IMPRESSIONS OF BLOEMFONTEIN—JOIN THE 8TH MOUNTED INFANTRY REGIMENT ON OUTPOST
Long streets, ill-paved and deep in mud or dust; a low stoep-shaded cottage with vines trailing about its posts here and there between long rows of featureless shops; a large market square where no farm produce is displayed; a club frequented by British officers who have little time to lounge; several churches of the primmest Dutch type, with tall steeples that cut sharply against the clear sky in lines uncompromisingly straight; some public buildings, pretentious without grace or beauty; on one side a steep hill terraced with houses of which little but the corrugated iron roofs can be seen; on the other, roads that straggle off to level outskirts, where villas painfully new stand in the midst of flowerless gardens surrounded by barbed wire. These were the first impressions of Bloemfontein gathered by Lumsden’s Horse, and few troopers had any opportunity to modify these impressions in more favourable circumstances afterwards. The camp to which A Company went originally at Rietfontein was within two miles of the town, and might have been pleasant enough if thousands of hoofs had not cut up its turf, and the ground had not been used as a dumping-place for rubbish which Boer commandos could not turn to any use. Some of them had been there before Lumsden’s Horse, and several British regiments also. So many tens of thousands of soldiers were camped round about the town that they may have interrupted the currents of salubrious air which made Bloemfontein famous in other days as a resort for invalids. There were plenty of invalids to be seen there in the early weeks of April 1900, but they did not regard it as the best type of sanatorium, and men who had to sleep in small tents on the reeking ground of Rietfontein would not willingly go there again in search of health. They had hardly begun to realise how serious was the stoppage of a fresh water supply which the Boers had cut off from the main at Modder River. Hundreds of old wells existed in the town and its outskirts, and by opening these enough water could be drawn for immediate wants. But, alas! the water had been undisturbed since Bloemfontein began to draw its supply from the distant waterworks some six or seven years earlier. What impurities had drained into the wells during all that time nobody knew until hospitals filled rapidly with patients suffering from enteric and dysentery. Rietfontein was showing symptoms of an outbreak, and so, after a week under canvas there, Lumsden’s Horse got the welcome order to strike camp and form a new one some three miles farther north, by Deel’s Farm, where a clear spruit flows over its bed of white gravel between banks that are shaded by tall eucalyptus trees and drooping sallows.
After days on duty, in which they were not allowed to be slack, troopers felt little inclination for walking the four or five miles to Bloemfontein, which did not become more cheerful as the number of troops increased, except for the traders, who were rapidly getting back all they had lost by the war and a great deal more. Officers had always the chance, whenever they could get away from camp for an hour or two, of pleasant social meetings at the Bloemfontein Club, where generals, regimental commanders, and company officers from other brigades came together for a little while at lunch or afternoon tea and exchanged all the rumours that could be told in a few minutes—and they were many. It was a place of strange meetings. Men from the uttermost corners of the earth, who had perhaps not seen each other for years, foregathered there, only to separate a little later and go on their ways with different columns, none knew whither. Troopers had similar experiences in the streets and inns of Bloemfontein, where nearly every regimental badge of the British Army and every distinguishing plume adopted by Irregulars who had come to fight as ‘soldiers of the Queen’ were to be seen in a variety that seemed endless. Brothers whose paths in life had parted when they left school, one going east, another west or south, came face to face in the streets of that little Free State town or rubbed shoulders in a motley crowd of khaki-clad soldiers, sometimes without recognising each other, until accident gave them some clue. A rough word or two of careless greeting, a tight hand-grip, a steadfast look into eyes that remind the boys of father or mother, a light laugh on lips that might otherwise betray too much feeling, a drink together (if it is to be had), for ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and then with a jaunty ‘So long, old chap,’ they part again. It is a superstition, or at any rate a recognised custom, not to say ‘Good-bye’ in such circumstances. But if men only thought of its literal meaning, what better wish could there be? Yet, for all its stir and bustle and dramatic incidents, Bloemfontein was a dull place in those days for any man who entered it and found no intimate friends there to greet him. Comrades they all were, but in a rough-and-ready sort of comradeship that needed the fire of the battlefield to try it and perchance anneal it into something stronger than