his
picture will not show quite such a volume of smoke as the sketch of
the man with the pencil. But why? _Because the smoke is not there._
The man with the pencil puts it in because other men with pencils have
been putting it in for generations. Perhaps, too, the public would not
mistake the sketch for a battle-scene if the smoke were absent.
Anyhow, what becomes of the boast of _accuracy_? Moreover, the man
with a camera will not present his public with a twelve-pounder firing
from the carriage of a howitzer.

There is something more to be said for the man with a camera.
Now-a-days he is in the habit of screwing a telephoto lens to the
front of the camera, and with that lens he can immensely outdistance
the vision of even that all-seeing man with the pencil. Objects a
couple of miles off are brought near, and groups of men can be
photographed at such distances as prevent them assuming any posing
attitudes. In this way actuality takes on the added charm of natural
grouping, and I shall be greatly surprised if some of the telephoto
pictures of this war do not take rank as the most artistic as well as
realistic records of its incidents.

After all, the man with a camera may safely leave his case in the
hands of others. Take a negative and a positive witness on the
question in the abstract. Mr. Julian Ralph writes that "the pictures
of our battles which are coming back to us in the London weeklies are
not at all like the real things," and then he adds: "I saw the other
day a picture in one of the leading papers by one of the best
illustrators. It showed the British storming a Boer position. In the
middle ground was a Boer battery, and the only gunner left alive was
standing up with a bandage round his head, while smoke and flame and
flying fragments of shells filled the air in his vicinity. In the rush
of the instant he must have been bandaged by the same shot that struck
him, and as for smoke and _débris_ in the air, there was more of this
in a corner of that picture than I have seen in all the four battles
we have fought."

Now for the positive witness. He is no less a person than the art
critic of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, who can no more be charged with a
predilection for photography than Messrs. Steyn and Kruger can be
saddled with a predilection for truthfulness. This critic dwells, as
Mr. Scott did in the letter which opened this discussion, upon the old
and new methods of war illustration, and then candidly adds: "I would
like to say that the artists score off the photographer, _but they do
not_. The public wants the facts as near as may be, and are too deeply
stirred to be put off with melodrama."

One other witness may be called to give Mr. Wollen an idea of how the
work of the man with the pencil is faring at home. Here is a recent
private letter from England, which makes merry in the following
fashion over those sketches which are so inclusive and accurate:
"There is a picture of two gunners standing to attention after having
exhausted their ammunition. The man nearest the gun is looking
straight in front of him, with a bandage round his head, a
bullet-wound in his face (close to the left ear), two in the right
side of his chest, and one in his right leg, some distance above the
knee. Within a yard of him is a bursting shell. But that man ignores
such trivial things. Still he stands. I suppose the weight of so much
lead in him keeps him up. One wonders whether he is hollow inside, so
that the bullets all drop down into his feet."

No wonder, worthy editorial sirs, you have not witnessed an exodus of
men with cameras from Bloemfontein; they are staying to "come out on
top." Sincerely yours,

                                              H. C. SHELLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *



_To the Editors of_ THE FRIEND,--SIRS,--Practical jokes are out of
date, and the perpetrators have universally come to be regarded as a
mixture of fools and knaves. It is intolerable to attempt a practical
joke upon a friend, but to play one upon a stranger is downright
rascality. To accept an excuse for such a thing is to admit the pleas
of the man who took a piece of old rope that he did not mean to take
the horse that was at the other end; or that of other fellows who
sneak property, pick pockets, or forge cheques, that these acts were
all done in fun.

I have been much interested in reading in THE FRIEND about horses,
saddles, bridles, and even riems being stolen in this campaign, but I
think I can add to the list with a more startling experience of my
own. I bought a waggon from a well-known man in this town and had it
sent to a coach repairer to be overhauled. It was a conspicuous
vehicle, as much so as a Soudan pantechnicon van, with white wall
sides, upon which were painted, in letters that could be read half a
mile away, the owner's name, business, and address. This waggon was
impudently taken in the night-time, dragged to stables some distance
away, and there left. From the police I have learned that paint had
actually been purchased, and it was evidently the intention of the
thieves to transform my waggon, by painting out the name and address,
and so daub it with khaki or some other colour that it should become
unrecognisable. By a fortuitous accident the waggon was discovered in
the nick of time.

