The Boer War

by Martin Bossenbroek

  A letter from Barry Hertzog, the young judge who had meanwhile risen to the rank of assistant chief commandant, strengthened his view. Hertzog also suggested that the time was ripe to launch a raid on the Cape Colony, but it should be plain and simple: three units, each with 1000 Free Staters, operating independently of each other. The Transvaal could follow with another 2000 men, but it wouldn’t really be necessary. ‘Chief Commandant C. de Wet’s name is so well known that just his presence will be enough to set the Colony ablaze,’ he’d written.

  That was the kind of conviction De Wet wanted to see. If he was still wavering between Botha and Smuts’s plan and Hertzog’s, his doubts would have been dispelled by the symbolism of the disaster that awaited him on 6 November, in Bothaville, appropriately enough. At half past six in the morning, when most of his 800 men were still asleep, the sentry corporal came to report that all was quiet. De Wet knew that the British weren’t far off, and he knew who they were: Major-General Charles Knox’s column, led by the 5th and 8th Mounted Infantry under the command of Colonel Philip le Gallais. But they were still on the opposite bank of the Vals, he was told, probably making for Kroonstad.

  This wasn’t correct. Barely were the words out of the corporal’s mouth when De Wet heard shots. Someone slaughtering animals, he thought. But the firing continued. The sound came from the direction of the sentries’ quarters, and suddenly the British were there, uncomfortably close, and they were coming in droves. They had caught the sentries off guard—Steyn later called it ‘criminal negligence’—and now they were storming the Boer camp. The men, still drowsy with sleep, were caught unawares. Some had the presence of mind to take cover and return the fire, but most of them panicked, scrambled for their horses and made a break for it, many leaving their saddles behind, anything to get away from the bullets and shells.

  De Wet was powerless to stop them. Nothing helped. ‘I had never seen anything like it in my life. I had often heard about terror, but then I understood what it really meant.’ Screaming and brandishing his sjambok, he went after the fugitives. Steyn, at least, had to be taken to safety, along with the state treasury and official documents. This he managed to do, but he couldn’t round up his men. Most of them got away. Only a handful remained to put up a fight, too few to repel the British. They managed to stop some of them, including Le Gallais, but they were overwhelmingly outnumbered. Around 11 o’clock the remaining fighters, more than 100 of them, surrendered. Another 17 Boers were killed, and six guns—their last—were lost.

  The Bothaville debacle taught De Wet a painful lesson. Danie Theron, his master scout, was no longer alive. Only now did De Wet begin to grasp the full implications of his predicament. There was no one he could trust. Sleeping sentries, panic-stricken men, fainthearted allies. He could only rely on himself. He had never really thought much of Botha and Smuts’s plan, but now he was firmly against it. In any case, without artillery there wasn’t much they could do to the Rand.

  The following day, 7 November 1900, De Wet reached a decision. He forwarded Hertzog’s letter to Botha, adding his own views on the subject. The time had come for ‘our commandos to invade the Cape Colony’. He would have liked to confer with Botha and De la Rey before leaving, but ‘in the circumstances that would take up too much precious time and I am already on my way’.33

  Foreign territory

  Warmbaths, November 1900

  Deneys Reitz enjoyed his time in the bush. He loved the rugged terrain and the wild animals, and when he and his brother Joubert finally found General Beyers’s unit at the end of their meanderings, a pleasant surprise awaited them. The Afrikander Cavalry Corps, their Free State unit, had survived after all. After their last meeting and its tragic ending at Middelburg four months earlier, their old comrades had gone north to join Beyers’s unit. And now they were reunited, here in Warmbaths. Malan had been succeeded by a young commandant, Lodi Krause, who invited them to join the unit. Deneys and Joubert agreed without a moment’s hesitation. They were back with the Afrikander Cavalry.

  The reunion was complete when Arend turned up as well, at the end of November. After recovering his health, he had found Lydenburg dull. Their father had agreed to him going in search of his two elder brothers. They were pleased to see him fit and well again. The three of them built a reed hut to serve as a shelter. They spent their days hunting in the bush and occasionally rode out on patrol to Pienaars River, 40 kilometres south, where the British had set up a camp. Once, having ventured too close, they were spotted. They made a dash for it, with bullets whistling past their ears, and managed to escape without a scratch.

