by Ann Harries
A sudden hush fell over the crowd as a train steamed up to the quayside. Out of it emerged a group of sombre-looking gentlemen, all clad in black. As they made their way towards the first-class gangway everyone’s interest was focussed on a tiny, white-haired old man in frock coat and high hat, a mourning band around his right sleeve. The little man’s sunburnt face and vigorous body suggested a disciplined, outdoor life, but his features bore the mark of suffering, which moved the crowd into voluntary cheers: Hooray for Bobs! Hip hip …
Father recognised the old man immediately as General Roberts, who has lived in India most of his life and won many battles. He has been appointed Commander-in-Chief, to replace Buller, who is making a hash of things in Natal. Apparently Roberts’ only son was killed in action under Buller just last week. I have to say that General Roberts (or ‘Bobs’, as the Tommies call him) looks far too old for battle – Father says he is at least sixty-seven – but it is clear that he has kept himself very fit. Mother wondered if he’d brought his charger Volonel, awarded medals in Afghanistan for bravery along with his master.
I tried to look interested in my parents’ chatter as we moved from the dining saloon to the upper deck rails where passengers were waving and throwing streamers to the crowd below. Dear Sophie had come to say farewell, but now, out of delicacy, had left me alone with my parents. I’m afraid that my mind was on the voyage to come, when the chill December wind at present tormenting my cheeks will become a warm breeze, scented with the spice of Africa … I could see Louise a little further down the deck, rolling her eyes at me as she tried to comfort her anxious mother who fears the worst. All around us more young women of high birth were bidding farewell to – or, more accurately, I think, escaping from – their families in order to tend the wounded and sick and lead a life of freedom. The excitement among them rivalled that of the crowds below but for different reasons: already they were glancing over their furs at handsome officers and laughing a little too hard.
Fortunately, a sharp little bell rang for the visitors to clear just as my parents began arguing about the amount of champagne Buller is reckoned to consume per day, and, after brief hugs and kisses, off they scuttled down the very gangway Roberts had climbed. Louise, having said goodbye to her parents, came to join me and press my hand. She and I will share a cabin for the duration of the voyage. I fear she, like the other females, is set on capturing the heart of an officer and nothing else will do.
Then the funnels began to trumpet like cows in agony; the crowds erupted into a sea of handkerchiefs; the band played some patriotic songs; Sophie and I clung to each end of a streamer which stretched to breaking point as the tugboats pushed and pulled until they had us the right way round; all streamers snapped and the great steamship began to hum and throb its way out of the harbour, with a flock of cormorants in its wake.
As I write this, I feel more than ever that my life is about to change fundamentally. It is an awesome sensation, inspiring me with both terror and hope. Would I have volunteered had the war been waging in some dark, European country? Is it sunshine and warmth that is attracting me rather than patriotism? Whatever the reason, I am prepared to risk my life for change.
Louise’s Diary
25 December 1899
Sarah is spending Christmas Day scribbling in her diary so I am going to do the same, as everyone worth speaking to has gone to sleep. Mother gave me this very beautiful book in which to record my impressions of South Africa, but I shall use it instead to write about my adventures, my dreams, my anxieties, which of course I hide from everyone except Sarah.
The first of these concerns Sarah herself. It is indeed galling for me to watch the eyes of men light up as graceful Sarah drifts past. She does not cast them a second look, which seems to add to her allure. Perhaps if I lost some of my weight I would have more success in capturing the hearts of men. Already I am twenty-five, and not one offer of marriage. So unfair!
