Great Boer War

by Farwell, Byron,,

Even in Britain Kitchener’s proclamation did not sit well. Conan Doyle, the greatest apologist for Britain’s war policy, wrote: “The imposition of personal penalties upon the officers of an opposing army is a step for which it is difficult to quote a precedent.... the whole proceeding must appear to be injudicious and high-handed.”7

  Although the proclamation had been issued on 7 August, it was 13 September when Smuts and his men saw it. They had two days left in which to surrender, but they had no intention of giving up the struggle as long as they were physically able to fight, although it was not at all certain how much longer this would be.

  On the banks of the Klaas Smits River Smuts paused long enough for his men to prepare a hasty meal and for the long-suffering horses to pluck a few tufts of grass. There was time for no more. Another British column appeared on the horizon to hustle them. Retreating from kopje to kopje, Smuts kept off his pursuers until sunset, when they gave up the chase. He then led his men to a large farm where, after sixty hours of marching and fighting, they were at last able to sleep.

  A night’s rest was welcome indeed, but it was all they got. At nine o’clock the next morning another British column was seen bearing down on them. It was again “Opsaal!” and away. All that day and the next they fled from the doggedly pursuing British. More cold rain added to their misery. Then one night their guide lost his way and they floundered about, ankle deep in mud and water. About midnight the rain turned to sleet. The grain bags the men wore froze solid into stiff and cutting coats of mail. They had to keep moving to avoid freezing. Men who had endured all previous hardships without complaint now audibly groaned. “We had known two years of war,” said Reitz, “but we came nearer to despair that night than I care to remember.... and for my part I passed through no greater test during the war.”8 It was worse than anything that had gone before, worse than any battle they had fought; fourteen men and dozens of horses were lost on this dreadful night. Xenophon and his Greeks in western Armenia did not suffer worse.

  It was almost dawn before they came upon a deserted homestead. They stumbled inside the empty buildings and stood shivering in the dark, men and horses huddled together, waiting dumbly for daylight. With the dawn the rain stopped and fires were built; men and their clothes were dried. At midday Smuts ordered them to move on, and they headed for a large farm 8 or 9 miles away where a Bantu had told them they would find fodder for their famished horses. Although nearly every man had begun the expedition with two horses, there were now not enough to go around, and nearly a quarter of the force were without mounts; of the horses still alive, not one was fit.

  At the farm they found a large supply of oat sheaves and even sheep for slaughter and wood to burn. That night they slept in relative comfort, but local Bantu told of British columns that were forming a cordon to the south, their direction of march. The next day, 17 September 1901, was to see the most dramatic and significant action of the campaign.

  When scouts reported 200 British cavalry waiting for them at the end of a valley just ahead, Smuts decided to attack, for unless he could capture fresh horses and ammunition he was lost. Van Deventer and about 20 men, Reitz among them, were sent ahead while Smuts brought up the remainder of the commando. Van Deventer’s men had just crossed a small stream and were passing through a fringe of thorn trees on the other side when they collided with a British patrol of about 15 or 20 troopers. Reitz and three or four of his companions were in the lead. Leaping from their horses, they opened fire, bringing down several troopers from a distance of only 10 yards. The patrol wheeled and bolted. Reitz, having fired his last two cartridges in this encounter, ran forward to grab the Lee-Metford and bandolier of a fallen soldier. Thus rearmed, he jumped on his horse and joined the others in the chase. The soldiers were delayed by a gate, and two or three more were shot from their saddles.

  When the Boers reached the gate, Van Deventer and a half-dozen men veered off and made for a nearby kopje while the others continued their hot pursuit of the cavalry patrol. The troopers raced to an outcropping of rocks where a British picket had been posted. There they leaped from their horses, scrambled behind rocks, and opened a point-blank fire on their pursuers. A mountain gun and a machine gun also opened up. Three burghers were hit, but the rest rode straight for the rocks, jumped off, loosed their horses, and returned the fire, soldiers and burghers only a few feet from each other.