  The only drawback in Warmbaths was their commandant. Christiaan Beyers was a brave man and Reitz respected him for that, but he was also deeply religious, a zealot, Deneys and his brothers thought. He and the dominee, Abraham Kriel, missed no opportunity to hold a prayer meeting. ‘Come rain or wind, at midnight or under the blazing sun, whenever we unsaddled our horses we paused for prayer, and in time that grew tedious.’ Young men on commando like themselves were required to attend Bible study sessions when they were out in the bush, but the three brothers unaccustomed to ‘intolerance in matters of faith’, refused to take part. They met with reprimands from Kriel and threats from Beyers. Were they trying to get themselves thrown out of the commando?

  The storm blew over and in early December the interlude of relative peace came to an end. Beyers received orders from Botha to move south and engage in guerrilla operations. He left for the Magaliesberg with 800 men, leaving 200 behind. Deneys and Arend accompanied him. Joubert had decided he would prefer to be with the artillery. His brothers tried to dissuade him, but he had made up his mind.

  Within a few days they found themselves in a valley at the foot of the mountain range which separated the bush country and the highveld. There they had a lucky break. At the beginning of the Ou Wapad, a path through one of the mountain passes, they came upon a convoy of 50 or 60 British supply wagons, which had been ambushed. Some were still ablaze, others were smouldering. It could only mean one thing: Koos de la Rey was in the vicinity. There would be action and they were looking forward to it.34

  Kruger’s reception in Marseilles was promising. At nine o’clock on the morning of Thursday 22 November 1900, the Dutch warship Gelderland sailed into port. The exiled president had been taken on board in Lourenço Marques a month earlier. This diplomatic coup on the part of the Dutch government was the brainchild of the minister of the navy, J.A. Röell, and a credit to Queen Wilhelmina. Before doing anything else, The Hague had obtained London’s approval. Leyds had then discussed the matter with the French government to decide on the most suitable port of arrival for the start of Kruger’s European mission.

  Now the big moment had come. As soon as it moored in the port of Marseilles, the Gelderland was surrounded by ships and pleasure yachts carrying crowds of excited supporters. But they still had to wait. First a tender sailed out to the armoured cruiser; on board were Leyds, the three members of the Transvaal delegation, Fischer, Wessels and Wolmarans, and the Groningen professor of theology and French language and literature, A.G. van Hamel, whom Leyds had engaged as an interpreter. Then there was the official leave-taking from the crew. Around 11 o’clock the tender returned, bringing the man half the city had come out to see. He was wearing a dark overcoat and a top hat with a mourning band. Just like his photos, the New York Times reporter thought. Far better than in the photos, said the Dutch Algemeen Handelsblad. They were in agreement about the tumultuous cheering on the quay. Once the cries of ‘Long live Kruger’ and ‘Long live the Boers’ had died down, the chairmen of the national and local Transvaal committees extended an official welcome to the president. Leyds did the introductions. Kruger replied, first brightly, with pleasantries, but when the subject turned to the war he was overcome with emotion.

  Though tremulous, his voice was still resonant and strong. His outrage boomed over the jetty. ‘The war which is being waged against the two republics has reached the utmos
t limits of barbarity. In my life I have had occasion many times to fight with the savage tribes of Africa, but the barbarians with whom we have now to fight are much worse than the others. They have gone so far as to arm the Kaffirs against us. They burn our farms, which we have built with so much difficulty. They hunt the women and children whose husbands and fathers have been killed or taken prisoner. They leave them without protection, without homes, often without bread.’ Gesticulating angrily, he continued, ‘But whatever may happen, we shall never surrender . . . Our cause is just and if the justice of men fails us, the Almighty, who is above all nations, and to whom the future belongs, will not abandon us. I can assure you that, if the Transvaal and the Orange Free State are to lose their independence, it will be because the two Boer peoples have been destroyed, with their women and children.’