the ties of mere kinship. But this is a thing which only soldiers understand, and seldom even they. Lumsden’s Horse knew it not then, but for some of them the secret was to be disclosed before many days had passed, and in a form that will never fade from their memory. Meanwhile, they went about their duties methodically enough in camp or took their pleasures sadly in streets where thousands of soldiers wandered daily, finding no entertainment, no place of resort except dingy bars, where liquors of more than alcoholic potency were sold, and very little change from campaign fare except at a price that made even the necessaries of life prohibited luxuries for a man who had no more than his shilling a day to spend. One of Lumsden’s Horse who was sent into Bloemfontein on orderly duty gives a vivid sketch of all this in a few touches that are the more graphic because they only pretend to note passing impressions. Writing a day after B Company’s arrival at Deel’s Farm, he shows how the men had to rub their horses down while standing inches deep in mud. So much rain was out of season, but South Africa is, like other places, occasionally fickle in this respect. To troopers it did not seem an ideal way of spending Easter Monday, and the whistle, of which officers made free use, must have been irritating to nerves already overstrained, for it is never mentioned without a forcible prefix. However, when rain ceased and sunshine appeared for an hour in the afternoon, these men were merry enough at a game of cricket, which, by violating all the higher rules, must have reminded them of similar sports in England when they were boys and welcomed Easter Monday as the day of all others appropriate to cricket. The next morning a great cheer rolled from camp to camp, and Lumsden’s Horse, responding lustily, passed it on to the next without asking what the unusual excitement meant. When they heard afterwards that troops were cheering because ‘Kruger had surrendered,’ a strange depression took hold of them. At that moment all the discomforts and drudgery of a soldier’s life were forgotten in the humiliating thought that the corps would have to go back to India without a chance of proving itself in battle. It turned out, however, to be all mere rumour, though not so baseless as some of which Lumsden’s Horse had after-experience. The Transvaal President’s offer to negotiate for peace on terms all in his own favour must have been known in England then, and in some mysterious way a reflex of it came to camps on the veldt, where troops, who had seen plenty of the fighting that Lumsden’s Horse were eager for, welcomed the illusive tidings with a cheer. In its train, however, came something nearly as good—a post bringing letters from ‘England, home, and beauty,’ and for one non-commissioned officer at least ‘a parcel full of excellent things.’ Before he had time to enjoy these he was under orders for Bloemfontein, and after a ride through pouring rain he got there in time to hear another disconcerting rumour, and to find some of his comrades selling their kit because ‘they had been ordered back.’ Wisely resolving not to act on anything but definite orders, and, taking the advice of a corporal in the City Imperial Volunteers, who persuaded him ‘to sit tight,’ he waited, making the best of circumstances that were by no means bright according to his own brief record, which runs, ‘No dinner to be had at the station. Got tea sixpence a cup, bread and jam sixpence.’ Hungry and dispirited, he turned in and went to bed at the station, which means something very different from the untravelled civilian’s idea of a bed. Then next morning ‘bought a bob’s worth of oat straw for horse—groomed and fed him. Put my wet things out to dry, and sallied forth to the station. Had an excellent breakfast: porridge, haddock, chops, and two cups of coffee, for three shillings. Went to the hospital to try and get my leg dressed, but couldn’t find anybody to speak to. Thence to a most pleasant chemist—a Dutchman. Went to the station for lunch—another three bob.’ Not a profitable day’s work for a corporal on Cavalry pay without ‘colonial allowances.’ After that came tea and dinner, so that he was evidently doing his best to prove the wisdom of Mark Tapley’s philosophy. Having found circumstances in which it was a credit to be jolly, he made the most of them. It is not every soldier, however, who, having indulged in a little extravagance of that kind, could write, ‘Afterwards to the bank, and had an agreeable interview with the manager’; nor every man, with a balance to his credit, who would have turned cheerfully again towards the rough life of a camp and the unknown hardships that were to follow. When orders came next day for all Lumsden’s Horse to rejoin their corps in readiness for an immediate advance, this non-commissioned officer paid another visit to his friend the chemist and asked how much he owed. ‘The chemist refused to take anything. Pretty good that for a Dutchman and evidently a pro-Boer.’ With that pleasant experience blotting out all unfavourable impressions of Bloemfontein, the corporal rode back to camp at Deel’s Farm to find all the tents being struck.
