by Ann Harries
One morning, while she and Nurse Harris were making beds together, tucking the starched sheets tightly into each corner of the mattress so that not a crease or a wrinkle was visible, she found herself murmuring, ‘I wish I could understand why we are at war with a handful of farmers.’ This conundrum had not left her, and as she and Sophie folded blankets, smoothed coverlets, and plumped pillows until each bed reached the point of packaged perfection required by Louise, she felt that this young nurse might be able to help her.
Sophie briskly pushed a pillow into its case. ‘So you understand?’ Her words were scarcely audible as she shook the pillow until it doubled in size.
‘No, not at all,’ said Sarah hurriedly. ‘But I am confused.’
Sophie appeared to be ironing the bedspread with her strong hand. Ripples of Egyptian cotton (for this was the ward for the lower classes where linen was not permitted) fell into place. ‘It so happens I am attending a private meeting on Thursday night. These issues will be discussed. Your attendance would be welcome.’
A flicker of danger set Sarah’s heart beating fast for a minute. It was an unexpectedly pleasant feeling.
‘May I come with you?’ she whispered. ‘I am not on duty that night.’
Sarah’s Diary
4 November 1899
This evening I did something which Father and Mama – to say nothing of Louise – must never know about. I attended a meeting of the South African Conciliation Committee, a newly-founded organisation which many see as having Boer sympathies. My parents are totally anti-Boer now that war has actually broken out, in spite of having had some early sympathy because of their fondness for the Dutch nation.
On the face of it, my journey to Bruton Street with Sophie seemed innocent enough. We discussed the possibility of nursing in South Africa and she surprised me by saying she would like to join the Army Nursing Service Reserve but had already discovered that three years nursing experience are necessary before one can be sent out. I told her that I was seriously thinking of offering my services as well. I did not mention that Louise had already volunteered and had been accepted, though no date is set for her departure.
Once we arrived at our destination in the heart of Mayfair we were courteously received by an elderly butler and directed into a drawing room filled with an equal number of men and women, many of whom were Quakers. Both Lord and Lady Hobhouse, our Liberal hosts, were present; though elderly and a little frail they spoke with a vigorous commitment that strangely excited me. It turns out that Sophie is distantly related to the Hobhouses. They enquired after my parents’ health after Sophie had introduced me (like so many, Lord Hobhouse too admires Father’s botanical studies and is looking forward to his new book on the tulip history.)
A number of extra chairs had been brought into the drawing room on the seats of which were displayed pamphlets with titles like Shall I Slay My Brother Boer?, Sir Alfred Milner’s War, Olive Schreiner’s Appeal, all for sixpence each. I paged through them as we awaited the speakers, and was much struck by the passion expressed in these slender volumes.
When we had all taken our seats, three members of our gathering positioned themselves behind a table laden with books and pamphlets. Two of them were women: one, who was small, dark and quick, led in a twinkling gentleman in a bright blue waistcoat who was clearly blind; the other was a tall woman with a strong, sympathetic face. Her honey-coloured hair was drawn simply beneath a large hat, laden with autumn fruits and leaves, and her slightly melancholy grey eyes regarded us with intelligent interest as Lady Hobhouse introduced the trio. The blind gentleman was Leonard Courtney, Member of Parliament for Liskeard, Cornwall, a world expert on South African affairs and the president of the South African Conciliation Committee. The small woman beside Mr Courtney was his wife, Kate, chairman of the Women’s Industrial Committee (Sophie whispered to me that she is sister of the notorious Socialist, Mrs Sidney Webb), and the lady in the autumnal hat was Lady Hobhouse’s niece, Emily.
I have to say that I was momentarily intimidated by the self-assurance and natural power of these women who clearly regarded themselves as in every way equal to their men; I felt pretty sure that they must be involved in the battle for women’s suffrage as well. It was another world: men and women communicating with each other on equal terms – but a world that required the woman to be a serious creature who was not afraid to say what she thought, vigorously and in public.
