It was a quarter past one in the afternoon of Friday, October 13, 1899, when it was decided that I should embark for South Africa upon the following day, as special correspondent of the Times, with Sir Redvers Boiler’s Headquarters. The bustle and worry of the next few hours defy description, and, at all events, the chief point is that I succeeded in collecting a reasonably complete kit and in catching the steamer.
The departure from Southampton was an experience that is unlikely to fade from the memory of any who witnessed it. The ovation that haded Sir Redvers as he went on board was tremendous; but the really dramatic incident was to follow when the Dunottar Castle left her moorings and set off on her voyage. The cheering ceased as if by magic, and the vast multitude of people on the wharfs, far and near, broke into the strains of “ God save the Queen.” A British crowd may lack the musical refinement of some others, but when the Briton uncovers his head and sings the National Anthem he means what he sings, and his sincerity is so obvious that no room for doubt upon the subject can linger in the minds of any that hear him.
It was just 5 p.m. when the ship sailed. The sea was calm, and when the dinner-bugle sounded there were very few who failed to answer the summons. But during the night the wind began to blow, and, by the time we were off Ushant, the steamer had become sufficiently unsteady to compel many to prefer their cabins to the full publicity of the saloon or deck. A good many who ventured to appear at breakfast beat a hasty retreat, and, under the circumstances, it was considered useless to attempt the Church Service. Towards evening the weather moderated, only, however, to become worse than ever on Monday morning, and it continued more or less bad all the way to Madeira, where we arrived at 6 a.m. on the 18th.
I went ashore with three others, and, after an excellent breakfast at the hotel, we proceeded up the mountain in bullock-sledges to a charming house belonging to a brother of one of our party. The view over Funchal and the surrounding country was perfectly lovely. It seemed scarcely possible to imagine anything more delightful for an invalid than to sit on the terrace and feast the eyes upon the beautiful scene below and around. To me it appeared as if absolute happiness might be found in climbing the mountains that rose behind, and then resting in that lovely spot, dreaming over each day’s pleasure and making plans for the next. But, from what I can gather, the Englishman in Madeira soon finds being carried in a hammock far more pleasant than climbing mountains. In fact, the climate is so enervating that an active life becomes impossible after the first two or three days in the island.
We descended the hill in toboggans sliding at a furious pace over the cobble-stones with which the narrow roads are paved. Guided by an inferior charioteer, or, in the event of his coming to grief, the chances of breaking one’s neck during the slide down that mountain can scarcely fall short of a positive certainty. However, we experienced no misadventure, and returned in safety to the ship, where the narrative of a somewhat remarkable adventure awaited me.
During the previous night one of the passengers had an attack of D. T., and by his curious proceedings and conversation awakened his cabin-companion, who, before taking any steps to abate the nuisance, put his hand under his pillow to get hold of his watch and ascertain the time. This move was met by the cry, “ None of that now! ” and—quickly presenting a revolver—"Hands up! ” The lunatic, of course, suspected that his companion had been feeling under his pillow for his own revolver. The obstacles to sleeping out the remainder of the night consisted of one lunatic, one revolver, and one razor. By dint of great tact, combined with equal pluck, the aggrieved person became possessed of the two last; and then, calling for assistance, handed over the first to the ship’s authorities, by whom this dangerous person was speedily confined—none too soon.
South of Madeira the sea was calm, but the weather soon became hot as we approached the tropics. On the 22nd we overtook the Nineveh with the New South Wales Lancers on board. Much cheering of course. Two days later nearly every one was inoculated against “ enteric,” after hearing a short lecture by poor Hughes of the E.A.M.C. who was afterwards killed at Colenso. The result was that for several days a great many were cripples and some completely laid up. The tender inquiries as to each other’s condition called in mind one’s school days and a time of general vaccination.