  Looking around from the shelter of his rock, Reitz was surprised that the tents of the British camp were so near that he could see the soldiers running and clearly hear the shouts of their officers. Smuts and the remainder of the commando were coming up on the other side, and from where he lay Reitz could see a mountain gun with a four-man crew opening up on them, apparently unaware that any of the Boers were so close. He shot at the tallest of the four and saw him spin and fall back in a sitting position, his back against the wheel of the gun. The other three bolted, and he shot one more as he ran.

  Some troopers from the camp came running towards them, and Reitz shot a big, heavily built sergeant in the abdomen; he folded up and rolled on the ground in agony until he died. Young Lieutenant Richard Brinsley Sheridan rose up from behind a rock and fired at Reitz but missed. When he tried again Reitz creased his temple with a bullet. Sheridan swayed unsteadily, blood running down his face, but raised his rifle; another burgher shot him through the brain.

  The British, taken by surprise and caught in a fast and accurate fire from all sides, panicked. Only one group of soldiers held out, fighting valiantly from a stone kraal. It took fierce hand-to-hand fighting to subdue them and put the Boers in undisputed possession. They had lost only I killed and 6 wounded, while the British, out of 145 men, had suffered 26 killed and 39 wounded. Of the 6 officers, 4 were killed and 2 wounded.

  Masters of the camp, the burghers began joyously to loot. Tents and wagons were ransacked; grain bag coats were thrown off and exchanged for warm British uniforms; fresh horses were acquired, along with saddlery, Lee-Metfords, and all the ammunition they could carry. Reitz rifled an officer’s tent and emerged dressed in riding breeches, a cavalry officer’s tunic, a sporting Lee-Metford, and full bandoliers of ammunition. He also selected a superb grey Arab pony which had belonged to Lieutenant Sheridan and a strong riding mule. Then, flushed with victory and resplendent in his finery, he strode about the camp and battlefield; not even the sight of the men he had killed could dampen his spirits: “I looked upon them with mixed feelings, for although I have never hated the English, a fight is a fight, and while I was sorry for the men, I was proud of my share in the day’s work.”9

  Smuts gained much by this little victory. Not only was he able to reequip, reprovision, and rearm his commando, but he had broken through the circle of British troops surrounding him and out of the mountainous country into the open plain. He was now free to go marauding in the Cape Midlands, where he soon created an uproar. Equally important, the battle had renewed the confidence of his men in him as a leader. The weather improved and they rode gaily into the heart of Cape Colony, helping themselves from the larders of farms, to the fruits of orchards, and to sheep from the flocks.

  The Boers were usually punctilious in the observance of the rules of war as they understood them, but both sides tended to let their principles slip in the last, more bitter months of the conflict. Smuts must have known very well that it was against the accepted rules of warfare to don the enemy’s uniform and that men caught doing so could be, and often were, shot as spies if captured. Yet, understandably if not excusably, he permitted his ragged, shivering men to wear the uniforms of the 17th Lancers. While there was some justification at the time for wearing the clothing, there was no excuse for not removing the badges and insignia, and there was no excuse for not discarding the uniforms altogether when the commando entered the Midlands and supplies of other clothing became available. For some of his men this wearing of the British khaki was fatal.

  Most were ignorant of the enormity of their crime. They liked the warm clothes, and man
y also enjoyed presenting a military appearance. Reitz took pride in wearing all of the badges and insignia of an officer of the 17th Lancers. He and his companions were often mistaken for British troops, and when asked by civilians the name of their unit their stock witticism was to reply that they were “English-killing dragoons,” and doubtless some mistook them for the 6th Inniskilling Dragoons. One day the commando stopped at a wayside inn, and, as most of the men had not tasted liquor for more than a year, some took the opportunity to make up for time lost. Piet de Ruyt, a Hollander, overindulged and was sleeping when Smuts cried “Opsaal!” and the commando moved on without him. He was still asleep in his lancer’s uniform when the British arrived shortly after. They shot him.