Mr Courtney rose to speak, Emily Hobhouse made no effort to disguise the reverence she felt, her eyes filling with admiration as she turned her face towards him. He immediately disabused me of my pro-Boer expectations. The purpose of the committee, he said, was to establish goodwill between the British and Dutch races in South Africa, and to convince the British public of the urgent need for Conciliation in that country. He spoke with fine authority and a deep, resonant voice, and assured us that the committee took no sides in the South African dispute, but longed only for a peaceful solution. It would be unrealistic to call for an end to war while Boer forces were still on British colonial territory: the aim of the Conciliation committee was to educate the public into understanding the true situation in South Africa and correct the many misrepresentations in British newspapers. Facts received from the best and most reliable sources of information were now being disseminated by ardent workers who enlightened their audiences at meetings in village halls and drawing rooms throughout the country. The keynote was calmness and control with no suggestion of temper or exaggeration. Miss Emily Hobhouse was just such a campaigner. Already she had experienced jingoistic fury when speaking in public, and had remained unruffled. Courage was needed to persuade the British people to see the situation in perspective and Miss Hobhouse did not flinch from her crusade, even when insulted or abused by those whose patriotism clouded their judgement.
I suppose my parents and Louise’s family would consider Emily Hobhouse to be one of those ridiculous do-gooders who spend their time defending and supporting the underdog instead of looking after their own families, yet when she rose to speak I sensed something powerful in her presence and was instantly captivated. An immense energy enlivened her words, which brimmed with good sense instead of the hysterical ranting I had half-expected. She admitted that she had only recently taken an interest in South African matters, being moved to do so because of her horror at the injustice of war between Britain and the Boers. She had spent many long hours in the British Library learning of the history of the Boer people, and had also had the privilege of being educated in this respect by Mr Courtney. There was a strange irony in the South African demography, she told us. In the early part of the century many Boers had trekked into the harsh interior of South Africa to avoid British rule which went against their culture; those who remained in the Cape were known as the ‘loyal Afrikaners’. Now, with the flood of British immigrants to the gold-rich Witwatersrand, there were actually more British than Boers in the Republic of the Transvaal, while there were more loyal Afrikaners in the British Cape Colony! Now the might of British imperial power was trying to bring down Kruger, led by that arch-imperialist, Sir Alfred Milner. Every government in Europe except Turkey opposed Britain’s entry into such an unequal war with a simple, pre-industrial society. ‘I am a British patriot,’ she said simply. ‘I am primarily concerned about my own country and whether or not she is acting on the highest principles of justice and humanity.’
A storm of questions followed her speech, not all of them as sympathetic as I might have expected. One of the questions was addressed by a small handsome woman, plainly dressed, whose manner I found quite frighteningly aggressive as she spoke at top speed, demanding to know how the greatest source of wealth in the world could be run successfully by a few primitive farmers with no experience whatever of the complexities of mining, banking, investing etcetera. There was plainly no alternative but for the capitalist forces of Europe to be given full political rights on the Boer parliament. And was Miss Hobhouse aware that as a result of the Jameson Raid the
Boer forces, far from being a defenceless pre-industrial society were now armed with the most modern guns and rifles: each of the fifty thousand fighting burghers of the two republics was now equipped with at least two rifles, one of which was the new small-bore magazine German Mauser. Mr Courtney replied that there would soon be three or four times that number of fighting British. He pointed out that Kruger was offering a quarter of the Boer parliamentary seats to the ‘uitlanders’. (I made notes, having no head for figures.) Sophie whispered to me that the handsome outspoken woman was Beatrice Webb herself, a founder of the Fabian Society with her husband Sidney.