On the 28th we met the Australasian homeward bound, and on a board fixed to the bridge we read the words, “ Boers defeated; three battles; Penn Symons killed.” The excitement caused by this intelligence was immense, but it was not noisy. That Penn Symons had been killed told us what we should, in any event, have taken for granted—that the fighting had taken place in Natal. But the fact that there had been three battles already filled us with astonishment. Some said that we should be too late, and that the war must be already over. But the majority thought differently. That the Boers had fought three times was generally held to mean that their so-called “ defeats ” had not been accompanied by much punishment, and that unless the last of the series had been decisive, there would be plenty more fighting to follow. Needless to say, our anxiety to reach Cape Town and hear particulars was acute. After an interval of but little more than forty-eight hours, that seemed indeed a lifetime, we anchored in Table Bay on the evening of Monday, the 30th, at about 9 o’clock. We had expected that within a few moments some one would come on board with news, but we were long kept in suspense; and before any information reached us, we had partly made up our minds that everything was not entirely as we could wish. Clearly, if important successes had been gained, there would have been a rush to communicate the fact, and there would also have been a noisy welcome from the shore and harbour. Everything, upon the contrary, was quiet, and when at last we were made aware of all that had happened, a general sadness prevailed throughout the ship. There were many on board who had heard of the deaths of friends and relatives, and the situation generally seemed far from satisfactory. The newspapers that had been brought on board were read aloud in the smoking-room and music-saloon, until every bit of news had been disclosed; and at a very late hour the passengers retired for the last time to their berths.
Next morning Sir Bedvers Buller landed at Cape Town and had a fine reception. Spirits that had been more or less damped by the want of success that had attended the opening of the campaign were quickly revived by the advent of the Commander-in-Chief in whom all had the most implicit confidence.
My stay in Cape Town was brief. I purchased a good-looking and well-bred American mare that took my fancy. She was a blue roan, about 15 hands 2 inches, with wonderful legs and feet, and extraordinary good quarters. Her shoulders were above the average, and she was a very pleasant hack; a trifle rash perhaps, but with a nice mouth, and no tricks that work would not suppress. Upon the other hand, she had an ugly head, and was a bit slack in the loins. I christened her Jess, and a right good mare she proved. To ride a long journey, or under fire, she was equally good. Her long swinging canter was as smooth as a first-class carriage on the London and North Western, and under fire she was as steady as a rock, almost from the first. Poor Jess! What the march to Bloemfontein began, that to Mafeking completed, and it was a mere skeleton that I sold at Lichtenburg to a man who swore by all that is holy that he would treat her well, and give her no work until she had completely regained condition. The entry of June 7 in my diary reads. “ Trekked to Lichtenburg, 12 miles, and joined Hunter. Sold Jess for £10—sad. Bought ‘Bobs* for £26 including his rugs, etc.” “ Bobs ” had been bought at Bloemfontein on the day of Lord Roberts’ entry by a brother correspondent—Mr. Filson Young, of the Manchester Guardian, with whom I thenceforward had a joint establishment—and, my friend being ordered home from Lichtenburg, I was only too glad to jump at the chance of securing his pony. Bobs, too, had been to Mafeking, but ponies do better on hard work and short rations than horses. In addition to Jess, I bought a small American wagon which I loaded with food, drink, and other necessaries. It was a sort of grocer’s cart, but it served my purpose admirably, and accompanied me in all my wanderings until I was per* suaded to sell it when starting for Mafeking. Probably it might have broken down; the tracks were very bad in many places, and some of the drifts taxed the powers of four horses in the two-wheeled “Cape cart” that I substituted for what my “ Cape boy ” Arendse called the “ weagon.” Tet I missed the comfort of crawling into the “weagon” to sleep on a wet night, and the sort of cupboard at the back, in which the provisions and liquor stood ready to hand on shelves, had always been an immense convenience that the “ hugger-mugger” of afterwards contrasted with most unfavourably.
There was no use in my remaining idle at Cape Town pending the departure of the Commander-in-Chief, and it seemed better that I should proceed at once to the front and rejoin headquarters after their arrival. The horses for the staff had been sent to Queenstown, and consequently one might take for granted that their riders would follow to the same place, or to some other in that part of the country. Therefore it was arranged that I should go to De Aar, where a special correspondent of the Times, Mr. Landon, had already arrived, and would probably be able to suggest the best place for my temporary employment. Accordingly, on Friday evening, November 3, after having first seen Jess, Arendse, and the “ weagon ” safely loaded on a goods train, I took my place in the mail and started on my journey.
