by Celia Sandys
When the Bothas arrived in London Churchill was free of romantic entanglements. His pursuit of Pamela Plowden had ended six years previously, and more recently he had unsuccessfully proposed to a rich heiress, Muriel Wilson. Tongues began to wag over the attention he was paying to Helen Botha. This seldom-mentioned gossip seemed worth investigating.
‘The friendship between Winston Churchill and General Botha’s daughter is a story that has been passed down through the family,’ said Becky Smit, Helen’s great-niece, in answer to my enquiry. Helen Botha had said that Churchill was ‘very entertaining’. But was there more to their relationship than just friendship?
At the time, an imminent engagement was rumoured. A kiteflying, reply-prepaid telegram to Churchill from the Manchester Chronicle asked for confirmation of ‘something interesting’. From the South of France Muriel Wilson sent tongue-in-cheek congratulations, having herself lately experienced Churchill’s ineptitude as a suitor due to his complete absorption in politics.
Interviewed sixty years later for a British Sunday newspaper, Helen Botha denied any romance: ‘It was so unlikely I would fall for him. After all, I was a Transvaaler.’ This was a somewhat disingenuous statement, as her father and Churchill got along famously. What is more to the point is that it would have been out of character for Churchill to contemplate marriage to a young Boer woman, no matter how vivacious and intelligent she might be. His huge ambitions demanded a wife who would be a political asset, and as a rapidly rising star, it was likely that he would find one soon enough.
By the time he met Helen Botha he had come a long way since his weary march, as a dishevelled prisoner of war seven years earlier, along the muddy tracks to Elandslaagte.
SEVEN
Into Captivity
‘This misfortune, could I have foreseen the future, was to lay the foundations of my later life.’
WINSTON CHURCHILL, My Early Life
WATER POURED FROM A LEADEN SKY as the motley band of prisoners was assembled: two officers and fifty men in bedraggled khaki; four sailors in jaunty straw hats embellished with HMS Tartar in gold lettering on their black ribbons; several railwaymen in sodden overalls; and one hatless war correspondent in a wet buttoned-up tunic, baggy trousers and long leather gaiters. ‘Voorwarts,’ came the order, and the procession moved off, surrounded by Boers, their horses steaming in the rain. For Churchill, with the fair complexion of a redhead, the rain was probably preferable to the burning South African sun. After a few paces one of the Boers took pity on the hatless civilian and threw him an Irish Fusilier’s forage cap, a trophy picked up after an earlier battle.
Churchill’s immediate surroundings had only a temporary and marginal effect on his morale. His emotions encompassed humiliation at the indignity of being taken prisoner and frustration at being a captive, but above all concern that he might miss the rest of the war and the opportunities it could offer. As he plodded along the muddy track, in a hat the like of which he had not worn since he had left Sandhurst, his mind was already racing ahead to the one avenue of opportunity which, at least to him, was clearly signposted. He knew that his part in the armoured train action would feature with credit in the British press. His misadventure could thus be turned to advantage.
In his autobiography A Soldier’s Saga, Aylmer Haldane portrays Churchill as looking ahead with confidence even in the first hours following his capture:
Churchill must have been cheered by the thought, which he communicated to me, that what had taken place, though it had caused the temporary loss of his post as war correspondent, would help considerably in opening the door for him to enter the House of Commons. As we trudged wearily over the damp veldt he remarked to me that in allotting him what I might call the ‘star turn’ I had effaced myself, while his work of clearing the line had brought him into prominence . . . He added that so far as I was concerned he would at first opportunity publish the facts in his newspaper.
Churchill’s suggestion to Haldane that he had been allotted the starring role was no more than a polite way of glossing over the fact that he had reacted positively to the crisis, seizing the initiative while others were still in a state of shock. Haldane, perhaps recognising that his own performance had been eclipsed and not wishing to see that implied in print, responded with a stiff upper lip: ‘While thanking him, I replied that being satisfied that I had done my duty and acted in what I considered the wisest way in the circumstances no explanation as to what had occurred was necessary.’
