On 24 September advance elements of a British column under General R. Pole-Carew entered an almost deserted Komatipoort.
The British could now look about them and see no more armies to fight, no other major cities to conquer, no more railways or other installations to capture. The soldiers began to think of returning home.
34
THE END OF THE SECOND ACT
The war was over. Lord Roberts reported to the secretary of state for war that “with the occupation of Komati Poort, and the dispersal of Commandant-General Louis Botha’s army, the organized resistance of the two Republics might be said to have ceased.”1 There did not appear to be much more for the army to do; the civil administration would soon be able to take over, and on 8 October Alfred Milner was appointed administrator for the new colonies. “There is nothing now left of the Boer army but a few marauding bands,” said Roberts publicly. Although he was later condemned for his lack of foresight, he cannot, in fairness, be blamed for his assessment; no one else in the British Empire was any wiser at the time. All his officers thought the war was over and that only some police actions were required to bring the Pax Britannica to South Africa. The politicians in London thought it was over, and so did prominent South Africans such as Cecil Rhodes. Many, perhaps most, Boers thought so as well. A small dissenting voice in the victory chorus was a trooper in Paget’s Horse who wrote home:
“The Transvaal is annexed,” “the war is over,” “sailing orders may be expected at any moment,” and yet I am writing this with a loaded rifle by my side and with the sound of rifle fire in my ears; also with the happy consciousness that at any minute a “sniper” may honour me with his attentions, and yet “the war is over,” for do not the month-old papers we receive from home persistently call our attention to this, to them, patent fact? It is not quite so obvious, however, out here.2
Conan Doyle thought the war was over, and he had a great thick history of the conflict all but finished. He dashed through the final bit—there was a penultimate chapter entitled “The End of the War”—and hastened into print with it. While admitting that there were “scattered bands of Boer warriors” still on the veld, he explained: “My time and my space forbid the inclusion of these last incidents, which could have no bearing on the ultimate result.” This first history of the war was a popular book and went through many editions, but by the time the eighteenth version—catted “The Final Edition”—was published two years later (when the war was indeed and at long last really ended) there were an additional nine chapters and the original “The End of the War” chapter was retitled.
The politicians, whose business it was ever to keep an ear cocked to the public voice, viewed the course of the war with one eye on its effect on their own careers. The Unionist government in England decided that there would be no better time to test its strength than in this hour when the British army stood on the threshold of victory. On 25 September, the same day British troops occupied Komatipoort, Parliament was dissolved. The general election that followed was called the “Khaki Election,” for there was but one primary issue: the war. The election campaign, was short and vicious. Since this was “Chamberlain’s war,” it was he, the colonial secretary, not the prime minister, who was the chief representative of the Unionist party. There was, said Winston Churchill later, more enthusiasm for Chamberlain at this time than there was after World War I for Lloyd George and Douglas Haig combined.
In one of his speeches Chamberlain repeated the words of the mayor of Mafeking: “A seat lost to the government is a seat gained by the Boers.” This was picked up and much quoted. Unionist posters twisted it slightly to “A vote for a Liberal is a vote for the Boers.” To many voters the issue did indeed seem black or white: one was pro-Empire or pro-Boer; one was loyal to the government or a traitor.
The government had much to live down. There had been the dismal defeats in the field at the beginning of the war; there was the scandal over the inadequate medical attention given to the troops; there was the vast (so it seemed) expenditure of funds and loss of life. But the war was almost won now, it was believed, and there was a fear that the Liberals if elected would repeat “the magnanimity of Majuba.”