So they had to spend a miserable night by the bivouac fire and get what amusement they could out of good stories. One, suggested perhaps by talk of chemists and surgical operations, is worthy to be preserved. To appreciate the point of the joke you must know that a lieutenant-general’s badges of rank are a sword and bâton crossed, with the crown above them. A man of the —— Yeomanry, then quartered in Bloemfontein, was suffering agonies from toothache, and, like our friend the corporal, had searched every hospital in vain for a surgeon who might have leisure to extract it. As he crossed the Market Square, a general of division whose kindness of heart is as notorious as his strength of language, was coming out of the Club. To him the yeoman advanced, and, after a hesitating preface, asked the General whether he would mind drawing a tooth. For a moment the General was dumbfounded, but then his powers of expression came back to him. ‘What the devil do you mean?’ he roared, thinking the yeoman was unpardonably familiar. The man’s face fell. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but our doctor’s on leave, and——’ ‘But,’ said the officer, smiling at the man’s mistake, ‘I’m not a doctor; I’m General ——’ The yeoman stammered, ‘But—but—your badge, sir!’ The General good-humouredly turned his shoulder to the abashed trooper. ‘Here you are, my lad; what’s the matter with the badge? “Crossed swords, bâton, and crown.”’ ‘Good heavens!’ said the man, ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, sir. I thought it was the skull and cross-bones!’
Before daybreak in the morning of April 21, Lumsden’s Horse were roused to pack kits and saddle up for their march. Impartial observers said they were very smart about it, but a story went round that the Colonel had expressed himself as much disappointed with B Company, saying that the others would have saddled up and walked round them three times. This was apparently only a playful invention, but it so angered one trooper that he could only express his feelings in choice Hindustani. He was mollified afterwards on learning that A Company had really admired the soldierly way in which B Company got ready, and then he excused his strong language by writing, ‘I understand now the expression “Swear like a trooper.” We hear and do more of it every day.‘ It was a painful confession for one of Lumsden’s Horse to make, but the incident, apparently trivial, shows that a wholesome spirit of emulation in deeds was animating the men, and that would always be regarded by soldiers as ample atonement for unnecessary rivalry in linguistic attainments. The time was close at hand, too, when Lumsden’s Horse would have more serious things to think about than these. Yet nobody knows better than old campaigners how little things occupy the thoughts of men even when they are doing great deeds. No opportunity for achieving greatness came to the corps during its first day’s march through a country where the enemy’s appearance might be looked for at any moment, but in another way the men showed their fitness for a soldier’s work—by helping the transport out of difficulties. It was in crossing a drift at the Little Modder River that carts stuck with wheels jammed tightly in deep holes between slippery boulders, and teams floundered in fruitless attempts to recover their footing. The Editor, having been in one of those holes, horse and all, has reason to remember the place and the swirl of water where it rashes over rocky ledges into a deeper pool. By dint of manful work, Lumsden’s Horse got their carts clear of the drift, only to find them axle deep in the treacherous soil of a neighbouring vlei some minutes later. Then ammunition had to be taken out and carried to firm ground and carts lifted bodily out of the mire. It was an experience by which the transport drivers learned not to trust appearances and to beware of grass that looked unusually green. Still, as Sergeant Stephens, of the Transport, wrote in relating his experiences, ‘If anything ever frightened our drivers it was the word “drift”; you should have seen the worried looks when they heard there was a drift ahead.’ That night the corps bivouacked beyond Glen, where General Tucker’s division had been in touch with the enemy for nearly a month and warding off frequent attempts to interfere with Engineers who were hard at work on a ‘deviation’ near the ruined railway bridge. There they had to bivouac with nothing but blankets to protect them from the bitterly cold wind, and they went to sleep supperless because the transport, delayed by many causes, had not come up. No alarms or excursions disturbed their rest that night, but their march next morning was to the accompaniment of distant pom-poms and heavier guns and the sounds of fighting not far off. They did not know the meaning of it all then. It seemed to them but a local skirmish, and not the penultimate phase of a great movement in which Ian Hamilton, French, and Rundle had been sweeping the Boers before them from Wepener