Well, now that that’s off my not inconsiderable chest I shall write about last night’s Grand Christmas Eve Dinner. The officers appeared in full uniform (which does have the effect of transforming frogs into princes) and we nurses could abandon our red and white. I wore my favourite salmon pink tulle and taffeta, and Dolly spent a whole hour attending to my hair with curling tongs and irons. At the end she sighed, ‘Well, that’s the best I can do!’ and I felt like smacking her. I thought I looked rather fine, like one of those larger-than-life goddesses who loll on sofas or river banks in the paintings that hang on the walls of the galleries at home. Dolly was not sure about the jewelled band with the crimson ostrich feather I insisted on wearing round my head (partly to hold the wretched ‘rats’ in place) and murmured something about cowboys and Indians, but I was determined. The flair of feather gives one a certain brio that distinguishes one from unplumed rivals. Needless to say, Sarah agreed that it looked wonderful even though, as usual, it was she who looked effortlessly beautiful – in her simple white silk evening gown, with elbow-length satin gloves, and a diamond choker at her throat. I could weep. Why are women made so differently?
An impatient bugle call summoned us to dinner (it had already sounded three times, but if one is not ready one cannot appear!) and off we set at last, arm in arm, to have some fun. Everyone looked at us appreciatively as we entered the dining saloon, and I like to think the appreciation was not directed at Sarah alone. It was quite astonishing to witness how all the drab nurses had become beautifully dressed, jewelled and perfumed young ladies, their hair, previously hidden by stark white veils, now piled mountainously on their proud heads. We were given pride of place at the Captain’s table, while the crowds of silly girls fluttered and giggled in the outer circles. A seasick little band, attempting gamely to render a few musichall favourites for our entertainment, contributed to the festive atmosphere. I found myself seated between an old whiskered Colonel and a smoothly shaven young(ish) Captain; Sarah had similar neighbours on her side of the table. The Colonel at once tried to monopolise me, informing me gleefully (as if expecting me to faint in response) that the Dunottar carries thousands of tons of lyddite (a form of dynamite, apparently) in her hold, as well as a huge range of artillery guns – navals and howitzers, whatever they are. I told him that I very much hoped to be sent to a field hospital on the front. ‘Out of the question!’ he snapped. ‘The battlefield is no place for young ladies. There are plenty of male orderlies there to attend to the wounded.’ He looked at me accusingly. ‘The role of women is to comfort, merely.’ What a geriatric crowd these Colonels and Generals seem to be!
At this, Lady Weatherby, who sat opposite us, said that she was not a nurse, but had nevertheless come to help nurses and comfort the men. In her loud penetrating voice she assured us that she would do what she is told. Above all, she says, she can hold her tongue. I wonder. In addition to these skills, she and her maid are engaged in the task of knitting five hundred balaclavas for the wounded. I wondered what use they would be in the height of summer, but I too can hold my tongue – sometimes.
At the mention of balaclavas the Colonel swelled up. ‘These voluntary offers are of no use at all unless there is an organisation capable of dealing with such offers, an organisation capable of efficient distribution!’ he thundered.
Lady Weatherby cast him a withering look. ‘I believe a lady in India has contributed sixty thousand handkerchiefs and one dozen walking sticks to the war effort,’ she replied. ‘But she has had the wisdom to present them to the Good Hope Red Cross Society – which is where my balaclavas will go, I can assure you, Colonel Summers.’
At last the officer at my side, feeling no doubt it was time the subject was lifted on to a loftier plane, spoke up. ‘They say Mafeking should be relieved by the time we arrive in Cape Town. I had the good fortune to serve under Colonel Baden-Powell in India.’
Seizing my chance, I cried out in jest, ‘B-P seems to be turning Mafeking into quite a desirable residence, wouldn’t you say, what with Saturday night Gilbert and Sullivan and Sun
day cricket! I imagine there must be many who quite envy the residents!’
I could see at once that this had not been received in the spirit I had intended. Oh, why do so few people have a sense of humour? I hurriedly added, ‘Of course, I am only teasing. Colonel Baden-Powell is a great hero, and the residents of Mafeking are suffering terribly.’ And then, quite against my will, I heard myself snigger, ‘But it’s quite astonishing how he can wear pantomime wig and skirts as Widow Twanky while thousands of Boers rain shells upon the city!’