Churchill’s fame was spreading even as he was being marched into captivity. That very evening the Natal Advertiser ran a special edition carrying a report of his ‘courageous conduct’ during the ambush. It had to rely on fragmentary accounts from those survivors who had made it back to Estcourt, for, as Reuter reported, ‘the only war correspondent present was Mr Churchill’, and he was at that moment incommunicado somewhere on the rain-soaked veldt. The report ended: ‘Our friend Mr Churchill is a prisoner,’ a tribute to the impact he had made in the short time he had been in Natal.
Two days later the paper carried a more lengthy account, based on the testimony of Captain Wylie, who had been wounded during the attack. He described Churchill’s conduct ‘in the most enthusiastic terms as that of as brave a man as could be found’, and recounted how he continued to direct operations ‘amid a hail of missiles’.
Winston Churchill, war correspondent, by Mortimer Menpes.
The Dunnotar Castle, on which Churchill sailed for South Africa on 14 October 1899.
General Sir Redvers Buller.
Estcourt in 1899.
Estcourt station, where Churchill pitched his tent.
Churchill in South Africa, by Mortimer Menpes.
Churchill with Colonel Julian Byng, commander of the South African Light Horse.
Captain Aylmer Haldane.
‘Hairy Mary’, the armoured train, with driver Wagner (right).
The armoured train approaching Blaaw Kranz bridge.
Driver Wagner (with bandaged head) and Second Engineer Stewart, photographed shortly after the action.
The Boer commander General Louis Botha, later reputed to have personally captured Churchill.
Daniel Swanepoel (right), who guarded Churchill on the train to Pretoria.
Churchill (right) with other prisoners of war on arrival at Pretoria.
The States Model School at the time of Churchill’s imprisonment.
The same edition published a letter sent to the General Manager of the Natal Government Railways on behalf of the railway employees who had escaped on the engine: ‘The railway men who accompanied the armoured train this morning ask me to convey to you their admiration of the coolness and pluck displayed by Mr Winston Churchill . . . The whole of our men are loud in their praises of Mr Churchill . . . I respectfully ask you to convey their admiration to a brave man.’
Testimonials to Churchill’s gallantry came from a wide variety of sources, and from all levels. Captain Anthony Weldon wrote to Field Marshal Lord Wolseley, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, to whom he was ADC: ‘I had a talk with the engine driver of the train . . . & also with a platelayer who had accompanied it . . . they both told me nothing could exceed Churchill’s pluck & coolness during the whole affair. He took off his coat & worked with the men getting the engine on to the lines again under a perfect hail of bullets & shells & after they had got safely away to Frere got down from the train & walked back alone . . . to look for & help the wounded.’
A private in the Durban Light Infantry who, having been shot in both foot and throat had escaped on the engine, wrote to his sister: ‘Churchill is a splendid fellow. He walked about in it all as coolly as if nothing was going on, & called for volunteers to give him a hand to get the truck out of the road.’
Even the enemy paid tribute to Churchill’s courage. Dr Moorhead of the Red Cross, writing several months after the event, noted that the burghers ‘gave glowing details about Winston Churchill’s gallantry, which they must have heard
from the soldiers’.
Back in Britain The Times, the Daily Mail, the Manchester Guardian and the Daily Telegraph all reported his courage in glowing terms. Inevitably a sour note crept into some of the more radical elements of the press, Truth seeking to disparage Churchill’s actions by a rhetorical question: ‘Mr Churchill is described as having rallied the force . . . Would officers in command on the battlefield permit a journalist to “rally” those who were under their orders?’ The answer, as was implied by the unsolicited testimonials from many sources, showed that, unwittingly, the paper was living up to its name.