to Thaba ’Nchu and thence eastward and northward, clearing the country for a still greater movement. No shots came near the marching column. The screen of outposts holding inquisitive Boers in check was miles away from the drift where Lumsden’s Horse crossed the main Modder River, and, for all they could see, it might have been still miles off when they marched up a steep track and bivouacked on the pleasant hillside, relieving some New South Wales Mounted Rifles, whose horses had been used up by incessant patrolling. They were, however, in the outpost line there as part of the 8th Mounted Infantry, commanded by Colonel Ross, to whom Colonel Lumsden reported himself that afternoon. Some officers of Regular regiments whose pickets were near at hand came to have a look at these Indian Volunteers, who were quite gratified afterwards to hear that the Colonel of the Norfolks thought them ‘a very fine set of men, but undisciplined.’ It was true enough they had not much discipline of the parade-ground type, but they were held together by bonds stronger than any rules or regulations can weld, and inspired by a sentiment that would have made them ‘play the game’ wherever fortune might place them. And part of that game was for them to be soldiers in deed as well as in spirit, though they might lack the mere outward show of subordination. Spytfontein, which formed the centre of a position held by Lumsden’s Horse, is an outwork of the rugged range that sweeps from east to west in an irregular curve just north of Karree Siding, and from which General Tucker’s division, aided by a turning movement of Cavalry and Mounted Infantry under General French, dislodged the Boers a month earlier. Though they had made several attempts to reoccupy that range in the hope of being able to shell us out of Glen, they lost ground each time, and finally retired to an entrenched position in front of Brandfort, to which Spytfontein was our nearest approach. Trooper Burn-Murdoch in one of his clever letters to the ‘Englishman’ gave an admirable sketch of outpost work when it was a new experience to Lumsden’s Horse:
Spytfontein consists of several kopjes with rocks between and, so far as I could see, only one farmhouse, so you will not find it marked on the map. We took the place of some Australians, as they had been pretty busy and their horses were all knocked up. To the north of us were Loch’s Horse about 500 yards off, and quite close to our southern flank were some companies of East Lancashire Mounted Infantry. What with outlying pickets, guards, horse pickets, and such like, we did not find time hang heavy on our hands. And, as our nearest neighbours over the kopjes were large bodies of Boers with heavy guns and other arms, we had, as the saying is, to sleep with one eye open, and that one well skinned. I have many a time steered my way by Old Crux away down south. But I found that gazing at it over the icy-cold muzzle of a Lee-Metford was, though possibly just as profitable and useful a job, very much less romantic.
One reads in Olive Schreiner and in other African authors’ books of the never-to-be-forgotten pleasure of sleeping out on the great South African veldt, the pale calm moon overhead, and only the shade of the waggon for covering, around which the trek oxen rest after their day’s toil, the monotonous crunch, crunch of their jaws as they chew the cud being the only sound that breaks the awe-inspiring silence. My personal experience was vile—cold winds, little or no moon, wet grass and rocks to lie upon, soaking wet feet and clothes, one wet blanket and ditto coat, the only change to this being two hours’ sentry-go every four hours.
We were not allowed to walk about as on ordinary sentry-go, but had to keep quiet and sit or lie down for the most of the time, with our eyes straining out into the dark north, where every piece of scrub or large stone rapidly grew into a slouch-hatted Boer, as our brains became hypnotised with ceaseless gazing. And on our keen sense of hearing and sight depended the lives of all the corps!
One afternoon the alarm was given, and we promptly ‘stood to arms’ in excited expectation of an attack. But it proved to be a false alarm; and I was not surprised that it was so, as our valiant signaller standing on the sky-line of a neighbouring kopje flagged the news down to us, and of course all the Boers between our pickets and Kroonstad at once knew that Lumsden’s Horse were awake and there—so they thought better of it. Some few days afterwards we got orders to parade at 2.30 A.M. to take part in an attack on a Boer force which had been ‘located’ on some hills to the south-west of us and skirting the Modder River. I was horse sentry that night, so got practically no sleep. At 2.30, however, amid a thundercloud of English and Hindustani, Lumsden’s Horse awoke and managed to saddle up in the darkness; and then, by dint of shouting out each other’s names, we managed to wriggle into our proper subsections. As one man put it, ‘the bundabust was shocking.’