Another question (which turned into a rather lengthy speech) from an elderly gentleman reminded us that the Boers and the British were not the only races in South Africa; that there was a large indigenous population who by far outnumbered the colonists, and on whose labour the mines, being exceedingly deep, were entirely dependent; and how did Miss Hobhouse feel about the abusive way the Boers in their republics treated these indigenous folk, known as ‘kaffirs’? It was well known that Boers, believing kaffirs to be an inferior race, pushed them off pavements, treated them like slaves, whipped them mercilessly, and forced them to carry documents which prevented them from moving about the country freely. One article of faith was shared by all Boers: to deny political rights to anyone whose skin wasn’t white. Mr Courtney skilfully replied that the British mine-owners and Randlords treated these kaffirs far worse by exploiting them even more than the Boers: they locked the miners up in compounds and split up families; they subjected them to terrible dangers in the deep level mines with little or no compensation for death or injury, and more iniquities that I failed to note, my hand having grown tired of scribbling.
‘Yes, but the Cape has a franchise for all civilised men regardless of skin colour!’ shouted Beatrice Webb. ‘And if Britain wins the war that franchise will be extended to the whole of South Africa.’ She sat down with an air of finality, as if her observation settled the matter.
‘I’d like to see that in writing, signed by Her Majesty the Queen,’ replied Mr Courtney, not a little sorrowfully.
I left the meeting with a handful of pamphlets, my head spinning but much stimulated, even though not all my questions had been answered (I would never dare actually to ask a question from the floor, much as I might rehearse it, being too afraid to make a fool of myself). I now feel that I will definitely volunteer to nurse in the war. Somehow South Africa seems to beckon. What a fascinating country, riven by such different problems from those we have here.
The image of Miss Hobhouse has remained with me today: her mournful eyes as she spoke of injustice; her determination to educate the public. Sophie told me a little about her earlier life. Apparently she is recovering from a broken heart (and Sophie’s private opinion is that much of the sadness in her gaze originates from this unfortunate condition). After living with her clergyman father for over thirty years in a remote Cornwall village, she took flight to America upon his death. There she ran a temperance campaign among alcohol-addicted expatriate Cornish miners in Minnesota; then, to the horror of her family (who, though Liberal, are just as snobbish as any Tory, according to Sophie), fell in love with a grocer, or was it a butcher? She bought a ranch in Mexico, expecting to marry him, and squandered her small legacy on his escapades. Then something went wrong and she returned to England, still a spinster but determined to start a new life. Until recently she had been working for the Women’s Industrial Committee, of which Kate Courtney had been chairwoman till her husband became blind.
I felt very affected by this story and not a little envious that Miss Hobhouse’s heart could be so moved by romance.
My own heart is yet unmoved. I have read many romantic novels and lovesick poetry in an attempt to stir it into action, but in vain. I can feel pleasure or pain for other people, but, left to myself, I feel nothing. I envy Miss Christina Rossetti when she cries triumphantly My heart is like a singing bird whose nest is in a watered shoot. How hard I have tried to coax my heart to sing when the apprentice surgeon or the junior physician declares his love for me. I whisper to myself Miss Rossetti’s surging rhythms and melodic metaphors but, alas, there is only a dreary thud in response: my songbird has yet to be awakened.
Robben Island, December 1899
You’d think the bleeding war was happening in Cape Town, what with khaki drill and pith helmets jamming up the streets and pavements, and Tommies setting up camp on lawns meant for leisure. Patch had spent his day off swaggering along the beachfront in his new cream flannels, boater and verdantly striped blazer, Johan at his side sporting a new hairdo which resembled a small palm tree similar to those which lined the main road; Fancy leaning on his arm. Patch had bought her an ice cream and slipped his hand up her skirt while they sat on the rocks and watched whole regiments of Tommies erecting rows of bell tents along the Green Point lawns, and sweating in the heat.
It was getting difficult for the launch to weave its way back to the Island now that a forest of foreign ships had sprung up right across the bay. Patch and Dr Simmonds had had to struggle through the crowds of Tommies who’d taken over the docks and were already engaged in the purchase of cheap liquor and making appointments with local whores.
‘Hospital ship from the motherland,’ snorted Dr Simmonds as the Tiger nearly crashed into a great grey vessel with a red cross painted on its side. ‘Must be filling up pretty fast.’