‘I fear you have your facts quite wrong,’ said the Captain stiffly. ‘First of all, Mafeking is no city but a mere railway siding in a desert. Secondly, though Colonel Baden-Powell may lift the spirits of Mafeking with theatrical entertainments, he will instantly resume his role of commanding officer in the event of a raid.’
I was plainly making no progress here, specially as the men at the table now launched into an interminable discussion about how at least the raid was drawing off the Boer leader General Cronje and the seven thousand Boer soldiers who completely encircled the town – I mean, railway siding – and kept up a steady bombardment on the good citizens of Mafeking. To my utter astonishment Sarah made a contribution. ‘I am told that the kaffirs of Mafeking have been armed. I had thought this was a white man’s war.’ Her voice shook with nervousness as she spoke. How on earth does she know about such things? This sweetly delivered observation evoked a torrent of denials or excuses from the male company, who then speedily moved on to the other sieges in South Africa – I had not even realised that Ladysmith and Kimberley (where my diamonds come from, I’m told) were under siege. It does sound as if Britain is in need of the little man with the funny white beard, who has declined to join our celebration meal.
Later, as the champagne and good wines did their good work, the Captain began to mellow and applauded me for my courage in leaving home for the dangers of war. Just when I thought I was beginning to make my mark he leaned close to me, smelling rather strongly of claret by now, and murmured, ‘And who, may I ask, is that well-informed young lady across the table? I saw you come in together, and had hoped she might be seated beside me.’
I was about to respond with a sarcastic remark when the ship began to lurch fearfully and several glasses and plates flew through the air in spite of the frames designed to fix them to the table. It was impossible to remain seated, and in any case most of us felt our heavy dinners rise out of our bellies and we rushed to the deck to ‘pay tribute to Neptune’ as our jolly, whiskered Captain calls our agonised vomiting into the ocean.
Sarah’s Diary
27 December 1899
This morning, two days after Christmas, the Dunottar dropped anchor unexpectedly at Gibraltar. I was somewhat annoyed, or disappointed I suppose, at this mysterious diversion because Louise and I had planned a day out together on the island of Madeira, an excursion which I feared would now be spoilt by the delay in getting there. Still, it was rather exciting to be poised in the rugged crack between Africa and Europe, and while the other passengers gathered on the decks to admire the Rock, I preferred to stand alone on the other side of the boat and stare at the northernmost tip of Africa. I was lost in imagining the spice-laden smells of the markets in Morocco and the vast, shifting sands of the Sahara beyond, when Louise broke into my reverie. She tugged at my hand and begged me to move to the other side of the ship where the crowds were murmuring excitedly, although in some restraint. ‘Come, dear, you must watch this!’ Louise urged. She was quite determined and so, albeit reluctantly, I followed her.
At first it seemed a gigantic ironclad sea monster had risen from the Strait. Then the lofty control tower and heavy armaments of a great warship revealed themselves, silhouetted against a trail of glittering sunshine. I clutched Louise’s warm hand for, in truth, a warship is a hideous thing, designed to strike terror into the hearts of all who observe her. Its massive guns were pointed straight at the Dunottar.
A launch bobbed beside the monster. From the bowels of the warship a long-legged figure came into view and climbed briskly down a gangway into the waiting vessel. The figure in the launch who approached our waiting steamship seemed himself to be forged from metal: his cold eyes staring scornfully ahead, the medals and decorations pinned to his chest flashing as if from his body itself. ‘Oh my God! Isn’t he gorgeous!’ gasped Louise.
‘The Lord of Chilled Steel!’ exclaimed Lady Weatherby, who had put aside her knitting for the moment. ‘I remember,’ she went on, ‘how he came to visit my dear deceased husband on some matter of state. Kitchener is so ill-at-ease in the company of women that Lord Weatherby requested the females to go out that evening, to save him the embarrassment that we would cause.’
I, too, found myself marvelling at Kitchener’s appearance. ‘Just look at that moustache!’ I commented. ‘How on earth does he manage to eat?’ ‘And he’s not even married!’ squealed Louise, ignoring my query.