From the midst of this noisy dark chaos emerging, away we marched. Bitterly cold and cheerless was that morning, every second man’s teeth chattering like so many castanets, while one’s feet felt en masse with the stirrup irons. In a short time we were joined by Loch’s Horse, the Victorian Mounted Rifles, the Artillery, and Lancashire Mounted Infantry, and silence was the strict order of the march; and silence it was pretty well, until one of Loch’s Horse, with his cut-off open, let bang two shots—phew! phew! went the two nickels over the lot of us, and half of us ‘bowed our heads’ reverently. I believe Mr. Loch got fourteen days’ for that, and served him jolly well right.
The sun coming out, our spirits rose somewhat, and our fingers became warm enough to pull out bits of biscuit from our haversacks and so have a sumptuous breakfast on horseback. An hour and a half’s march brought us to a deep creek with a good drift over it, and this we crossed in safety. On the other side we found a long and broad expanse of plain gradually sloping up to a ridge of high kopjes some four miles in front of us. On these kopjes our friends the Boers were supposed to be waiting for us, so we spread out into extended single ranks with about eleven yards interval. A kind friend having given me a cheroot, I lit up and enjoyed a peaceful smoke, while at the same time I could not help wondering how many more smokes the Boers would allow me to have. Shortly afterwards we got the order to advance at the canter, which we did; as our scouts were barely 1,500 yards ahead and had not had time to ‘search’ the kopjes properly, this was, in my opinion, a risky order. However, we got there.
Firing had meanwhile commenced on our left, and two of our Victorian scouts were bagged. Our pom-poms and guns then tuned up; boom! pom-pom-pom, pom-pom! boom—and after a little of this double-bass tune the Boers bolted and left us in possession. Skirting along the scrub-covered banks of the Modder River, we at length reached Waggon Bridge, over which my subsection took the lead as scouts; and about midday arrived at a Boer farm some two and a half miles further on. Here we stayed the night, camping out on some commanding kopjes. A strict watch was, of course, kept up all night. Next day we duly received some nice compliments from the General in command on our rapid march and successful capture of Waggon Bridge; and then, like the celebrated Duke of York’s Army, we marched back again to our camp.
An officer of the corps, writing to friends at Calcutta, adds some interesting details:
We are right up at the front now holding a line of kopjes overlooking a large plain all round. There is nothing in the plain except one or two small kopjes occupied by the Boers between here and Brandfort. They come close in every night, and often do a little sniping at our outposts, but they disappear at daybreak. The other morning four Australians went out to a farm about three miles off; there were supposed to be only women there, and they had a couple of white flags up; but as soon as the first man got into the yard several Boers jumped out of the pigsty, shot his horse, wounded him and took him prisoner—the others had to clear. They say about a dozen Boers come there every night. The Australians have a picket a mile off, but they have not succeeded in catching anybody. The General won’t allow firing into the farm, because he says the women can’t help the Boers coming for supplies and things. The farm where we get our milk and stuff is owned by a Boer who has given up his arms; he fought against us, and bucks that he shot a Gordon Highlander officer at ten paces at Magersfontein. This Boer was in an awful funk lest his old friends should reach his farm and shoot him; at least, he said so. The night before last our sentries on one of the pickets were quite certain they saw our Boer friend lamp-signalling, and our signallers on the kopje noticed it also. Twenty Boers were seen in the distance in the afternoon, and he was evidently signalling to them. To-day there was a quantity of ammunition found in one of his kraals, so he will probably find himself in chokee. The day before I rejoined from hospital we attacked, or, rather, the Boers attacked us, but were shelled out of their position. Two of our officers who were left in camp saw from one kopje a shell burst in the middle of five men, and saw them all go down.