The Island’s foghorn let out a groan as mist gathered and ballooned out towards the ships; a lunatic in the custody of a warder began to croon a melancholy response. The two men were leaning on the starboard rails, watching Table Mountain and Devil’s Peak recede, all blue and dreamy, untouched by the Island’s fog, with white buildings the size of crumbs spilt down the slopes and into the sea. Fancy had promised she’d wave her red skirt from the balcony of the Witbooi house, and Patch was straining his eyes to locate it when Dr Simmonds gave a great sigh. ‘They won’t even get a chance to stretch their legs when they go ashore, poor beasts.’ The launch was nosing between two ships whose forward decks were crammed with horses. ‘They’ll get loaded straight on to railway trucks and get taken to the remount centre in Stellenbosch.’ Although he received no reaction to these gloomy observations, the doctor nevertheless continued. ‘Well, the penny’s finally dropped. Britain has noticed that every Boer has six legs. I feel sorry for the poor buggers in the infantry who’re going to have to learn how to ride that lot.’
Patch, having discovered a tiny flash of red up the District slopes, smiled with satisfaction. Perhaps when he turned twenty-one he might consider settling down with her … who knows? At least living on the Island, so lacking in temptation, meant he had saved up quite a bit for whatever might lie ahead.
That Methodist missionary man, Fish, leaned on the rails further down, keeping his distance. He came every week to tell the lepers Jesus loved them and would be waiting for them at the Pearly Gates if they converted. He had varying degrees of success: the Mohammedans preferred their own version of Paradise, and the Christians preferred to stay Anglican, Catholic or Baptist. The kaffirs fell for it every time and joined the Methodist church just before they died, thinking how lucky they were to have a lovely white-man’s heaven, scrubbed clean and shining and ready for them to enjoy for ever and ever amen.
Now that the launch was getting nearer the Island, the temperature began to drop and that shadowy phantom seemed to well out of the rocks together with the mist, darkening the atmosphere, and causing the two men to shiver. ‘Friend of mine’s joined up,’ said Patch, to keep away the desolation. The limey Cartwright had surprised them all by volunteering, and had been sent almost immediately to Natal (one way of going north for free, observed Johan) where things weren’t going too well for the British. We’re sorting out them Boers, said the postcard he sent to Johan. We’ll relieve Ladysmith, don’t you worry. This seemed optimistic as repulses, reversals and outright defeats were the order of the day as Buller struggled to cross the
Tugela River and reach the besieged little town.
‘Bloody fool,’ muttered the Doctor. ‘I wouldn’t follow that chap Buller out of the garden gate.’
‘You won’t catch me joining up,’ Patch reassured him. That morning Johan had mentioned volunteering, inspired by Cartwright’s postcard. But there was a rumour in the District that this was to be a white man’s war; no kaffirs, coloureds, Malays, Chinamen etc to participate in the fighting. Then Fancy had made them both swear they would never, ever join up, whatever colour you had to be to fight. In any case, Patch had a secret fear of horses. Even the ships loaded with those dispirited looking creatures made him feel nervous. So there was no way he’d volunteer and end up a mounted infantryman.
The launch cast anchor in the bay of the Island. Though a jetty was being built it was still necessary to be rowed by convicts in small boats to the shore. From there the men got carried to dry land on the backs of the convicts, clad and numbered in penal garb; the women were carried in chairs. Patch never felt entirely happy about clasping a murderer’s back like an infant but the arrangement kept his feet dry, and he had just bought a pair of gleaming new boots with his last month’s pay so he swallowed his pride once again.
Once on terra firma he and the doctor made their way past the wards of the lunatic asylum and the pretty whitewashed church. The mist made it difficult to see where they were going but both men knew the way well. Doctor Simmonds turned left towards the new wards for females in an advanced state of decay. Oh that this too too solid flesh would melt he murmured as they parted company. By now Patch knew that this was Shakespeare. The doctor sometimes invited him to tea in his little sitting room filled with books. ‘Dickens, Milton and Shakespeare,’ said the doctor. ‘That’s all you need.’