The shaky little band struck up a curious rendering of Rule, Britannia! and Lord Roberts, in full military splendour with a plume of sportive ostrich feathers in his helmet (which raised his height by at least a foot) and a large sword on his hip, marched forward to greet his Chief of Staff. The jovial captain stood proudly by. But within minutes the two military men had disappeared into the bowels of the ship, followed by their uniformed staff. They kept away from the other passengers for the rest of the day and took their meals in their cabins where, apparently, they held endless councils of war.
1 January 1900
On this the first day of the new century I can already feel a lightening of my spirit, perhaps because we have just spent two glorious days in Madeira. What an exquisite island – C’est le Paradis! It is bathed in a light such as I have never before beheld. For it is not only the blaze of sunshine which drives away the mists in my mind and body, it is the clarity of the light – every leaf and petal glows separately, each demanding one’s attention – and the sharpness and denseness of the shadows which one feels might permanently stain the land upon which they lie! The white houses everywhere have green jalousies and green verandahs, and little balconies from every window, with here a great pot of flowers, and there an overhanging creeper. The tiles are red, and many of the houses, overhanging the narrow streets, are five and six storeys high. In the market square is a tree of scarlet poinsettia in full bloom; and hanging over the courtyard of the old church, a brilliant, bell-like orange flower the name of which no one could tell me. As we moved among the cobbled streets we wondered at the overhead trellis-work curtained with flowers. Such flowers! Here a scarlet geranium in the niche of a castellated wall, there a mass of blue plumbago tumbling over the front of a house; azaleas, wildly extravagant and, most glorious of all, the bougainvillea in every shade of colour, purple over the rocks, flame-colour on one side of the street, and deep magenta on that trellised roof overhead. Glimpses of quaint interiors as we walk up, and of the terraces intersecting the houses. Mules and bullocks pulled sleigh-like carts made of basket work and canopied in cotton tapestries … can Cape Town possibly be as picturesque as this? I fear I am spoilt forever by the beauty of this little island.
All this is lost on Louise who has dedicated herself to trying to entrap Kitchener. Sometimes he is to be seen stretching his long legs on the deck with Bobs, but mostly they are locked in their cabins with their staff. Yesterday, however, as we were watching the whales near the ship spurting spray into the air, Kitchener suddenly appeared on deck and made the mistake of leaning over the rails to get a better view of these extraordinary creatures. Louise could scarcely believe her good luck, and immediately made a point of lurching up against the poor man with such vigour that he was obliged to shift his gaze from the performing whales and fasten it upon my friend’s cheerfully apologetic smile. Words fail me as I try to describe the expression on Kitchener’s face: dread perhaps gets closest to it. And then, before my very eyes, as Louise rattled off her false apologies for stumbling against him, I saw his dread turn into abjec
t terror – clearly he would have preferred a thousand charging Arabs with scimitars drawn than have to exchange one word with a flirtatious woman. Babbling an incoherent excuse he rushed back into his cabin and left Louise still trilling her contrition … She has no shame. ‘I shall try a different approach next time,’ declares she. ‘I shall ask him whether Mafeking has been relieved yet. He will not be able to resist giving me a lecture, whether it has or not.’ I very much doubt that there will be a next time and told her so. She gave me a rather poisonous look and accused me of being a killjoy. ‘Just enjoy yourself for once,’ she hissed, before running off to join a game of deck-quoits.
I do not care for deck-quoits, but am otherwise enjoying myself very much in the brightness of the African sunshine, thank you very much, Louise.
Louise’s Diary
3 January 1900
Well, Sarah, how wrong you were! In spite of all your predictions, I have at last gained a smile from Horatio – even though his lips are totally hidden beneath his massive moustache. But the giant handlebars suddenly stretched apart, like curtains, as it were, and somewhere in its depths I detected a row of quite normal teeth, quite protuberant, in fact, not the line of sharpened canines, ready to bite if angry, as one has been encouraged to expect.