The law here is such that an aggrieved party must become a prosecutor,
which is an undertaking a transient visitor naturally shirks.

I think it my duty to call attention to the circumstances and the
inadequacy of the existing means for the prevention of wrong-doing and
the punishment of the wrong-doers.--I am, sirs, yours truly,

                                       MELTON PRIOR,
  War Artist, _Illustrated London News_.

       *       *       *       *       *


Thanks to the kindness of the Military Governor, Major-General
Pretyman, the concert in aid of the "Widows' and Orphans' Funds,"
London and Bloemfontein, will be held next Wednesday evening, instead
of during the afternoon. Major-General Pretyman has conceded that upon
the date in question, Wednesday, 18th inst., the pass regulation will
not come into force until midnight. That means that citizens may move
about after 8 p.m., or until twelve o'clock, without requiring any
special pass or being called upon to produce a permit.

The committee of war correspondents declare that the entertainment
will require no booming. It is to be a red-letter day in the calendar
of concerts given for charitable purposes in Bloemfontein, both in
respect to talent upon the platform and to the celebrities who will
crowd the Town Hall that evening.

Amongst those who will appear will be Miss Fraser, the Free State
nightingale, who will sing original verses written by Mr. Rudyard
Kipling for the occasion; Miss Leviseur, Miss Jessie Fraser,
Lieut.-Colonel Townshend, C.B., Surgeon-Major Beevor, Scots Guards,
Lieut. James Forrest, Captain Nugent, the celebrated vocalist; Captain
Wright, R.N. (The Skipper); the Lightning Cartoonists, _alias_ The
Gemini; Mr. Preshaw, Major Jones, R.E., besides, in the language of
the _entrepreneurs_, "a coruscation and galaxy of stars of the first
magnitude too numerous to mention in the brief space afforded." It is
hoped that the military band will be present, but, at any rate, that
the concert will be high-class without being dull is guaranteed from
the fact that Messrs. Ivan Haarburgher and King are in charge of the
musical arrangements.

Tickets may be had and seats booked at Messrs. Borckenhagen and Co.
Prices: 5s., reserved seats; gallery, 2s. 6d.; soldiers in uniform to
gallery, 1s.



     _We made a money profit as well as a good newspaper--but the
     entire experience thus quickly passed into history._

Thus ends the history of this new departure in war and in journalism.
Of it Mr. Kipling wrote afterwards, "Never again will there be such a
paper! Never again such a staff! Never such fine larks." It has been
impossible, after all my good intentions, to tell of scores of the
peculiarities of the paper, and its editors' experiences. Sometimes
copies of THE FRIEND did not look twice alike for days at a time, as
we strove to make it more and more workmanlike, and more and more
original and attractive.

We began, as I have said, with advertisement "ear-tabs" on either side
of the heading. Then we put the Royal coat-of-arms in their places.
Next we put the arms in the middle of the title space and published
mottoes and notices in new "ear-tabs." At first we put double leads
only between the lines of the leading article each day, but presently
we dignified the cable news and Mr. Kipling's contributions in that
way. We once put some editorial notices in rhyme, and set them up in
black job type--when we changed the price of the paper to one penny
for everybody.

We knew that our money returns were in confusion, but because we had
taken over a business manager from one of the two commandeered
newspapers, whom we could hardly expect to be in sympathy with us, and
because we had established two prices for the paper and were being
victimised by some of our customers, we could not see how the finance
of our venture was likely to come out.

A practised man of affairs, from the City Imperial Volunteer Mounted
Force, Mr. Siegfried Blumfeld, most kindly took the trouble to look
into our accounts, and we learned from his report that we were making
money, but not nearly enough to satisfy our pride and hopes. However,
as events proved, we gained a splendid profit, and were able to make
Tommy Atkins's newspaper pay a handsome sum toward "Tommy's" relief.
All that any of us have even thus far learned of the profits is to be
found in the following formal letter I received from Lord Stanley:--

                ARMY HEADQUARTERS, PRETORIA, _3rd October, 1900_.

SIR,--I have been asked by Major-General Pretyman, C.B., to forward
you a copy of a letter which he has received bearing reference to the
use made of the profits of THE FRIEND newspaper.

General Pretyman adds that there will be a further cheque, which he
proposes to send to some other charity, but which he does not specify
to me.

