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Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

Page 1266

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE


  “Can I have that?”

  “Certainly,” says the lieutenant. I tie it on to my saddle, and feel apologetic towards my long-suffering horse. The great gun roars and roars, and the malignant spouts of smoke rise on the farthest hill.

  A line of infantry in very open order comes past the great guns, and I advance a little way with them. They are Scots Guards. The first line goes forward, the second is halted and lying down.

  “That’s right! Show where you are!” cries the second line, derisively. I seem to have missed the point, but the young officer in the first line is very angry.

  “Hold your tongues!” he shouts, with his red face looking over his shoulder. “Too many orders. No one gives orders but me.” His men lie down. The sun is sinking low, and it is evident that the contemplated infantry assault would not come off. One of the great naval shells passes high over our heads. It is the sound of a distant train in a tunnel.

  A man canters past with a stretcher over his shoulder. His bay horse lollops along, but the stretcher makes him look very top-heavy. He passes the guns and the infantry, and rides on along the edge of a maize field. He is half a mile out now, heading for the kopje. Every instant I expect to see him drop from his horse. Then he vanishes in a dip of the ground.

  After a time the stretcher appears again. This time two men are carrying it, and the horseman rides beside. I have bandages in my pocket, so I ride forward also.

  “Has a surgeon seen him?”

  “No, sir.” They lay the man down. There is a handkerchief over his face.

  “Where is it?”

  “His stomach and his arm.” Pull up his shirt, and there is the Mauser bullet lying obvious, under the skin. It has gone round instead of penetrating. A slit with a penknife would extract it, but that had better be left for chloroform and the field hospital. Nice, clean wound in the arm.

  “You will do very well. What is your name?”

  “Private Smith, sir. New Zealander.” I mention my name and the Langman Hospital at Bloemfontein.

  “I have read your books,” says he, and is carried onwards.

  There has been a lull in the firing, and the sun is very low. Then after a long interval comes a last Boer shell. It is an obvious insult, aimed at nothing, a derisive good-night and good-bye. The two naval guns put up their long necks, and both roared together. It was the last word of the Empire — the mighty angry voice calling over the veldt. The red rim had sunk, and all was purple and crimson, with the white moon high, in the west. What had happened? Who had won? Were other columns engaged? No one knew anything or seemed to care. But late at night, as I lay under the stars, I saw far on the left front signal flashes from the river, and I knew that Hutton was there.

  So it proved, for in the morning it was over the camp in an instant that the enemy had gone. But the troops were early afoot. Long before dawn came the weird, muffled tap­ping of the drums and the crack­ling of sticks as the camp-kettles were heat­ed for break­fast. Then with the first light we saw a strange sight. A monstrous blister was rising slowly from the veldt. It was the balloon being inflated — our answer to the lurking guns. We would throw away no chances now, but play every card in our hand — another lesson which the war has driven into our proud hearts. We climbed the kopjes where the enemy had crouched, and saw the litter of empty Mauser cases and the sangars so cunningly built. Among the stones lay a packet of the venomous-looking green cartridges still unfired. They talk of poison, but I doubt it. Verdigris would be an antiseptic rather than a poison in a wound. It is more likely that it is some decomposition of the wax in which the bullets are dipped. Brother Boer is not a bushman, after all. He is a tough, stubborn fighter, who plays a close game, but does not cheat.

  We say good-bye to the army, for our duty lies beyond us, and theirs in front. For them the bullets, for us the microbes, and both for the honour of the flag. Scattered trails of waggons, ambulance carts, private buggies, impediments of a11 kinds, radiate out from the army. It is a bad drift, and it will be nightfall before they are all over. We pass the last of them, and it seems strange to emerge from that great concourse and see the twenty miles of broad, lonely plain which lies between us and Brandfort. We shall look rather foolish if any Boer horsemen are hanging about the skirts of the army.

  We passed the battlefield of last night, and stopped to examine the holes made by the shells. Three had fallen within ten yards, but the ant-heaps round had not been struck, showing how harmless the most severe shell fire must be to prostrate infantry. From the rifling marks in the clay the shells were large ones — forty-pounders, in all probability. In a little heap lay the complete kit of a guardsman — his canteen, waterbottle, cup, even his puttees. He had stripped for action, with a vengeance. Poor devil, how uncomfortable he must be today!

  A Kaffir on horseback is rounding up horses on the plain. He gallops towards us — a picturesque, black figure on his shaggy Basuto mount. He waves his hand excitedly towards the east. “Englishman there — on veldt — hurt — Dutchman shoot him.” He delivers his message clearly enough.

  “Is he alive?” He nods.

  “When did you see him?” He points to the sun and then farther east. About two hours ago apparently.

  “Can you take us there?” We buy him for two shillings, and all canter off together.

