by Ann Harries
Today Louise and I made the long trip to Simonstown, Cape Town’s naval base. (I decided not to tell her about the missing teeth as she is liable to explode with lewd laughter at the mention of the word ‘sexual’.) We were astounded by the beauty of the coastline. Simonstown itself nestles within its natural harbour which is filled with ships of every description. Incarcerated on several of them are Boer prisoners-of-war. They are also held in large compounds. The sick and wounded Boers are attended to at a Barracks hospital called ‘The Palace’ – in jest, for it is anything but palatial. Apparently the fit prisoners are being exiled to the British colonies of St Helena, Bermuda and Ceylon as there is not enough room for them in the camps here. One cannot help feeling sorry for these men; they are so attached to their land here and now they are being shipped off to such terribly foreign parts. We saw them wander about their compounds: they look like any other white man, many of them with kind, sensitive faces.
16 February
Kimberley is relieved and we have won a battle. It seems scarcely credible. All Roberts’ doing, of course. The Australian sisters in our villa were suddenly sent to the Front and Louise and I are envious. We love the beauty of Cape Town but feel guilty that we are not in the thick of war, binding the wounds of heroic soldiers … Though Louise wants to go to the Front, she is very much in love with Dr James, the chief medical officer of her hospital. This is absurd as he is a married man. Nevertheless, she contrived to get herself invited to a dinner at the very grand Mount Nelson Hotel where apparently there is much glitter and entertainment and wine flowing. Some officers are still stationed there for the time being, while the Tommies who haven’t been sent up North camp on open land in and around Cape Town. Because Louise is so animated she received a great deal of attention and could talk about nothing else when we met for ices and strawberries and cream on the veranda of Dix’s Café.
We greet, rather coolly, the young ladies from the Dunottar who cluster round Dix’s tables and relate their adventures in breathy, high-pitched voices. Louise darts furious glances in their direction because some of them are invited to the ‘Nellie’ as well, and try to steal her thunder – or this is how I interpret the state of things. I could hear them bewailing the disappearance of so many eligible bachelors up North.
I must say the streets of Cape Town seem quite empty now that the bulk of the army has moved on.
London,
15 January 1900
Dear Sarah,
By now you will have arrived in Cape Town. How sad I felt as I watched the Dunottar steam out of S’Hampton – though at least we were able to keep contact till our streamer finally snapped. I wonder so much whether you will have continued your voyage to Natal to nurse closer to the war front (nothing but bad news there), or if you have been allocated to a military hospital in Cape Town itself. Do let me know when you have a minute.
I’m pleased to say there has been a good response to the public statement of the Conciliation Committee’s aims – some four hundred letters from sympathisers, which is very encouraging. The wonderful news is that Miss Hobhouse has agreed to be secretary of the women’s branch of the SACC, which means I am in close contact with her at least once a week. What an inspiration she is! And what unbounded energy, which puts us younger women to shame. You should see her hurtle up the steps of Rossetti Mansions, throw herself into her flat on the third floor – drawing disapproving stares from neighbours who consider her to be pro-Boer and therefore as bad as the enemy – and immediately get to work on the immense correspondence and piles of pamphlets that cover her dining room table. We helpers stuff envelopes and write addresses and listen enthralled as she tells us news of the war. Our main task now, as you know, is to disseminate accurate information about the war, as most of the rabble-rousing jingoism in our newspapers and journals cannot be believed. Miss Hobhouse’s brother Leonard is political correspondent for the Manchester Guardian, which is one of our sources of accurate information. Sometimes he rushes in on his long spidery legs as well, running his fingers through the wild bush of his hair, and talking twenty to the dozen about everything – not only the war but his theories of plant evolution and sociology in such an amusing and entertaining fashion that all our heads begin to spin and we have to hold our sides which ache from too much laughter.
