I recall one occasion, just a few hours before we were due to disembark, when our train pulled over to allow another, heading south, to pass. We were stationary for a long time. A hospital train pulled up alongside, its open windows inches from ours. Gaunt, grey, sweat-covered faces stared back at us, most with filthy, blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their heads. In the background we could hear the cries of many in desperate pain. Our men reached through the windows and proffered sweets, cigarettes and tobacco, with barely a word said. We moved off, shaken. The reality of war was sinking in.
The train stopped again at what was no more than an empty platform in the veld, about an hour south of Bloemfontein. Captain MacDonald ordered us all out. Our kit and horses were unloaded, lines for the horses quickly strung out, and then Cammy had the hundred of us form into close ranks. There was much chatter amongst the men about what was going on; even the officers didn’t seem to know.
It soon became clear. I had heard tales of an extraordinary man – an American named Burnham – while we were in the Cape. He had proposed to Major Murray that the Scouts would benefit from training and offered his services. We were to wait here for him.
After an hour on parade in the blistering sun, into sight came a single horseman at a slow gallop. He sat on the mount as if he was glued to it. On his head was a Stetson, round his waist an ammunition belt with ivory-handled six-shooter pistols strapped to each hip, and he wore a black coat with no insignia whatsoever. He was small and slight, with piercing eyes and a bushy moustache.
The men looked on in incredulity as he halted and began to address us in his drawling Minnesotan accent. ‘Good day,’ he began. ‘My name is Frederick Russell Burnham, Fred to you. I am the Chief of Scouts. I report directly to Lord Roberts, Commander of the Army in South Africa. I’ve never been a soldier, British or American. I have been a cowboy, a horse rustler, a gold prospector and a hunter, and I’ve tracked and been tracked by the best scouts in the world: the American Indians.’
Our mouths dropped open in amazement.
‘Y’all will be under my command for three days. We’re going to set up camp down by a spruit nearby, and I’m going to tell you how the Boer fight, teach you some scouting tricks, and then you’re going to get back on the train and head into Bloemfontein. But the main thing I’m going to teach y’all is how important it is to know your enemy, and with that knowledge, how you will beat him.’
Burnham’s information and expertise grew more and more valuable to us as the war went on. He had a British sergeant and three corporals working for him, and over the days that followed they taught us how to track the enemy and cover our own tracks. We learned how to braid ropes, throw a lasso over a man from horseback, navigate at night without a compass and map using the stars, how to use explosives, how to withstand torture, and how to snap-shoot without aiming. Captain MacDonald finally mastered shooting a pistol accurately from either hand at full gallop, which pleased him no end.
Burnham didn’t socialise with anyone. When all the work was done, late into the night, he would disappear into the bush. But one night his sergeant told us Burnham’s story. He had grown up the son of a missionary on a Sioux reservation in Minnesota. He had been a tracker for the US Army during the Apache wars, had met Baden-Powell during the Matabeleland wars a decade before, and Lord Roberts had asked him to return from Alaska, where he was prospecting for gold, to become Chief of Scouts. He didn’t smoke or drink as he believed it would not only make him smell but also dull his senses, and he drank very little water so he could learn to cope without it when he needed to.
Later, as we headed up to Bloemfontein to join the Highland Brigade, we Scouts couldn’t stop talking about him. We had all been sceptical at first, but this had quickly changed to admiration, to the point where there wasn’t a man amongst us who wasn’t hugely impressed with his knowledge and his teaching. He had the makings of a legend among us.
When Lovat returned from sick leave, Captain MacDonald sat him down after patrol one evening and talked about the eccentric and inspirational American. Lovat drank in everything he was told about the man. If it wasn’t for the fact that Burnham was almost fatally wounded behind enemy lines in Pretoria and then sent to England to recuperate, I am sure that Lovat’s charm would have lured Burnham back to teach us more.