  Our road is through maize fields, and then out on to the veldt. By jove, what’s that? There is a single black motionless figure in the middle of that clearing. We gallop up and spring from our horses. A short, muscular, dark man is lying there with a yellow, waxen face, and a blood clot over his mouth. A handsome man, black-haired, black-moustached, his expression serene. No.410 New South Wales Mounted Infantry — shot, overlooked, and abandoned. There are evident signs that he was not alive when the Kaffir saw him. Rifle and horse are gone. His watch lies in front of him, dial upwards, run down at one in the morning. Poor chap, he had counted the hours until he could see them no longer. We examine him for injuries. Obviously he had bled to death. There is a horrible wound in his stomach. His arm is shot through. Beside him lies his water-bottle — a little water still in it, so he was not tortured by thirst. And here is a singular point. On the water-bottle is balanced a red chess pawn. Has he died playing with it? It looks like it. Where are the other chessmen? We find them in a haversack out of his reach. A singular trooper this, who carries chessmen on a campaign. Or is it loot from a farmhouse? I shrewdly suspect it.

  We collect the poor little effects of No. 410 — a bandolier, a stylographic pen, a silk handkerchief, a clasp-knife, a Water­bury watch, two pounds six-and-sixpence in a frayed purse. Then we lift him, our hands sticky with his Wood, and get him over my saddle — horrible to see how the flies swarm instantly on to the saddle-flaps. His head hangs down on one side and his heels on the other. We lead the horse, and when from time to time he gives a horrid dive we clutch at his ankles. Thank Heaven, he never fell. It is two miles to the road, and there we lay our burden under a telegraph post. A convoy is coming up, and we can ask them to give him a decent burial. No.410 holds one rigid arm and clenched fist in the air. We lower it, but up it springs, menacing, aggressive. I put his mantle over him; but still, as we look back, we see the projection of that raised arm. So he met his end — somebody’s boy. Fair fight, open air, and a great cause — I know no better death.

  A long, long ride on tired horses over an endless plain. Here and there mounted Kaffirs circle and swoop. I have an idea, that a few mounted police might be well-employed in our rear. How do we know what these Kaffirs may do among lonely farms held by women and children? Very certain I am that it is not their own horses which they are rounding up so eagerly.

  Ten miles have passed, and we leave the track to watch our horses at the dam. A black mare hard-by is rolling and kicking. Curious, that she should be so playful. We look again, and she lies very quiet. One more has gone to poison the air of the Veldt. We sit by the dam and smoke. Down the track there comes a colonial corps of cavalry — a f
amous corps, as we see when our glasses show us the colour of the cockades. Good heavens, will we never have sense beaten into us? How many disasters and humiliations must we endure before we learn how to soldier? The regiment passes without a vanguard, without scouts, without flankers in an enemy’s country intersected by dongas. Oh, for a Napoleon who might meet such a regiment, tear the epaulettes of the colonel from his shoulders, Stellenbosch him instantly without appeal or argument. Only such a man with such powers can ever thoroughly reorganise our army.

  Another six miles over the great plain. Here is a small convoy, with an escort of militia, only a mile or two out from Brandfort. They are heading wrong, so we set them right. The captain in charge is excited.

  “There are Boers on that hill!” The hill is only half a mile or so away on our left; so we the object interesting. “Kaffirs!” we suggest.

  “No, no, mounted men with bandoliers and rifles. Why, there they are now.”

  We see moving figures, but again, suggest Kaffirs. It ends by our both departing, unconvinced. We thought the young officer jumpy over his first convoy, but we owe him an apology, for next morning we learned that the Mounted Infantry had been out all night chasing the very men whom we had seen. It is likely that the accidental presence of the convoy saved us from a somewhat longer journey than we had intended. A day at Brandfort, a night in an open truck, and we were back at the Café Entérique, Boulevard des Microbes, which is our town address.

  THE END

  GREAT BRITAIN AND THE NEXT WAR

  NOTE

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is the historian of the Boer War as well as the creator of Sherlock Holmes, the skilled student of military operations as well as the ingenious deviser of plots; he is no less an intense patriot than a clear and logical thinker.

  Writing early in 1913 to call to the attention of his fellow- countrymen the warning so openly given them by General von Bernhardi in his Germany And The Next War, Sir Arthur took occasion to analyze the German general’s “case” against England and to answer his contentions in the light of history and reason. His summing up of German motives and German plans is particularly valuable to Americans in the light of after events, and incidentally the gentle raillery with which he punctures some of Bernhardi’s statements is a delight to every one who has been entertained by Brigadier Gerard. His novel plan for national defence is of peculiar interest to every American who has ever crossed the English Channel, while his advice to his Irish fellow-countrymen seems prophetic.

  And it is impressive to find a member of the Anglo-German Society, who has never been a serious believer in the so-called German menace, feeling so deeply the possibilities of the “philosophy” of Bernhardi as to write, “Every one of his propositions I dispute. But that is all beside the question. We have not to do with his argument, but with its results. These results are that he, a man whose opinion is of weight and a member of the ruling class in Germany, tells us frankly that Germany will attack us the moment she sees a favorable opportunity. I repeat that we should be mad if we did not take very serious notice of the warning.”

  GREAT BRITAIN AND THE NEXT WAR

  I am a member of the Anglo-German Society for the improvement of the relations between the two countries, and I have never seriously believed in the German menace. Frequently I have found myself alone in a company of educated Englishmen in my opinion that it was non-existent — or at worst greatly exaggerated.