There is great excitement here over the three sieges, in particular that of Mafeking, though Leonard’s opinion is that the siege is entirely due to B-P’s failure of judgement. I myself find it rather tasteless to be adding up the number of siege days as if a game of cricket were being played – which I believe it is, anyway, on Sundays in Mafeking.
I wonder if you have heard about the scandal over the Queen’s chocolate. Her Majesty wanted to give every trooper a bar of chocolate to mark the arrival of the twentieth century, and placed an order with the Quaker chocolate makers for some fifty thousand bars – only to be told firmly that Quakers are pacifists and do not support warmongering. Even though I am a Quaker myself I have to say I don’t see that giving a Tommy a bar of chocolate from his Queen is actively supporting the war effort. Her Majesty had to beseech them to change their minds about this and eventually they rather grudgingly agreed. One can only admire the high principles of these chocolate makers who would rather lose an enormous order than betray their own beliefs.
I long to hear from you and, if I may, will pass on your news about the hospitals and the wounded soldiers to Miss Hobhouse as she takes a great interest in the war work of the Red Cross.
Yours affectionately, dear, brave Sarah,
Sophie
Cape Town,
16 February 1900
Dear Sophie,
I was so delighted to receive your letter today. I think of you often, and soon after my arrival sent you a postcard of Table Mountain which I hope arrived safely. It was good to hear your news about the work of the Conciliation Committee; I enjoyed your description of Miss Hobhouse bounding up the stairs of her block of flats and annoying the neighbours. How wonderful that she is now in a position of responsibility in the women’s branch. Her strong, compassionate face remains with me, but I fear she will be disappointed in my hospital news: Cape Town is definitely not Scutari.
On the other hand I have to say that I have been so overpowered by my new challenges and experiences that the whole concept of conciliation seems very far from the day-to-day life in the military hospitals. Cape Town is so far removed from the Boer Republics that it is difficult to be aware of the presence of the ‘enemy’ other than in the wounds of my patients, and the stories they tell me about the ‘Boors’. (I have enclosed a few extracts from my diary which speak of these wounds and stories in more detail and will, I think, be of interest to you.) Knowing what I do about the Boer history – largely through attending meetings and listening to you rehearse your speeches – it is almost impossible for me to think of this ‘enemy’ as something wicked. Even the Tommies have a certain respect for their plucky opponents who occasionally behave like gentlemen and have the same skin colour, unlike the men they have fought in previous wars. As for the Tommies, it is a disgrace that they should be sacrificed at the altar of Mammon, for this war is about greed and gold, and the rank and file are cannon fodder, merely.
By the way, I have to say that the delight which the Queen’s chocolate brought to these same Tommies would have melted the hearts of those stern Quakers who reluctantly made the chocolate when Her Majesty went down on her knees (hard to imagine, even metaphorically). Most of them are keeping the pretty boxes as treasures to take home. They are hesitant about eating the chocolate itself but I don’t think they will hold out for long.
I look forward so much to hearing all your news.
Yours very affectionately,
Sarah
Paardeberg, February 1900
Patch is confused. He is in the middle of a battle, yet no one seems to know what’s going on, least of all the men in charge. Where is the enemy? Where, for that matter, is Bobs? You can see Cron
je’s laager of covered wagons extending for miles on the river banks on the other side of the Modder, looking for all the world to the starving Tommies like gigantic loaves of newly baked bread, but of the Boer commando there is no sign. Except, of course, for the showers of bullets and shells that seem to be bursting out of the ground before the river and slaughtering the British Army.
The river is as muddy as Patch imagined, with carcasses of horses and oxen floating in its brew for good measure. Its banks are fringed with karee trees and green willows whose leaves trail picturesquely in the khaki water, inviting picnics and lovers and messing about with boats. Behind the line of wagons, where black scouts and servants scurry about with horses, dogs, firewood, three-legged pots, and other objects which Patch can’t identify, are the caves. You can just see the shapes of women and children crouched in these caves, beyond the reach of British shells and bullets. Fancy bringing your entire household with you into battle – no wonder Cronje’s commando got trapped here when trying to escape from Roberts’ mighty advance. In the stench of battle, there is the smell of cooking – something sweet and spicy blending with the aroma of burnt wood.