A matter-of-fact report came from Private Alexander Chisholm of the Durban Light Infantry, one of the very few to have escaped the ambush site on foot. His letter to his father was quoted in full in the Buchan Observer of 26 December 1899. ‘I underwent a terrible experience last Wednesday, the 15th November . . . I expected to be done for at any second.’ In a letter of some 650 words, ‘Lieutenant’ Churchill is the only person named, his rank presumed no doubt because he, rather than any of the officers present, took charge.
On hearing that Churchill was a prisoner, his valet Thomas Walden gathered his kit and deposited it at the Horseshoe Hotel in Pietermaritzburg. From there he wrote to Lady Randolph:
I came down in the armoured train with the driver who is wounded in the head with a shell. He told me all about Mr Winston. He says there is not a braver gentleman in the Army. The driver was one of the first wounded, and he said to Mr Winston: ‘I am finished.’ So Mr Winston said to him: ‘Buck up a bit, I will stick to you,’ and he threw off his revolver and field-glasses and helped the driver pick up 20 wounded and put them in the tender of the engine. Every officer in Estcourt thinks Mr C. and the engine-driver will get the V.C.
Had Churchill been a conventional young officer and Wagner a soldier, there is little doubt that both of them would have received the Victoria Cross. But as civilians neither was eligible for it, or for any other military decoration, although the authorities could have recommended them for the Albert Medal, the civilian equivalent of the Victoria Cross. Not only would it have been well deserved, but its award to the driver would have provided a much-needed boost to the morale of those civilians who were providing indispensable wartime service to the Crown.
Churchill understood the place medals have in maintaining morale. In the heat of action he had promised to see that Wagner would get a medal, and afterwards he could not ignore the authorities’ failure to recognise the engine-driver’s courage under fire. Writing to the editor of the Spectator, which had carried an article about the armoured train, he described Wagner’s actions and concluded: ‘He has received no recognition of any kind from the War Office, although one would have thought his services not less valuable and deserving than those of several young gentlemen who adorned the headquarters staff. Driver Wagner – he is driving an armoured engine still – is not likely to complain; but from time to time I get querulous letters from his comrades who think he has been gracelessly treated.’
Ten years later, on becoming Home Secretary, and in a position to advise the King on awards of the Albert Medal, Churchill was able to make good his promise. Charles Wagner was decorated with the Albert Medal First Class, while the train’s second engineer, Alexander Stewart, received the Albert Medal Second Class.
Their grandchildren were among the first to respond to my broadcast appeal for descendants of anyone who had known Churchill during his time in South Africa to come forward.
After our nostalgic visit to the scene of the ambush, over lunch in Fort Durnford at Estcourt, I continued to discuss the action with Charles Wagner and his sister, Molly Buchanan.
‘The family have always been proud that our grandfather had been under fire with Churchill,’ said Molly.
‘What did he say about it?’ I asked.
‘Not much. We knew he had been responsible for driving the engine away even though he was wounded, but apart from that he said very little about the actual battle. He just carried on driving engines.’
‘Do you have any photographs?’ I asked. I had seen an old, torn press cutting which carried a picture of Wagner standing with his second engineer, but the original photograph from which it had been printed had apparently vanished.
‘The only photograph we had was of him with his engine,’ said Molly, ‘and we gave that and his medal to the military museum in Durban.’
Wagner had obviously been a modest man, careless of the fame in which he might have basked, and all that was left in my pursuit of him was a visit to the military museum in Durban. There I found that even after two world wars, his exploit has not been overshadowed. The curator directed me instantly to Wagner’s Albert Medal, which occupies pride of place among dozens of decorations from many campaigns. In an adjacent cabinet is a fading photograph of Driver Wagner, oil can in hand, standing confidently in front of ‘Hairy Mary’, a replacement engine for the one damaged during the ambush. Coupled to it are a few armoured trucks, and standing by are several soldiers.