The government was not without its critics, and there was even some criticism of Milner and demands that he be removed from his South African post. Churchill, however, in one of his most extravagant statements, argued that to remove Milner at this time would be “a greater blow to Imperial interests than the defeats of Magersfontein, Storrnberg, Colenso and Spion Kop put together.”3
These attacks on Chamberlain and Milner were mere pin pricks. The Liberals were hopelessly divided on the war issue, and the antiwar groups had no prominent men of stature to support them. Even such unlikely people as Bernard Shaw and Swinburne supported the government, although Shaw confessed to being somewhat embarrassed at finding himself “on the side of the mob.” Much has been written about the Khaki Election, but in spite of the excitement among the politically minded there was considerable apathy among the voters and 1,276,089 fewer votes were cast than there had been in 1895. The Unionists won, and although they increased their majority by only two, they obtained a significantly higher percentage of the popular vote. Among the new members taking their seats for the first time was Winston Churchill, who, believing that the war was almost over, had hurried home in July to capitalise on his family name and his newly won reputation in South Africa.
The people of Britain had demonstrated their overwhelming support of the government’s policy in South Africa, but there was, and there remained for the duration of the war, a small but vocal band, damned as pro-Boers, who denounced the war. Most of these belonged to one of two groups: the South African Conciliation Committee, which in November 1900 had only 1,700 members, and the Stop-the-War Committee, the most extreme group, founded by that flamboyant journalist W. T. Stead. Besides Stead the only leaders of note were Leonard Courtney, M.P. for Liskeard, and David Lloyd George, who nearly lost his seat in Parliament, his law practice, and his life through his antiwar activities.
The thirty-seven-year-old Lloyd George was not, in fact, well known in the country as a whole before the war, but came into national prominence as a result of his antiwar speeches and his vigorous attacks on the popular Chamberlain. He told the House of Commons:
The right honourable gentleman [Chamberlain] admitted that he had no right to meddle in the affairs of the Transvaal and that there was only one possible, justification for it—that our motive was an unselfish one. We have thrown that justification away now.... You entered into these two republics for Philanthropic purposes and remained to commit burglary.... Our critics say you are not going to war for equal rights and to establish fair play, but to get hold of the goldfields.4
Lloyd George’s was a voice in the wilderness. Chamberlain and his views were popular; Lloyd George and his views were not. Outside of the House of Commons he often had difficulty finding an audience. The Cornish Times reported at length on one attempt he made to speak in Liskeard under the auspices of the South African Conciliation Committee:
It was anticipated from the first that the proceedings would not pass off without some demonstration of opposition to the views set forth by the committee. These expectations proved only too well justified.... the platform was stormed by a party of young fellows, many of whom wore miniature Union Jacks, and the meeting was broken up in confusion.5
When the chairman tried to speak he was interrupted by shouts and whistles; someone blew on a tin trumpet and the audience roared out “Soldiers of the Queen,” “Rule Britannia,” and other patriotic airs. These were followed by a rendering of the Cornish ballad “Trelawny,” which while not very relevant was a tune everyone knew. “It was some time before the noise in any way abated; flags were waved, chairs knocked about, and as a khaki-clad soldier from the front tried to leave the building, he was lifted shoulder-high, and this led to an outburst of cheering for ‘Tommy Atkins’.”
Miss Emily Ho
bhouse, secretary of the Conciliation Committee, rose to speak and with more truth than wisdom reminded the audience that “manners maketh man.” This was greeted with hoots of laughter followed by cheers for Buller and Baden-Powell and Chamberlain. When from the back of the hall someone started the singing of “Men of Harlech” to the accompaniment of stamping feet, Miss Hobhouse gave up and sat down.
Mr. Lloyd George stood smiling at the table, he did not attempt to utter a syllable. It was perfectly evident that the crowd would not hear the Welsh MP at any price.... Presently a further demonstration attracted attention to the floor from the hall. The khaki-clad soldier from Hassenford was hoisted onto the shoulders of half a dozen men, who carried him around the hall.... At this point the police made their appearance on the platform.
Aided by the police, the speakers left in safety while the crowd cheered for Lord Roberts and leading politicians.