  A hush fell over the audience for a moment. Such passion, such determination, no one had expected from the 75-year-old, mused the reporter from the Algemeen Handelsblad. The New York Times correspondent was also astounded by Kruger’s ‘fighting declaration’. As Van Hamel finished translating his words, the crowd erupted in another storm of applause. The ceremony was over. A long procession of carriages made its way to the Hotel de Noailles. Along the route ‘the adulation grew louder, the excitement mounted from house to house’. An estimated 150,000 people filled the streets; the cavalcade virtually came to a standstill. This ‘delirium of enthusiasm’ continued even after Kruger’s arrival at the hotel. In response to ‘a thunderous ovation’, he appeared on the balcony. Standing between the flags of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State, he acknowledged the tribute. After a few minutes, Kruger reached for the French flag, which hung there as well. Visibly moved, he pressed it to his heart. Then he returned indoors.35

  Leyds hadn’t expected such an overwhelming reception. There was no lack of public support and solidarity. But the visit wasn’t about processions and public appearances. Decisions were taken behind closed doors, in the meetings he had arranged for Kruger in the halls of power. Seeing him again had been a painful experience. Leyds thought his president looked ‘old and tired’, and in spite of his three previous visits, he displayed little ‘knowledge of the situation in Europe’. In Paris he would be received as a head of state, with an official reception from the French president, Émile Loubet, which he had managed to arrange. More important, however, was the meeting he would have afterwards with the foreign minister, Delcassé. That was what really mattered.

  The train journey from Marseilles to Paris was an endless triumphal procession. At the stations en route, in Lyon and Dijon, dignitaries jostled to greet him. Even when the train didn’t stop, admirers and well-wishers crowded the platforms to wave as Kruger passed by. At railway crossings men doffed their hats, officers saluted. In Paris he was given a hero’s welcome. The city was festooned with Transvaal flags and emblems, and supporters paraded in Boer hats. The chief of protocol, Philippe Crozier, was at the Gare de Lyon to welcome Kruger on behalf of President Loubet.

  His reception at the Elysée followed soon afterwards, complete with national anthems and a guard of honour. The meeting between the two presidents amounted to little more than an exchange of pleasantries. It was only when Loubet returned the visit, at Hotel Scribe, that Kruger laid his cards on the table. He said he was gratified by the exuberant display of solidarity, to which he added, ‘but it will offer little consolation, if it is not followed up by deeds’. Loubet was cordial but evasive. He recalled France’s earlier efforts ‘to encourage friendly intervention’. Apart from this, the future would ‘show how much further it would still be possible to go’.

  The message, which Leyds received through Van Hamel, was clear: Loubet couldn’t do much more. Only Delcassé could provide redemption. The day for it came soon afterwards, on Tuesday 27 November 1900. Once again, Van Hamel was present to interpret. After the usual formalities, Delcassé came to the point. He brusquely referred Kruger to ‘other countries whose relations with Britain are less fraught than ours’. Van Hamel saw ‘something like a dull resignation spread over the tired features of that beatific face, while the gnarled fingers fumbled for the hat on the chair beside him and the bowed, faltering figure slowly raised itself to leave’.36

  So Paris could be written off. What now? Go to The Hague? There was absolutely no one who could do anything there. Berlin, and then St Petersburg? Leyds was sceptical, but Kruger was determined to leave no stone unturned. So, on to Berlin. Leyds spoke to a few of his acquaintances in the diplomatic corps. Their replies weren’t exactly discouraging, although they warned that the emperor might have other commitments. Very well, Kruger and Leyds thought, in that case they could always speak to the chancellor, Bernhard von Bülow, and the foreign minister, Oswald von Richthofen. They set off for Cologne on 1 December 1900.

  Leyds regretted the decision as soon as the train pulled in at Cologne station. Nothing had been arranged for them, no reception committee, no police cordon; only a rapturous crowd which, however pleasing, became a threat to Kruger’s personal safety. At one point, Leyds lost him in the crush, and was ‘immensely grateful to see him back at the hotel in one piece’. The authorities were clearly happier to see Kruger leave than arrive. Leyds had apparently misinterpreted the hints from the Germans. The following day, his suspicions were confirmed. A certain Heinrich von Tschirschky und Bögendorff, chamberlain plenipotentiary to the emperor, came to their hotel. The message, which he conveyed in person, spelt it out: ‘His Majesty’ was unable to receive the president of the Transvaal and urged him to reconsider his plans to visit Berlin. He couldn’t have been more blunt. It suddenly seemed as if the amicable telegrams the two heads of state had exchanged in earlier years were a figment of someone’s imagination. There was no longer a place for Paul Kruger in Wilhelm II’s scheme of things. Dried-out putty in a broken window. He had to get out of Germany.37