  Yours sincerely,
  Julian Ralph, Esq.,


SIR,--As Honorary Treasurer of the Soldiers' and Sailors' Families
Association, I enclose a formal acknowledgment of the cheques for £136
17s. 3d. so kindly sent to our Association by the War Correspondents.
Should you have an opportunity of doing so, I should be very glad if
you would convey to Lord Stanley and the other gentlemen our great
appreciation of this kind and thoughtful gift.

  Yours very truly,
                                        (_Signed_) W. L. Sclater.

Had we been able to "inspan" a proof-reader with a Lee-Metford rifle
and a determination to use it to enforce his "corrections," we should
not have announced the Queen's reception in Dublin as a great tribute
by London, neither should we have made Mr. Kipling speak of a
"shixlvl" when he wrote a "shovelful." Four of us had to fill a great
chasm nine columns long and wide every day, and to do proof-reading as
well. We produced the nine columns incidentally as a thing done with
our left hands, the while that our minds and souls and master-hands
were devoted to correcting proofs. Bravely as we battled with them,
they kept coming like a swift tide, until, in a reckless way of
putting it, they were heaped on our table as high as the top button on
each of our coats. When it came to time to go to press we regularly
and daily observed that we had not only overlooked errors enough to
wreck our reputations, but that the compositors had failed to correct
many of those which we had marked. Gravely, in a body, we used to
march to the printing-office and threaten to send the guiltiest
culprits as prisoners to Simonstown, charged with being hostile to the
blessings of enlightened government. Then we would go to lunch and the
paper would come out--so full of mistakes that there was clearly
nothing to do but to allow the humour of the situation to have its
way, and to laugh until we almost cried at the extravagance of the
offences we were committing against journalism and "the art
preservative of arts."

Despite its whimsicalities, THE FRIEND was a dignified newspaper, and
very nearly a complete one. The largest daily circulation of any
Bloemfontein newspaper had been 400 copies, but we regularly sold from
5,000 to 5,500 copies. We published Reuter's telegrams from all over
the world (semi-occasionally when military messages did not block the
wires), and the _Capetown Argus's_ tidings of what went on in South

As I have written elsewhere, "its unique origin and purpose, and its
eccentricities, combined to make it the basis of a collecting mania."
Copies with a mistake in a date line, corrected after one hundred
papers had been struck off, brought five shillings on the date of
issue, and ten shillings two days later, and the price had risen to a
guinea by the time the newspaper was turned over to the managers of
the _Johannesburg Star_ and _Capetown Argus_. This took place when it
was apparent to all of us that two or three of us were not in the
physical trim to serve THE FRIEND and our distant employers without
causing one or the other to suffer great neglect.

The competition for complete sets of the newspaper ran the price up
to £10, and this strife ran neck and neck with the rivalry to obtain
sets of Free State postage stamps made British by the letters V.R.I.
on an overline of printing. One of these stamps was quoted at £10
while the army lingered in Bloemfontein, but I have my own reason for
thinking that THE FRIEND will receive a higher valuation than any
"pink sixpenny stamp" or any set of stamps, for it fell to the lot of
that journal to emphasise the present power and usefulness of the
press as no other journal has ever done.

A single copy of this newspaper is reported to have fetched £25 at a
London charity bazaar.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since the return to England of three of the editors we have decided to
perpetuate the little organisation in a fraternal "Order of
Friendlies," and Rudyard Kipling has designed a badge which Messrs.
Tiffany & Co., jewellers, of Regent Street, have most ably and
artistically executed in gold and enamel. Facsimiles of it adorn the
cover of this book. It is of the size of a two-guinea coin. On its
obverse side are the colours of the old Free State and Transvaal, upon
which is imposed the red cross of Saint George. In the ends of the
cross are the initials of the four editors in Greek capitals. Lord
Roberts's badge has his initials in the centre of the cross in green
under a golden coronet, and where the ring is, on top of our badges,
his has a green enamel shamrock leaf. On the reverse side are four
pens crossed and surrounded by a motto, "Inter Prælia Prelum," "In the
Midst of War the Printing Press," here couched in monkish Latin. Lord
Roberts's badge has a drawn sword of gold on top of the crossed pens.
Only seven men in all the world belong to this order: Lord Roberts,
Lord Stanley, Messrs. Gwynne, Kipling, Landon, Buxton, and myself. All
others are eligible, however, who have dedicated themselves to
"telling the truth at all costs and all hazards," so that the mind
fails to grasp the future possibilities of its membership.