On the 23rd, when our men were sent away to the right with some other M.I. and the Cheshires to seize a bridge and to drive Boer raiders from some kopjes, they did not apparently wait to be turned out, but cleared and trekked across the plain to Brandfort. Our men never fired a shot, though Loch’s Horse on their left had a little shooting and lost one man, an advance scout. The Boers let him walk right into their midst, and as he turned round to bolt his horse came down and they took him prisoner. Our position is about, as far as I can make out, the centre of a half circle from Karree Siding to the Glen. One quarter circle is held by the 7th Division, two batteries, and various M.I. The other afternoon some Boers started sniping at our signal-post, but came nowhere near hitting; we all stood to arms, and when thirty men were sent out they cleared. They generally amuse themselves sniping at our outposts at something like 2,000 yards with no effect. We have to furnish three night pickets—three officers, five non-commissioned, and sixty men every night; it falls rather hard on the section officers, as one is sick, and the company commanders and the staff, of course, don’t do it, so it means three of the seven are out every night. There is not very much to do on picket except post the sentries, visit them two or three times in the night, and get them in again a little before sunrise, when they return to camp. There is also a day outpost of twenty men and two non-commissioned officers, and generally a convoy of similar size into Karree Siding; so the men, too, have enough to do.
There was a fight expected to-day (29th), but it has not come off, only a few shots on our left. The order has just come for us to go out to-morrow, leaving a sufficient guard to strike our tents and bring them on if necessary. We hope it is the real advance this time.
Douglas Jones proved himself such an excellent Assistant-Quartermaster that, as B Company’s appointments were all probationary, he has been made Company Quartermaster-Sergeant. We lost poor old Roger at Kruger Siding on the way up. He had quite turned into a regimental dog, and on the march used generally to come along with the rearguard. We halted to feed there one march, and he may have stopped with the Royal Scots. It is quite possible he went back to Jagersfontein, and made up to the Gloucester Yeomanry. They are bringing in two of our lame horses, so if he did we may get him again.
Another correspondent who was kept in camp by a slight ailment while his comrades were away on patrol or some more exciting expedition records how he got out kits and collected firewood, ‘a thing I never did before,’ and how when others of his section came back they lay by the dying embers to keep themselves warm and occasionally made the fire flicker up by throwing more wood on it, reckless of danger from snipers, who were always on the prowl. While the main body of Lumsden’s Horse were away on that dash for Waggon Bridge the Boers made a counter demonstration from Brandfort, supported by pom-poms, and got within a thousand yards of the Red House Farm, but did no damage beyond interfering with the domestic arrangements of a Regular regiment, whose officers, being too far from the point of attack to see what really happened, thought their position was being seriously threatened and wanted 28,000 rounds of ammunition brought up from Karree Siding for emergencies. The orderly corporal who sent that request on got jeered at as an alarmist, when nothing happened except a retirement of the Boers. The next day Lee Stewart, who had been left behind in hospital at Cape Town, rejoined, and got a cordial welcome from all his comrades when they marched back from their first little expedition. The section mess was enabled to regale him at dinner that night on ‘chicken cooked by N—— and beefsteaks,’ so that one hardly wonders to find in the next day’s record the melancholy note, ‘There little was to eat; sat round the cook-house—two tins on the open veldt—and talked.’
In his official report Colonel Lumsden sums up all this in a few brief sentences, having matters of more serious weight on his mind at the moment:
Our departure for Spytfontein was delayed from 19th to 21st ult.—on which date we left Bloemfontein, halting at the Glen en route, arriving at Spytfontein midday on the 22nd ult. There I reported to Colonel Ross, who commands our corps, consisting of the following units, of which the approximate strength is given:[4]
Lumsden’s Horse 240
Loch’s Horse (a squadron) 220
West Riding and Oxford L.I. Companies of 220 M.I.
8th Battalion M.I. 420
Total 1,100
Late that evening I received orders to hold myself in readiness at 4.30 A.M. for Kranz Kraal, whither we marched in company with the 14th Brigade, our object being to protect a bridge about eight miles distant on the main road to Bloemfontein, which the Boers intended to destroy. We were only just in time to prevent them carrying out their object, by getting there before them, with only a couple of casualties among the Australian contingent. We spent the night at the bridge, returning the next day to Spytfontein. While at the latter place we were fortunate in securing a few more Government remounts to replace several unfit horses. I may mention that at Spytfontein we were in easy sight of the Boer outposts, being only eight miles distant from Brandfort. A long flat plain separated the Boer boundary from our own, and their scouts were distinctly visible to us every morning. Nothing eventful occurred during the next few days, but on the 30th we received our baptism of fire as far as we are personally concerned.
Footnote 4:
The Suffolk Company M.I., numbering 120, joined later.—ED.