The units are staggering with fatigue after the long march, but now that maniac Kitchener is galloping among the men screaming out orders for the mounted infantry to storm Cronje’s laager: now from here, now there, now stop, now start again over there. It’s quite obvious to even the most inexperienced trooper that you’re wasting your bravery against well-hidden rifles: far better to bombard the laager into submission with lyddite. Kitchener seems to be making it up on the spot; he’s panicking. Don’t these people have to draw up battle plans; isn’t that what they learn to do at army school? One brigade slithers behind anthills as sleet of bullets whistles out of the trenches. Another is making little rushes to the river bed, with men falling all the time. They shoot into nothing: you can’t aim at men hidden in the ground.
Why is Kitchener in charge? Isn’t Bobs supposed to be plotting the battle in a cool calm way, ensuring the support and admiration of his troops? Patch is waiting for the command for his unit to plunge forward into sure death. He feels his knees turn to water, and realises that he is not yet a man, worthy of adult respect. In the midst of his fear he also feels rage, indignation that in obeying Kitchener’s orders he is to die so pointlessly. Clearly the professional troopers don’t feel anything as lily-livered as this. Look how, further on, long dotted rows of Tommies advance, lie down, rise and advance again in perfect unison, regardless of the shells which burst and shriek all round them. Not one of these men pauses or checks his advance as the deadly shower ploughs up the ground at his feet, or tears and mauls at the flesh of his neighbour with jagged splinters. Can these be the same puny creatures who, off the battlefield, steal, fart, swear, get drunk, and display not a jot of this useless discipline and courage that Patch, astonished, now witnesses.
Someone says that little Bobs with a smile round both his ears – Patch has read the poem – has caught a cold and is spending the day in bed.
Is K of Chaos enjoying this bloodbath? Perhaps he would be ashamed of a bloodless battle. Here he comes, shouting again from his charger, waving his sabre in the air, his red-rimmed eyes blazing like machine guns, and next thing Patch hears the bugle command and finds himself charging on Olga towards the Boer trenches on the side of the river; swarms of bullets fly out of the ground and every man around him gets shot and a hundred horses gallop riderless to the river and get shot too. Now Patch’s head is pumping with the fusillade of battle, the song of the bullet, the thunder of Olga’s hooves, the great belching yellow flames of shells exploding in the laager, and he gallops faster through the bullets, shooting all the while at the cloud of smoke that pours across the laager, then Olga gets hit and buckles under and he’s done for. He flings himself to the ground and prepares for death. But for some reason the Boers stop firing for a while, maybe they’re reading the Bible or praying to the Lord to be their sword and shield as of old or maybe they’ve just plain run out of bullets.
Olga is dying before his eyes, along with all the other horseflesh around him, and he looks away, angry. Should he shoot her through the head to end it quickly for her? She gives a groaning spasm; he turns round and her eyes are filming over, but still have that sweet look which breaks his heart. The signal to retire sounds and he crawls back, his body unwounded, but his brain shattered and strange from the noise and the smell and his astonishment at his own brief burst of bravery. Somewhere in this cocktail of adrenaline he feels the ache of sorrow for Olga, as if she was his sister or sweetheart or something weird like that, gone forever. But better for her to die that way, nobly; better than starve or sicken to death like all those other nags. And there’s Cartwright also crawling, also lost his horse, his face sallow with exhaustion, though probably, knowing Cartwright, he’s thinking of some girl’s breasts and fanny even in the jaws of death, and the thought of this makes Patch think along the same lines and he begins to feel a bit normal again.