  Barnes, James--
    Anecdotes by, 223
    Edits the thirteenth No. of THE FRIEND, 221

  Battersby, Prevost, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 132

    Concert in, 227
    Cronje warned that we should march to, 2
    Evening Concert in Aid of the Widow' and Orphans' Fund, 408
    Fooled by the Boers in, 283
    "Free State Hospital" and Staff, 207
    Settles down under Lord Roberts' Rule, 115
    State of the Army on arrival at, 1
    The Boer women in, 350
    The Club at, 48
    War Trophy Mania in, 318
    Women of, The, 353

  Burleigh, Bennet, Experience of, 35

  Buxton, F. W., Facts about, 10

  Canadians on Majuba Day, Description of, 22

  Christian, Pt. Ewan, Story of a Colonial Hero, 39

  Colvile, Gen. Sir Henry, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 131

  Conan Doyle, Dr. A.--
    Arrival of in Bloemfontein, 305
    Contributor to THE FRIEND, 312

  Enteric and its Ravages in Bloemfontein, 275

  Eyre, Fred, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 292

  Faulkner, Chaplain T. E., Contributor to THE FRIEND, 295

  Gatacre and Clements join hands, Account of how, 76

  Guards, The, Splendid characteristics of, 249

  Guthrie, M.P., Mr. Murray, And the soldiers' comforts, 346

  Gwynne, Mr. H. A., Facts about, 9

  Hospitals and supplies from civilians, 260

  I (Julian Ralph)--
    Get ill and dispirited, 362
    Replenish the Mess, 184
    Visit Miss Bloemfontein, 160

  James, Mr. Lionel, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 132, 301

  Jenkins, J. W., Reporter to THE FRIEND, 395

  Kellner, Dr., Tribute to, 362

  Kipling, Rudyard--
    And myself lunch with Lord Roberts, 113
    And the Tommies in hospital, 259
    And Tommy's poetry, 83
    As Associate Editor, 99
    At work for THE FRIEND, 133
    Birthday Greeting by, 226
    Departure of from Bloemfontein, 258
    Editorial on, 86
    Enthusiasm of, 132
    "Fables for the Staff" by, 134, 167, 211, 225, 242, 250
    "General Joubert" by, 241
    I toast, 205
    "Kopje-Book Maxims" by, 168, 251
    Pen portrait of, 113
    "St. Patrick's Day" by, 31, 116
    Sends his first contribution to THE FRIEND, 28
    "Song of the White Men, A," by, 262

  Landon, Perceval, Facts about, 9

  Langman Hospital, The, Facts about, 306

  Love Letter, to Miss Bloemfontein, 32

  Lowther, Capt. Cecil, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 392

  Menpes, Mortimer, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 381

  Milner, Sir Alfred, Speech by, at our Dinner, 204

  Newman, R.N., Lieut. E. J. K., Contributor to THE FRIEND, 141

  Nicholson, K.C.B., Sir William, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 131

  Order of the Friendlies, The, Seven members of, 414

  Paterson, A. B., Contributor to THE FRIEND, 92, 309, 376

    "Advice to an Officer on going to the War," 180
    "Ballade of Ten-a-Penny, A," 324
    "Barrack-Room Ballads," 342
    "Birthday Greeting, A," 226
    "Commandeering," 134
    "Driving the Ox," 210
    "Empire's Defenders, The," 244
    "Fed up," 92
    "For Freedom's Cause," 267
    "General Joubert," 241
    "Grumbles from the Ranks," 246
    "Moderate Drinker's Lament, The," 315
    "My Comrades' Conversation," 389
    "Old Friends," 347
    "'Orse or Fut?" 328
    "Poor Old Cronje," 271
    "Prices in Bloemfontein," 252
    "Quartermaster's Yarn, The," 141
    "St. Patrick's Day," 31, 116
    "Silent Army, The," 245
    "Smart," 368
    "Socialism in Verse," 366
    "Soldiers of the Queen," 292
    "Song of the White Men, A," 262
    "Sons of Britain," 254
    "That V.C.," 309
    "The N.C.O.," 233
    "The Weary Trek," 110
    "To the Soldiers' Poet," 59
    "United we Stand," 215
    "Voices from over the Sea," 299