Alexander Stewart, the second engineer’s grandson, had driven 150 miles from Durban to Winterton (it was called Springfield in 1899) to tell his tale. We sat on the verandah of the farm where Churchill had camped after his escape. As we looked across the Tugela River to the bare summit of Spion Kop, baking in the midday sun, Stewart proudly showed me a photograph of his grandfather with the Albert Medal. Even more interesting to me was a studio photograph of Stewart and Wagner together, taken ten years earlier, a day or two after they had driven the wounded to safety. Wagner’s head is bandaged. It was the missing press picture.
‘Did your grandfather ever talk about mine?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. His favourite story was the one when Churchill, passing through Pietermaritzburg some time after he had escaped his Boer captors, had gone to the railway yard and asked if the engineer was around.’
A message was relayed to Stewart that an important, but unnamed, man was asking for him. ‘Tell him I’m in dirty overalls covered in oil and grease, and in no fit condition to meet anyone important,’ he said.
When the reply reached Churchill, he exclaimed, ‘Dirty overalls are nothing compared to what he and I went through together. I have to shake his hand, oil and all.’ Then, to the delight of those present, Churchill strode through the railway yard to seek Stewart out.
There is no doubt that Churchill hoped that he himself would receive some official recognition of his action. In previous campaigns as a soldier he had sometimes been called a medal-hunter, but in reality he had been seeking action, and having found it, he prized the medals which commemorated his participation. There is nothing vainglorious about a young man aspiring to a decoration, particularly in the military field, and although in this case the young man was a civilian, his was a fine example of military action under fire.
Captain Haldane’s report was virtually a citation for a decoration, and would normally have prompted official recognition of Churchill’s bravery. At some risk to his own reputation – for in the heat of battle he, although the commander, had played the lesser role – Haldane described Churchill’s part in the action, and concluded: ‘I would point out that while engaged on the work of saving the engine, for which he was mainly responsible, he was frequently exposed to the full fire of the enemy. I cannot speak too highly of his gallant conduct.’ Haldane’s account would have been seen by the Commander-in-Chief in South Africa, General Buller, and because it concerned an important action he would have sent its substance, if not the whole report, to the War Office.
There were also the other testimonials to Churchill’s courage, notably from members of the Durban Light Infantry and the Natal railwaymen. These had been sent to the Governor of Natal, Sir Walter Hely-Hutchinson, who forwarded them to the Colonial Office.
In May 1901, safely back in England and by then a Member of Parliament, Churchill raised the subject with his friend Joseph Chamberlain, the Colonial Secretary:
It has occurred to me that i
f the papers sent by the Natal people to the Colonial Office were forwarded to the War Office, they would look very imposing taken in conjunction with this dispatch [Haldane’s report], and I might get some sort of military mention or decoration.
In case this sounded too blatant a case of medal-hunting, he continued by advancing a political rationale:
Of course in common with all the other members of Parliament I care nothing for the glittering baubles of honour for my own sake: but I have like others – as you know – to ‘think of my constituents’ – and perhaps I ought to consider the feelings of my possible wife. This being so if you can trace these papers and feel inclined to send them to the War Office, I shall be much obliged. The case could then be considered with other cases.
Unfortunately for Churchill’s hopes of a medal, his case was in the hands of the military hierarchy, the object of his frequent and telling barbs. No one in the War Office would champion his cause.
Unpopular he may have been among the higher reaches of the army, but his stock soared with the public. At a time when those in charge of the South African campaign seemed to be getting everything wrong, the young Churchill had turned in a bravura performance, and the British people, as they would do again a couple of wars hence, put the bad news behind them by applauding this hero.
The journey to Pretoria took the prisoners seventy two-hours – two days’ marching and one by train. Within a few hours of his arrival there, Churchill had, as if to emphasise his non-combatant status of war correspondent, begun a series of dispatches to the Morning Post. It may seem strange that his captors allowed him so much licence, but – quite apart from the civilised conventions which then existed between captors and captured – the Boers may well have thought that public opinion abroad could be influenced in their favour by Churchill’s informative, non-partisan accounts, which were cabled, uncensored, to London.