  This conclusion was formed upon two grounds. The first was, that I knew it to be impossible that we could attack Germany save in the face of monstrous provocation. By the conditions of our government, even if those in high places desired to do such a thing, it was utterly impracticable, for a foreign war could not be successfully carried on by Great Britain unless the overwhelming majority of the people approved of it. Our foreign, like our home, politics are governed by the vote of the proletariat. It would be impossible to wage an aggressive war against any Power if the public were not convinced of its justice and necessity. For this reason we could not attack Germany.

  On the other hand, it seemed to be equally unthinkable that Germany should attack us. One fails to see what she could possibly hope to gain by such a proceeding. She had enemies already upon her eastern and western frontiers, and it was surely unlikely that she would go out of her way to pick a quarrel with the powerful British Empire. If she made war and lost it, her commerce would be set back and her rising colonial empire would be destroyed. If she won it, it was difficult to see when she could hope for the spoils. We could not give her greater facilities for trade than she has already. We could not give her habitable white colonies, for she would find it impossible to take possession of them in the face of the opposition of the inhabitants. An indemnity she could never force from us. Some coaling stations and possibly some tropical colonies, of which latter she already possesses abundance were the most that she could hope for. Would such a prize as that be worth the risk attending such a war? To me it seemed that there could be only one answer to such a question.

  It still seems to me that this reasoning is solid I still think that it would be an insane action for Germany deliberately to plan an attack upon Great Britain. But unfortunately an attack delivered from mistaken motives is as damaging as any other attack, and the mischief is done before the insanity of it is realized. If I now believe puch an attack to be possible, and it may be imminent, it is because I have been studying “Germany And The Next War,” by General von Bernhardi.

  A book written by such a man cannot be set aside as the mere ravings of a Pan-Germanic Anglophobe. So far as appears, he is not a Pan-German at all. There is no allusion to that Germania irredente which is the dream of the party. He is a man of note, and the first living authority in Germany upon some matters of military science. Does he carry the same weight when he writes of international politics and the actual use of those mighty forces which he has helped to form? We will hope not. But when a man speaks with the highest authority upon one subject, his voice cannot be entirely disregarded upon a kindred one. Besides, he continually labors, and with success, to make the reader understand that he is the direct modern disciple of that main German line of thought which traces from Frederic through Bismarck to the present day. He moves in circles which actually control the actions of their country in a manner to which we have no equivalent For all these reasons, his views cannot be lightly set aside, and should be most carefully studied by Britons. We know that we have no wish for war, and desire only to be left alone. Unfortunately, it takes two to make peace, even as it takes two to make a quarrel. There is a very clear statement here that the quarrel is imminent, and that we must think of the means, military, naval, and financial, by which we may meet it Since von Bernhardi’s book may not be accessible to every reader of this article, I will begin by giving some idea of the situation as it appears to him, and of the course of action which he foreshadows and recommends.

  He begins his argument by the uncompromising statement that war is a good thing in itself. All advance is founded upon struggle. Each nation has a right, and indeed a duty, to use violence where its interests are concerned and there is a tolerable hope of success. As to the obvious objection that such a doctrine bears no possible relation to Christianity, he is not prepared to admit the validity of the Christian ethics in international practice. In an ingenious passage he even attempts to bring the sanction of Christianity to support his bellicose views. He says: —

  “Again, from the Christian standpoint, we arrive at the same conclusion. Christian morality is based, indeed, on the law of love. ‘Love God above all things, and thy neighbor as thyself.’ This law can claim no significance for the relations of one country to another, since its application to politics would lead to a conflict of duties. The love which a man showed to another country as such would imply a want of love for his own countrymen. Such a system of politics must inevitably lead men astray. Christian morality is personal and social, and in its nature cannot be political. Its object is
to promote morality of the individual, in order to strengthen him to work unselfishly in the interests of the community. It tells us to love our individual enemies, but does not remove the conception of enmity.”

  Having thus established the general thesis that a nation should not hesitate to declare war where a material advantage may be the reward, he sets out very clearly what are some of the causes for war which Germany can see before her. The following passages throw a light upon them: —

  “Strong, healthy and flourishing nations increase in numbers. From a given moment they require a continual expansion of their frontiers, they require new territory for the accommodation of their surplus population. Since almost every part of the globe is inhabited, new territory must, as a rule, be obtained at the cost of its possessors — that is to say, by conquest, which thus becomes a law of necessity.”

  Again: —

  “Lastly, in all times the right of conquest by war has been admitted. It may be that a growing people cannot win colonies from uncivilized races, and yet the State wishes to retain the surplus population which the mother country can no longer feed. Then the only course left is to acquire the necessary territory hy war. Thus the instinct of self-preservation leads inevitably to war, and the conquest of foreign soil. It is not the possessor, but the victor, who then has the right”

  And he concludes: —

  “Arbitration must be peculiarly detrimental to an aspiring people, which has not yet reached its political and national zenith, and is bent on expanding its power in order to play its part nonorably in the civilized world.”

  And adds: —

  “It must be borne in mind that a peaceful decision by an arbitration court can never replace in its effects and consequences a warlike decision, even as regards the State in whose favor it is pronounced.”

 

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