  Piet de Ruyt was the first but not the last of Smuts’s men to face a firing squad. Although the Boers claimed that in the last days of the war they had no clothes other than the uniforms they stripped from prisoners —and this was certainly true in the Transvaal and the Orange Free State —the British were justly indignant at the use of their uniform to deceive them. Reitz admitted that at least twice he was saved from death or capture by posing as a British soldier. More serious was another incident involving Smuts’s men.

  Two young burghers were out scouting one day when they unexpectedly encountered a British patrol. One of the burghers, an English-speaking boy from Johannesburg, called out: “Don’t fire, we are 17th Lancers!” Captain Watson, in charge of the patrol, hesitated for a fatal moment; both burghers fired, killing Watson and one of his men. Smuts, according to Reitz, “pulled a long face” when told of the incident but apparently made no attempt to discourage such deceptions. The death of Captain Watson was much publicized; Kitchener used it as a justification for shooting burghers caught in British uniforms.

  Smuts worked his way south, successfully dodging the columns sent to catch him, until he was only 50 miles from Algoa Bay on the eastern Cape coast. The taciturn Smuts did not tell his men where he was leading them or why, and some speculated that he actually intended to attack Port Elizabeth, but then an unexpected misfortune overtook the commando. On 29 September, hard pressed by British columns, Smuts retreated into a nearby mountain range. He was probably not seriously concerned, for he could retreat further into the mountains and take his men where it was unlikely that British columns would follow, but in the populated plains food had been so plentiful that the men no longer carried supplies with them; now they found themselves in an uninhabited mountain region and they were soon hungry.

  Smuts’s Invasion of the Cape

  August-December, 1901

  Scattered about in this wild area was a plant bearing a fruit somewhat resembling a pineapple and locally known as “Hottentot’s bread” (En-cephelartos Ahensteinii). It does not grow on the high veld and was unknown to the burghers from the north. One man tasted it and found it good. Others followed his example. It seemed that God had provided them with manna in this wilderness—and so it might have proved at another time of year, for although wholesome and edible in its season the fruit is indigestible at other times, and this was such a time. Like Xenophon’s Greeks who ate the honeycombs, men began to retch and roll on the ground, groaning in agony. More than half the commando was soon hors de combat—and sickest of all was Jan Smuts.

  Just at this juncture British troops were seen moving to attack them. Smuts appeared to be in a coma; Van Deventer was too sick to move. Ben Bouwer, although ill himself, managed to assemble all those still able to function along the top of the ridge they were occupying. It was nearly sunset and the light was uncertain, but they shot well enough to discourage the assaulting troops, who retreated to the hillside opposite to wait for morning before resuming the attack. To the Boers it was obvious that they ought to retreat during the night, but it was equally obvious that half the commando, including their leader, was unable either to walk or to ride. The night was dark and a cold wind sprang up to add to their misery. The groans and retching continued; those who had not eaten the poisonous fruit sat shivering and hungry, wondering what was to become of them.

  Towards morning most of the sick men began to recover, and one by one they stumbled to their feet. When the first light appeared in the eastern sky only about twenty remained prostrate. Smuts was still on his back, but he had recovered sufficiently to appreciate the danger of their position and he ordered the commando to move; all who were unable to saddle and mount by themselves were to be tied to their horses. Smuts himself had to be held on his horse. In the early dawn they started off, following a game track which led them deeper into the mountains. Making their way south, they reached a point from which they could see in the distance the Indian Ocean and at night the lights of Port Elizabeth. No other commando had ever or would ever penetrate so far south.

  Scouts sent out under Jack Borrius to find a way still further south ran into a British patrol and were forced to turn back. There had been fighting, and Borrius returned in a pitiable condition: his left eye shot away, its socket filled with dried blood, and his right hand smashed to a bloody pulp.

  Benjamin Coetzee led the next scouting party, but two of his men walked into a British ambush and were captured. As they were wearing British uniforms, they were shot out of hand and buried where they fell. Their graves are the most southerly of all the fighting burghers.