Captain MacDonald was later heard to say to Lord Lovat that Number One Company had learned more of the art of scouting in three days from Fred Burnham than they had learned in Beauly in a month – and that those three days would have saved many of our lives. In turn Burnham described our men as ‘half wolf and half jackrabbit’. We weren’t sure if that was a compliment but we decided to take it as one.
Chapter 10
Captain Willie MacDonald, South Africa, 1900
After the excitement of Burnham’s training we had a short train trip north, where we made camp in Bloemfontein amidst thousands of men, horses and wagons. There were those newly arrived from the Cape, like us, preparing to be sent off to join depleted brigades, as well as battalions of seasoned veterans who were having a week’s leave to recover. And, of course, there were thousands of support personnel who followed the men into battle. It was an enormous, teeming tented city.
There were turban-wearing Sikhs, New Zealanders, Australians, Canadians, even Negroes from the far-off Caribbean. Many of the soldiers were on their way to capture Pretoria and Johannesburg where there was already a brigade of American Irish plus German, Belgian, Dutch and Russian regiments. What everyone had initially believed to be no more than a small number of Boer farmers trying to break free from British rule was now turning into a massive struggle between the British Empire and the Boer.
While the majority of British soldiers were of the highest calibre, quite a few of those joining the volunteer regiments had only done so because of the high pay on offer, and there appeared to have been no effort to sort the wheat from the chaff. Some members of the Imperial Yeomanry, who had been recently recruited in England and forwarded to the front, were unable either to ride or shoot when they arrived at the Cape. Our sergeant heard that later, when a shipload of these returned warriors reached England, they were described as ‘street loafers and disease-ridden rapscallions’.
Our orders were to join the Highland Brigade under Fighting Mac; they were on their way north towards Johannesburg. We took a train onwards to Kroonstad, which was to be followed by a thirty-mile ride up to Heilbron. We still hadn’t met up with the rest of the Scouts; Major Murray and Two Company had been delayed waiting for fresh horses in the Cape. The plan was to catch up with General Paget and his brigade, who were a day ahead of us, and go with them to relieve the possibly encircled Highland Brigade at Heilbron.
Kroonstad, like every railway town, was buzzing. There were troops camped everywhere and injured men were being carted towards any hotel, school or church that had space for them. The streets were so congested with oxen, mules, horses and people that you had to push your way through. The few shops that were open had sold out of anything that could conceivably be eaten or drunk, and we noted the extortionate prices that were being asked for the most basic provisions.
We spent four days in Kroonstad. One night we heard shouting and the noise of hooves, so we leapt from our cots and rushed outside. Two hundred horses – perhaps spooked by something – had broken out of their kraal and were now thundering through the camp at full gallop. I discovered the exact position of every picket peg with my bare feet in the dark that night.
On another day, a horse race was organised. Anyone who could find a guinea could enter, and at least a hundred did. The course began at the church, then ran out of town on the Winburg Road for about three miles, around a hillock (a kopje) and back again. The street was lined with thousands of every nationality; the regiments all cheering their own. The winner, a corporal in Brabant’s Horse, was awarded all the entry money, enough to buy a house when he got home.
We camped beside the Valsch River, where there was a gran
d pool. The men swam and bathed daily for the week we were there. At one point, Donald John and I accompanied two of our men, who had succumbed to dysentery, to the hospital, and when we arrived there we noticed that it was called the Scottish National Red Cross Hospital. All under canvas, it was spacious, generously furnished and efficiently run. Our two men confessed that once they were admitted they would be unlikely to want to join us again.
Disease was rife, although the Lovat Scouts were comparatively lucky. When Simon Lovat rejoined us after recovering from his bout of illness, the men were gathered together and given a strict talking to. On no account was dirty water to be drunk – ever – even if we’d been a day without, for as sure as hell it would lead to misery and quite likely death. We observed other regiments’ men who didn’t give a damn how dirty the water was, as long as it was wet.
When we finally set off on the big trek to Heilbron, we were anxious to bring along as many supplies as we could for the Highland Brigade, who would by now be running low. I organised two extra bowsers of water, five wagons of food and ammunition and twenty oxen to pull them.