This was a peaceful demonstration compared with one that took place five months later when Lloyd George attempted to speak at the Town Hall in Birmingham, Chamberlain’s home town. Before the meeting began brass bands defiantly played patriotic songs in the snow outside the hall, and a street vendor did a brisk business selling half-bricks “three a penny, to throw at Lloyd George.” It did not appear to be an auspicious occasion, and indeed it was not. But Lloyd George was a brave little man: he appeared on the platform. He was greeted by a roar of angry voices. Cries of “Traitor!” and “Pro-Boer!” and, more ominously, “Kill him!” filled the hall. Above the shouts could be heard the crash of breaking glass and the whistles of the police. As the Birmingham Daily Mail reported it, “the outcome ... was that considerable damage was done to the Town Hall, and one young man was killed, and several members of the police force and the general public were more or less severely injured.” 6
Including the young man killed by an overzealous policeman wielding a baton, there were twenty-seven casualties. The problem of removing Lloyd George safely from the hall was solved by dressing him in a policeman’s uniform, although because of his size there was some difficulty in finding one small enough. In this disguise and with his police helmet pulled well down over his face the future prime minister scurried out a side exit into Paradise Street and made his escape.
Pro-Boers were unpopular everywhere. Zealous patriots broke the windows of their homes or places of business, disrupted their meetings, hurled insults at them, and such conduct was condoned by some newspapers. The Yorkshire Post said: “When pro-Boers ... insult the living and the dead by extolling the nation’s enemies, they do what is not only foolish but wicked, and openly invite the ill-usage they afterwards receive.” 7
Only a few newspapers were antiwar: the Manchester Guardian, the Daily News, the Star, the Westminister Gazette, for which H. H. Munro (better known as “Saki”) wrote, two working-class newspapers, the Morning Leader and Reynolds News, and W. T. Stead’s Review of Reviews. No one was more violently opposed to the war than Stead, whose newspaper was full of antiwar articles. Among his contributions to the Khaki Election was The Candidates of Cain, a 70,000-word book he wrote in just six days. He also put out special antiwar pamphlets such as Shall I Slay My Brother Boer?, billed as an “appeal to the conscience of Britain.” This particular piece provoked a counter pamphlet entitled Shall I Kick My Brother Stead?
Neither Stead nor anyone else was able to stem the tide of opinion in favour of the war. The only community in the country which was strongly pro-Boer was Battersea, which went so far as to name a street after Commandant-General Joubert. (It still bears his name.)
Never before nor since has a war been so popular. Even antiwar speakers had to be careful not to disparage “our brave soldiers.” Tommy Atkins had never been so esteemed; only the Irish Nationalists dared to damn the British army and openly to cheer Boer victories. Lines were sharply drawn, and there was no place for the man who loved his country and was proud of the Empire but deplored the war.
It was widely held that the war was prolonged by the antiwar activities in Britain, and it was true that those trying to stop the war did, in fact, help to prolong it. Selected statements made by antiwar Britons, translated and read to the commandos, gave hope to many that Britain would give up the struggle. This, together with the equally groundless hopes of foreign intervention excited by the pro-Boer sentiments expressed in the European and American press, helped to sustain Boer morale.
The antiwar movement in Britain has been much studied, not because it had any real influence on the government or public opinion, but because it was a new thing in British history. None of the dozens of other imperialistic wars had brought forth such a movement. Earlier in the century Gladstone had denounced Britain’s wars in Afghanistan and Zululand, but he had merely used them as sticks with which to beat the existing government; there were no pro-Afghan or pro-Zulu organizations. To see the antiwar movement in perspective one can look at its strength in Parliament: of the 670 members elected to the House of Commons in the Khaki Election, only 52 were pro-Boer while 402 were Unionists.
Undoubtedly some of the steam was taken out of the movement at the time of the election by the general belief that the war was already over, or would be within a matter of weeks, and perhaps many among those who found it hard to justify were nevertheless unwilling that Britain should give up what had been so hardly won. There were few indeed who seriously considered the complete withdrawal of British troops and the return of the Orange Free State and the Transvaal to the republican Boers.