  Smuts now abandoned his attempt to go further south and headed for the western Cape. He had been reinforced by small bands of Boers, some Cape rebels, and remnants of other commandos, including that of Gideon Scheepers. For more rapid movement, easier provisioning, and to confuse the British, he divided his force, Van Deventer taking charge of one half and leading them by a separate route to a rendezvous in the Calvina district, hundreds of miles to the west. When at last Smuts reached the western Cape he linked up with numerous small bands of Cape rebels and 600 well-armed men led by Salomon Gerhardus (“Manie”) Maritz, described by Reitz as “a short, dark man, of enormous physical strength, cruel and ruthless in his methods, but a splendid guerilla leader, and according to his lights an ardent patriot.”10

  Smuts had failed to create a general uprising of the Cape Afrikaners, but his invasion, considered in any other terms, was a success, and it drew off large British forces which Kitchener would have liked to have used against the larger forces of De la Rey, De Wet, and Botha. Although Smuts was later to refer to this campaign, in spite of its horrors, as being the happiest period in his life, he was at least once close to despair. From Nieuwoudtville, near Calvina, he wrote a letter to his brother Koos (delivered by the British postal system) in which he said: “I have had numerous narrow escapes, for which I am grateful; but each person has his turn ... I hold out little hope of seeing you all again: I know you will do your best to help Isie.”11

  It was in the western Cape that a colonial named Lambert Colyn (or Lemuel Colaine; accounts differ), who said he had escaped from a British prison, joined the commando. “He was a man of about forty-five,” said Reitz, “in appearance a typical back-veld Boer, with flowing beard and corduroys.” His story was believed, and he was given a rifle. A few days later he disappeared and when next seen was leading a British column in a dawn surprise attack on their laager that resulted in 17 casualties.

  A short time after, when Smuts successfully attacked a British camp near Vanrhynsdorp, Colyn was captured and brought to him. “Take him out and shoot him,” snapped Smuts.

  Colyn fell to his knees, begging for mercy, but Smuts was adamant: “For you there can be no mercy. You have done the dirty work of the English.”

  Colyn, still pleading, was dragged away, stood in front of a firing squad, and shot.

  Smuts was never allowed to forget this episode. Many years later, when he had become prime minister of the Union of South Africa and one of the British Empire’s most loyal servants, he was making a speech at a political meeting at Beaufort West. Continually interrupted by an old man with a high voice, he was finally forced to stop and let him speak out:

  “General, do you
remember the day you shot Colyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember how Colyn implored you to spare his life?”

  Smuts did not answer.

  “General, do you remember what you said to him? You said, ‘Colyn, you are one of those rotten Afrikaners who allow themselves to be used by the British to do their dirty work.’ General, are you not perhaps one of those Afrikaners?”

  There can be no doubt that Smuts felt justified in ordering the execution, politically difficult as it was to live with afterwards. His son remembered hearing his father tell the story “in such matter-of-fact terms that I was left without any doubt that he considered it a minor incident of the campaign.”12 Of course at the time it was impossible for Smuts to look ahead to the day when he would be a privy councilor to the King of England, would accept from his hands the Order of Merit and be made a Companion of Honour, but he may have thought back to Xenophon’s story of Cyrus and the traitor Orontas in the Anabasis.

  The incursions of other commandos into the Cape had been little more than raids, but in the western Cape Smuts became undisputed master of a sizable chunk of British territory stretching from the Oliphant to the Orange and only 150 miles due north of Cape Town. He made his headquarters on the Oliphant River only 25 miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean and distributed his men in small groups over his conquered territory. There was time now to make new plans, and even time for some relaxation. Gathering up all those who had never seen the sea, he led them, some 60 or 70 farm boys, most of whom had never seen any body of water larger than a pond, to a small deserted inlet called Fishwater. When they rode over the last sand dune and saw the great expanse of ocean shimmering before them they reined in their horses and stared with amazement and delight, calling out, as did Xenophon’s soldiers on Mount Theches, “The sea! The sea!” Throwing off their clothes and the saddles of their horses, they rode naked and bareback into the surf, shouting and laughing. That night they camped on the beach, built fires of driftwood, and sitting around them talked quietly of the wonders they had seen, the hardships, the fighting, and all the tales they would have to tell when they got home—if they got home.