  Pole-Carew, General--
    Headquarters of, 248
    In War, 248

  Press Censors, Examples of, 4

  Prince Francis of Teck, H.H.--
    And the Artist, 101
    Duties of, The, 100
    Our guest at dinner, 319

  Ralph, Lester, Ill with enteric, 207

  Roberts, V.C., Field-Marshal Lord--
    And THE FRIEND, 84
    Communication to Kruger from, 387
    Dines with the Staff of THE FRIEND, 202
    I am introduced to, 114
    Speech of, at our Dinner, 205
    Telegram of sympathy on General Joubert's Death from, 240

  Scott, H. Owen, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 357

  Shelley, H. C., Contributor to THE FRIEND, 401

  Simes, Tr. George, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 215, 267, 299

  Smith-Dorrien, Maj.-Gen., Letter from, 37

  Stanley, Lord--
    Contributor to THE FRIEND, 269
    Daily visits of, to THE FRIEND Office, 164
    Office of, at Bloemfontein, 5
    Tribute to, as Press Censor, 3

  THE FRIEND, and its Contents--
   "Absent-bodied Burgher, The," 376
    Advertisement in, 14
    "Advice to an Officer on going to the War," 180
    All Ranks contribute to, 131
    "Anecdotes," 8, 66, 380
    "Another Letter Home," 392
    "Army Orders," 15, 49, 50, 108, 295
    "As to the Future," 222
    "Australian Correspondent, The," 67
    "Ballade of Ten-a-Penny, The" (Poem), 324
    "Barrack-room Ballads" (Poem), 342
    "Birthday Greeting, A" (Poem), 226
    "Boer Plans and Views," 333
    "Brave Canadian, A," 242
    "Brave young Highlanders," 349
    "British Leniency," 290
    "Canadians on Majuba Day," 22
    "Caught by the Boers," 278
    Christening Competition in, 274
    Circulation of, 413
    "Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil," 322
    "Colonial Hero, A," 39
    "Commandeering" (Poem), 134
    Concerning Acrostics, 188
    "Confession of a Horse-stealer," 46, 53
    "Corne Drift," 339
    Correspondence, 37, 90, 111, 188, 406
    "Death of General Joubert," 241
    "Don't" (Advice to Looters), 197
    "Dots or no Dots" (Stamps), 381
    "Driving the Ox" (Poem), 210
    Editorial Announcements in, 17
    "Empire's Defenders, The" (Poem), 244
    "Enteric Fever," 281
    "Fables for the Staff," 134, 167, 211, 225, 242, 250
    "Facts and Otherwise," 22, 120
    "Fed up" (Poem), 92
    "First Impression, A," 312
    First Issue of, 14
    "For Freedom's Cause" (Poem), 267
    From Enslin to Bobsfontein, 153
    Gatacre and Clements join Hands, 76
    "General Joubert" (Poem), 241
    "Gleanings from Great Minds," 391
    "Grumbles from the Ranks" (Poem), 246
    "G. W. Steevens," 155
    "How the Calf was Avenged," 325
    "Humorous Side of the Campaign Recorded," 20
    "Hungry Bloemfontein," 395
    "Is the Art of War Revolutionised?"--
      Artillery, 172
      Cavalry, 234
      Infantry, 148
    Its Infancy, 12
    "Jokes to Burn," 294
    "Karree Siding," 195
    "Kopje-Book Maxims," 168, 251
    "Lesson Learned, A," 269
    "Love Letter to Miss Bloemfontein," 29, 32
    "Military Law," 118
    "Military Letter Writer, The," 212
    "Miss Bloemfontein's Answer," 70
    "Miss Uitlander replies to Miss Bloemfontein," 169
    "Moderate Drinker's Lament, The" (Poem), 315
    Money Profit on, handed over, 412
    "My Comrades' Conversation" (Poem), 389
    Names sent in for the New Colony, 330
    "New Machine Gun, The," 179
    Offices of, 12
    Official Dinner at Government House, 129
    "Old Friends" (Poem), 347
    "Orange Peel," 255
    "'Orse or Fut?" (Poem) 328
    "Our Friend" no longer, 399
    "Our Portrait Gallery," 370, 375, 392, 401
    "Our Reply to Miss Bloemfontein," 74
    Parodies, 65
    Peculiarities of, 410
    "Pont filled with Bullion," 218
    "Poor Old Cronje" (Poem), 271
    Price of, The, 85
    "Prices in Bloemfontein" (Poem), 252
    Printing Machines used for, 44
    "Proclamations" in, 25, 45, 62, 107, 208, 272, 276, 291, 374
    Queen's English and Dutch Compositors, 83
    "Ration Scale," 394
    "Realistic Comedy, A," 227
    "Recent Engagements," 301
    "Recent Experience of Mr. Bennet Burleigh," 35
    Rights of Purchased for £200, 8
    "Rudyard Kipling" (Welcome and Farewell to), 86, 263
    "St. Patrick's Day" (Poem), 31, 116
    Second Issue of, 28
    "Second Relief of Kimberley," 142
    "Serious Matter, A," 60
    "Should Beards be worn in War?" 157
    "Silent Army, The," 104, 245
    "Sir Alfred Milner," 209
    "Sir William Lockhart," 136
    "Smart" (Poem), 368
    "Socialism in Verse" (Poem), 366
    "Society's Doings," 364
    "Soldiers' Battles and Generals' Campaigns," 125
    "Soldiers of the Queen" (Poem), 292
    "Song of the White Men, A" (Poem), 262
    "Sons of Britain" (Poem), 254
    Strange Editorial Adventure, 42
    "Sulk or Duty," 18
    "Ten-a-Penny's," 216
    "That V.C." (Poem), 309
    "The Bravest Deed," 256
    "The Down-trodden (?) Negro," 63
    "The Great Ride," 94
    "The late Colonel the Hon. G. Gough," 265
    "The N.C.O." (Poem), 233
    "The Quartermaster's Yarn," (Poem), 141
    "The Russians Capture London!" 277
    "The Soberest Army in the World," 88
    "The Steynless City" (Loot News), 31
    "The Weary Trek" (Poem), 110
    "They Want More of Tommy," 343
    "To the People of the Free State," 311
    "To the Soldiers' Poet" (Poem), 59
    "Tommy in a Lady's Eyes," 182
    "Towards War," 189
    "United we Stand" (Poem), 215
    "Voices from over the Sea" (Poem), 299
    We begin to feel at Home, 41
    We Retire from, 398
    Working Staff of, 12
    "War Artist of To-day, The," 357, 379, 401