But who’s won that battle? The enemy are still in their trenches, and the British are re-forming – if that’s what you can call the muddle of men tottering about now, their eyes staring crazily through the soot and filth on their faces. He supposes he must look the same. Now the captain tells them they can eat and drink and rest for a while. There’s only a biscuit and that’s dinner, and water from the river afloat with carcasses. They’re supposed to boil the water first but there isn’t time for such refinements. Thank God he’s got good strong teeth, not like most of the Tommies who have to soak their biscuits on account of rotting teeth and gums. Then, just as he settles down, the order comes: Renew the assault!! Ford the river and rush the position. The captain is white-faced, he’s worn out, same as the men. False alarm! There’s not enough horses to make up a mounted infantry so it’s back to the biscuit for the moment anyway.
While he munches he watches the Canadians and the Cornwalls charge the laager in a magnificent surge from the other side of the river, undaunted by the falling men. The artillery behind them are bombarding the covered wagons from all directions and you can’t help feeling queasy about the women and children inside it when you hear the shriek and scream of shells; when you see the yellow-green fumes as they explode; when you smell the stink of sulphur. But the bullets are flying out from the Boer trenches at the charging troopers, and Cronje’s pom-pom canon is sending forth shells with its seven-fold cough as fast as the Maxims send forth shot. The ground shudders and throws up great geysers of red earth when the shells explode, and the men shudder too, in mortal fear, when they hear that how-how-how-how! Now the regiments of Stephenson’s brigade are rushing at smoke with fixed bayonets and the Highland Brigade have found a safe crossing for reinforcements. Stretcher carriers are stumbling about picking up the wounded, some of the mission people among them, taking the chance to pray over dying men and help them into heaven.
But what’s that down on the north river bed? Who’s that solitary horseman charging the laager, straight into the line of vicious Mauser fire bursting in volleys out of the ground? What madman gave this crazy command? That’s some of the men who arrived earlier coming up a way behind him, hesitant, no wonder, it’s suicide, they’ve spent all morning fighting off Boer reinforcements, they’re utterly spent, and they are falling already. But who is that in front?
It can’t be, but it is: Colonel Hannay, the prince among men, charging his horse into the firing squad, firing from the shoulder himself. Then his horse is struck and crumples and Hannay gets flung and the force of a Boer bullet flings him again and he throws out a hand and then is still. In all the rage of battle, a song drifts through Patch’s head: Oh Hannay boy … There, is K. satisfied now? It seems the suicidal dash has saved the brigade from certain slaughter; the charge is called off because K can at last see it’s useless.
As Patch rests, enjoying the inexplicable surge of elation that has overtaken him, he wonders if surviving this battle means he has officially achieved
manhood, like the Xhosa boys or the boys further north who have to kill a lion before they can be recognised as men. Also, the witnessing of Hannay’s superhuman bravery was in some mysterious way a privilege; it has been absorbed into his own frailer system; he is the better for it. Perhaps it’s true that men are made on the battlefield, even when the battle is a cock-up. He half-smiles (it comes naturally now), and begins to fall asleep, like so many troopers around him.
He hears a harp playing. The sound floats out from behind him, silvering the sordid air. In a flash he understands everything: he has died in battle and an angel is coming to fetch his soul. He is excited, though apprehensive. This is the moment all those catechism lessons in the orphanage have been preparing him for, and the act of contrition leaps to his lips for the second time that day: O my God I am heartily sorry and beg pardon for all my sins… But even as he mutters the words that will automatically open the gates of heaven for him he begins to recognise the tune the harp is playing. It is a ditty he and Johan have often sung together and it’s not a hymn. It seems unlikely that an angel would be playing a music-hall favourite to usher him into paradise.
It is almost disappointing to think that maybe he is alive after all. He experiments with turning his head – it still works – and can see only a pile of rocks among the bushes at the foot of a little hill, no radiant heavenly gates, no plump beckoning cherubs. The music is pouring out from behind the thorn bushes. He looks around; no one else seems to be hearing it – too busy chewing or chattering or just plain snoring. Cronje’s men are shooting shells from the laager spasmodically – pom-pom-pom – but not in this direction. He rises to his blood-stained feet.