  There was nothing for it but to go to Holland, the ineffectual but at least hospitable land of his forefathers. Leyds knew that Oom Paul would be welcomed with open arms, even by the political authorities. Queen Wilhelmina, Pierson, De Beaufort, they wouldn’t do anything either. The queen would be frustrated, the foreign minister pedantic, but they would certainly want to see him, and spare him the humiliation of a blunt refusal.

  And so on 6 December 1900 it was The Hague’s turn to cheer Kruger—but not too exuberantly—and welcome him. It was a poignant occasion, the more so because everyone knew from the start that his mission was doomed to fail. Asser was ‘among those assembled in the station forecourt and was deeply moved by the warm reception. It was hard to fight back my tears,’ he confided to Leyds. The forlorn old hero held a place in everyone’s heart, but no one was able to help him. Their sense of impotence pervaded the crowded reception held a week later: Kruger seated in the midst of his entourage as a procession of ‘Dutch people from all walks of life’ filed past. According to the Algemeen Handelsblad, it was ‘impossible to enumerate all the organisations and associations concerned with religion, science, art, labour, etc. whose spokesmen sought to convey their sympathy for the long-suffering old man in a few hasty but heartfelt words’. They proceeded to do so, nevertheless, row upon row: the Leiden Students’ Association, the Committee for Clothing and Food for South Africa, the Cecilia Royal Choir, the Board of the Union of Exiled Officials of the Netherlands-South African Railway Company (‘We were deported from your country but we hope to see you back there’), the young ladies and gentlemen of the Academy of Drawing, a delegation of the 3rd Section of the Hasselt Cross, average age 89.5. The list went on and on. Everyone was deeply affected by the plight of the Boers, everyone was moved to tears by Oom Paul, but no one was in a position to help him. A note on the admission card for the reception unwittingly expressed their helpless longing to reach out: ‘Please refrain from touching the President.’38

  The timing was perfect. Major Pond, his American agent, had worked wonders. Churchill revelled in these auspicious quirks of fate. It was ha
lf past eight on the evening of 12 December 1900, a year to the minute—disregarding the time difference—since his escape from prison in Pretoria. And what a splendid venue! The Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria in New York, haunt of ‘the rich and famous’. He couldn’t have wished for a better start to his American lecture tour. Even so, he was more nervous than usual. He felt perfectly at home in high society, but this time he was being introduced by no less a luminary than Mark Twain. It was a tremendous honour and the presence of the world-famous author had undoubtedly been good for the box office. It was just that it gave Churchill cold feet. Twain was known to be staunchly opposed to imperialism, both American and British, and at his age—65, with a shock of unruly white hair—he was free to speak his mind. It could turn into a difficult evening.

  He wasn’t worried about delivering the speech. That he could do in his sleep. With the help of a magic lantern, he had told the story of his escape and other exploits in South Africa exactly 29 times before, in every large city in Britain. He had started right after the elections, on 30 October, in St James’s Hall in London, and since then, evening after evening—except Sundays—he had addressed large, packed halls. He also had big names to introduce him, starting with Commander-in-Chief Lord Wolseley in London, and subsequently a string of prominent politicians, like Lord Rosebery in Edinburgh and Lord Derby in Liverpool.

  He had made a tidy sum out of the lectures, which was precisely the idea. At the time members of parliament received no remuneration. His new seat in the Commons was only going to put him out of pocket. If he intended to devote himself to politics in the coming years, he would have to start building up a financial reserve. He had already put aside about £4000 from his income from the Morning Post and the royalties from his books. Now was the time to cash in on his reputation as a successful war correspondent, while the memories were still fresh. His agent, Gerald Christie, had arranged the bookings. By the end of November Churchill had more than doubled his savings—and he had won acclaim wherever he went.