On our very first day, just out of Kroonstad, Donald John, Sergeant Cameron and I were at the rear of our small column when we found ourselves further out than we should have been. I halted to investigate a five-inch gun that had been abandoned and was trying to disable it permanently when I heard Donald John calling out. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement only a hundred yards away – a stirring in a bush, perhaps a rifle being moved into position to take a shot at us.
I vaulted onto my horse and the three of us wheeled away, bullets flying all around us. It was about half a mile until we could catch up with our rear guard but we had a dozen Boer on our tail and gaining on us as we galloped towards safety. It was immediately clear how much faster and in better condition the Boer horses were than ours. Donald John and I were ahead and nearly safe when I looked behind to see Sergeant Cameron surrounded by Boer – a lucky shot had knocked his horse down. The Afrikaners were swarming around him like hornets. We wheeled around and galloped towards them, but bullets were singing past our heads and we knew it would be madness to keep going.
We saw them haul Cameron onto the back of a horse and ride off. He didn’t appear to be badly injured, but I was shaken by the incident. My conscience pricked for not going to his rescue, but the men assured us we had done the right thing. It was said that the Boer behaved like gentlemen towards their prisoners so he would likely be unharmed.
There were constant skirmishes on our journey. Those same Boer would come up to the rear of our wagon trail and try to capture them. At one point a wheel came off one of our wagons and several hours were spent shifting its contents onto another already fully loaded cart while the Boer circled us, trying to find a weak spot. Reluctantly, we had to abandon a ton of supplies, doubtless ferried off by the enemy come nightfall.
The countryside was predominantly flat, rolling ground. An advance party of four would ride ahead to a rise, take their glasses out and scan the area. Then, as we moved forward, the wagons followed. General MacDonald was already at Heilbron, but it wasn’t clear whose hands the town was in. What we did know for certain was that seven thousand Boer were in the area and nothing had been heard from the Highland Brigade for almost a month.
Donald John and I dashed back and forth between the wagons, fighting the rearguard action with flankers who were under the command of Lieutenant Ellice. At one point, Lieutenant Ewan Grant was at full canter when his horse stumbled into an aardvark hole in the long grass. The animal pitched forward, broke its leg and threw Grant heavily to the ground, dislocating his shoulder. Within five minutes the horse had been shot and a new one found, Grant’s shoulder was pulled back into position, and we were mounted and off again.
On the second day of the trek we were in the saddle for almost fourteen hours, with only an hour’s break. Our men were exhausted, having ridden under a hot sun on only one ration biscuit and some bully beef. We finally set up camp in a hollow by a river as the evening temperature fell. Pickets were sent out to the ridge around us to watch the Boer moving around their campfires, only a mile or two away. But no fire for us. The men stretched out, too tired to talk.
As night fell, the men operated in pairs, one struggling to sleep because of the cold and anxiety, and the other on watch. Every man had to sleep beside his saddled horse and we were ordered to keep our boots on and our rifles by our sides. Burnham’s advice was fresh in our minds and we were extra vigilant; it seemed a certainty that the Boer would take advantage of our vulnerability and attack at night.
We were lucky to be undisturbed that night. However, the next morning we had the Boer at our backs from the start. Half our men positioned themselves behind the convoy, desperately staving them off as the rest of us sped towards the town as fast as we could, considering the crawling pace at which oxen travel. Our men, ten to a troop, would lie on a kopje and shoot at the Boer as they came over the rise a good three hundred yards away. This would cause them to dismount and fire back. Hitting their horses was almost as important to us. Then our men would move back to our force with another troop of Scouts already in position at the top of the next rise.
I overheard Johnny Mackenzie, a stalker from Strathglass, use the language of the deer forest as he spied through his glass while another sniped at a Boer: ‘The first was a wee bit low and to the right. The second hit him high on the body.’