  Thyme, Mark, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 315, 328, 342, 366, 368

    As a Poet, 82
    In Bloemfontein, 184

  Tucker, Charles, Contributor to THE FRIEND, 59, 244

  Villebois-Mareuil, Colonel de, Facts about his Death, 321

  War Correspondents--
    Battersby, Prevost, 132
    Burleigh, Bennet, 35
    Buxton, F. W., 6, 10
    James, Lionel, 132, 301
    Gwynne, H. A., 6, 9
    Landon, Perceval, 6, 9
    We Four--
      Asked to undertake the bringing out of a Paper, 6
      Grand Dinner-party given by, 202
      Leave THE FRIEND to see a Fight, 221
      Sent for by Lord Stanley, 3

  Wilkinson, F., Contributor to THE FRIEND, 67

  Wollen, R.I., Mr. W. B., Contributor to THE FRIEND, 379

  _The Gresham Press_,

_Messrs. C. Arthur Pearson's List of Announcements_



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Gold Coast. Demy 8vo. Profusely Illustrated. Price 21s.

     Lady HODGSON has in a high degree the gift of vivid and
     realistic description. The reader shares with her the
     privations of the siege, the tense excitement of her
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Through the Lion Land to the Court of the Lion of Judah.

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     The Land of the Lion offers much that is of great interest
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     Mr. FRANK BULLEN has taken advantage to the full of the
     opportunities which are granted only to those who go down to
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By JULIAN RALPH. Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s.

     This consists of the History and Contents of the Unique
     Newspaper published at Bloemfontein at the special request
     of Lord ROBERTS, and during his occupation.

     It contains many contributions by RUDYARD KIPLING, Dr. CONAN
     DOYLE, Lord STANLEY, and many Officers and other eminent
     men, and was edited by RUDYARD KIPLING, JULIAN RALPH
     (Special War Correspondent to the _Daily Mail_), Mr. LANDON
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     Most of RUDYARD KIPLING'S contributions to this paper are
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*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "War's Brighter Side - The Story of The Friend Newspaper Edited by the - Correspondents with Lord Roberts's Forces, March-April, 1900" ***

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