Roberts, having done all the conventional things expected of a general in the field and having, by any ordinary standards, won the war, now prepared to go home. His accomplishments were impressive. He had marched through the enemy’s countries, seizing both capitals; he had captured Cronjé and his army, and in every engagement the enemy had been routed; the besieged towns of Kimberley, Ladysmith, and Mafeking had been relieved; what remained of the Boer forces had scattered before him, and their governments’ leaders and officials had been driven into exile or made fugitives on the veld; he was in firm control of all the means of communication and supply and, agriculture excepted, of all the wealth-producing resources of the former republics. And he had done all this in less than a year.
True, President Steyn and Acting President Schalk Burger still attempted to head their governments on the open veld. True too that scattered over the vast countryside there were still a few thousand armed and mounted men determined to continue the fight—“bitter-enders” they came to be called—led by Botha, De la Rey, and De Wet. But these could not be expected to survive, and the mopping-up operations could safely be entrusted to the ruthless efficiency of Kitchener—or so it was believed. Who could blame Roberts for thinking he had won the war? That he could now return home to his triumph? And who would deny him the honours of a conqueror?
The lustre of his greatness dimmed somewhat as it slowly dawned on soldiers and civilians alike that the war was not, after all, ended, that the fighting had simply taken a new form. History has not always dealt kindly with Roberts, and he has been called the most overrated general in British history.8 Perhaps a fresh judgement is not out of place. Naturally, Roberts did not deserve quite all of the encomiums heaped on him. Few heroes do. However, he ought not to be denied his rightful place in military history. It is true he was not a genius; he only appeared to be when contrasted with generals such as Buller, Methuen, Warren, and Gatacre.
His triumphal march through the Orange Free State and the Transvaal was exactly what the War Office had had in mind from the start, what Buller had at first intended to do, and there was nothing particularly singular about his variations on the plan, for to outflank strong enemy positions rather than attack them frontally is only good sense. But plans remain valueless unless they can be implemented, and it is in the execution of strategy that most of the qualities desired in generals are put to the test. Roberts had confidence in his own abilities, he possessed physical and moral courage, and he had that most important quali
ty of all: resolution, the determination to win through. Obstacles and reverses did not shake him; the suggestions and advice of politicians did not cause him to hesitate; he refused to be diverted from his major objectives by lesser crises. Genius was not required of him, only competence, and by Victorian standards Roberts was a very competent general.
Roberts’s departure from South Africa was delayed by a series of misfortunes. One of his aides-de-camp, Major Prince Victor of Schleswig-Holstein, a grandson of Queen Victoria, came down with enteric and died after only a few days’ illness. Two days later Roberts’s eldest daughter, Aileen, caught the disease and was for two weeks on the danger list. Scarcely had she recovered than Roberts was thrown from his horse and broke his arm. It was not until 11 December that he and his family were able to set off for home, going to Cape Town by way of Durban so that he could visit his son’s grave. At Colenso Roberts stared in silence over the battlefield where his son had been killed, finally murmuring to his companion, “It was murder.”
At three o’clock on 2 January 1901 Roberts stepped onto Trinity Pier, East Cowes, and England gave him a hero’s welcome. Crowds cheered, newsmen jostled to interview him, every ship at anchorage blew its whistle or rang its bell, guns banged out a nineteen-gun salute, and the mayor read a formal address. Roberts was taken to Osborne to see the Queen, the same sovereign who nearly forty-two years before had pinned on his chest the Victoria Cross. He had won many honours since, and now he was raised to the rank of earl with a special remainder to his daughters —there no longer being a son to inherit the title—and he was made a Knight of the Garter, the first and only victorious general in Queen Victoria’s reign to be so honoured. It was almost the Queen’s last official function, for she was seriously ill and died just twenty days later. From Osborne Roberts proceeded to London, where the Prince and Princess of Wales came to meet his special train at Paddington Station and 14,000 troops lined the way to Buckingham Palace to keep back the tens of thousands on hand to cheer him.
Great Boer War Page 47