Our baggage, the oxen wagons, half a dozen cattle that we’d commandeered on the way and some spare horses continued to creep at two miles an hour despite the natives rushing around and cracking bull whips. We were encouraged by the knowledge that two hundred thousand rounds of .303 bullets and fresh provisions would be well received by the general when we arrived. We would have arrived in less than half the time, however, if we hadn’t had to transport the lot.
The last two miles were perilous. We had to travel across open ground and through our telescopes we saw many armed men ahead. Unless these were Highlanders we were in for a lot of trouble, but the onslaught at our rear continued, so we had no choice but to keep going. Luckily, it turned out to be a picket of Seaforths, on their way out to help us.
We were the heroes of the hour and General MacDonald made a real fuss of us. He called out to me as we arrived, ‘By Jove, we were thankful when we saw you fellows ride calmly into the town. What have you got in those wagons?’
The brigade was down to half-rations, with scarcely any ammunition left when we arrived. The Highland Brigade was virtually all infantry with almost no cavalry, just a small Cape troop who were overused and exhausted. And with the Boer surrounding the town and their ability to outmanoeuvre foot soldiers, Fighting Mac had been well and truly trapped.
We were given three days off-duty to recover but the brigade needed both our manpower and our horses so we were constantly in demand. We were sent to provide cover for engineers, to mend the telegraph wires, or to hunt for livestock. One of our young officers, Lieutenant Fraser-Tytler, was on patrol when he came across some African boys guarding about sixty head of cattle and five hundred sheep. In a cloud of dust, Fraser-Tytler and his men drove the animals back to camp and were only saved from the Boer by some Seaforths who went out to bring them in. One trooper, a Glencoe Macdonald, remarked that his cattle-raiding ancestors would have been proud; it had quite awakened his predatory instincts.
We were popular that night. It had been weeks since the besieged garrison had had meat, and there was plenty of it. All across the camp, men would come up to us and shake our hands, full of congratulations. The next day, General MacDonald ordered some cattle to be butchered and distributed to the couple of hundred civilians in the town.
We were sent out as scouts from time to time, but only for a few hours a day. Donald John and I tried to find the location of a big gun that was shelling the town. We finally found it inside a tumbledown house, looking like a gigantic black roof beam poking through the wall. The Cape Troop and the East
ern Province Horse went out the next morning and took it.
A picket reported that there was a white flag flying near a kraal, so we sent out a patrol to see what was going on. As they approached, they encountered a tremendous volley of shots from about thirty Boer – the white flag was merely being used to mark the range, it seemed. What treachery.
One of the Scouts was sent to take a message to General Methuen of the First Division, who was about thirty miles away, and he returned with some useful information about the Boer positions. I was then ordered to recce the ground for Methuen and so, without any baggage to slow us down, a troop went out, found the best route and, with our help, Methuen and his thousand men were able to fight their way through to Heilbron. The next morning the pickets reported no sign of the enemy and it became clear that the Boer had disappeared overnight and the siege had lifted.
It was while we were at Heilbron that we learned that the Boer capital, Pretoria, had fallen to the British, but Kruger had escaped. Now everyone was speculating that the war had only weeks to run before the Boer capitulated. We had time on our hands after this, and I took the opportunity to walk around the town, swim in the lake and catch up with my friends in the Argyll and Seaforth regiments.
Our camp was located beside a beautiful lake on the edge of Heilbron, in the shade of gum trees. I relaxed there with the Lochaber men as they enjoyed their tea and cigarettes. Their constant preoccupation was running out of tobacco. We sat around the fire talking about the countryside and what great farming land lay all around us. There was even talk of coming back after the war and setting up a Highland colony; the men felt that the place had the potential to become the best cattle and sheep farming land in the world.
The secret to farming success out there was ensuring a good water supply. If a farm name finished with the word ‘fontein’, there would be a fountain or spring. The only real menace were the jackals, who would be after the sheep all night unless you had men out. Other men were minded to join Baden-Powell, who was building up the South African police.
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