With Rifle and Bayonet: A Story of the Boer War

“Well, no, it’s not quite that,” Jack replied, with a smile. “Piet Maartens, though, had a hand in it all the same. I’ll tell you all about it if you like. Mr Hunter told me to come here, and said you would be able to give me something to do.”

“Of course I will, Jack,” said Tom Salter heartily. “And you will take up your quarters with me. There’s plenty of room in the house, and the wife will be glad to see you. Now tell me the yarn.”

“That was a close shave, old boy,” he said, when he had heard Jack’s adventures. “Phew! You were within an ace of being shot by those fellows in the magazine. Ah, they are rough customers, and we’re going to have an ugly trouble with them! That’s why we here and our boys up at Mafeking are getting ready. Special-service officers have come to us from England, and though you’d scarcely think it, ammunition and stores are quietly pouring in. Ah! we’ve one of them here as slim as old Oom Paul himself, and another lad up at Mafeking, by name Baden-Powell, who would even give that old crafty schemer a start, and lick him easily. Well, we shall see, but if there is to be a row I’m going to be in it.”

“Everything seems to point to war; at least so I have gathered from Mr Hunter,” remarked Jack, “and I, too, mean to take a share in it.”

“Well done! You’re the right sort of lad!” exclaimed Tom Salter, slapping him on the back. “And mind you, if you want to be in the thick of it, you must stay over here. Kimberley and Mafeking will be besieged, and there will be stirring times. There will be work, too, for everyone. Every lad here will give a hand; all the civilians will join in with our soldiers, and will show our friends the Boers that we mean business.”

“If there is trouble, and the Uitlanders have to leave the Transvaal, I shall return to Johnny’s Burg, Tom. I arranged it all with Wilfred before I left; in fact, weeks ago. You see, Mr Hunter means to stay on and look after his property, so someone will be wanted to take Mrs Hunter down to the frontier, for, by all accounts, once the Boers are let loose there are likely to be unpleasant times for the refugees. After that I shall come over here and lend a hand if I can, though I don’t know about staying for good. There will be little fun if the siege lasts for months, as seems likely by the amount of stores which you say are coming in.”

“Ah, I never thought of that, Jack! My property and money are here, and naturally I shall stick by it and defend it as long as I can; but for you it is a different matter. But there will be lots of despatches to be carried south, for our telegraph wires and communications are certain to be cut. You could volunteer after a little while as a messenger. It would be rough and dangerous work, but I dare say all the more to your taste, and after the few weeks you will work here with me you will have the advantage of knowing the country. You have arrived just in time to join me in a prospecting tour. Mr Hunter and I, with two others, have been in partnership for many years, and just now we have agents travelling from place to place searching for possible gold reefs. They report their finds to me, and I ride or drive over and inspect. Then, if it is likely to prove of any value, we buy the property and secure the mining rights.

“I intend starting north to-morrow, and expect to be away for a month. You may come if you care, and I need not say I shall be glad to have you.”

Jack gladly jumped at the offer, and next morning, after a visit to a local store, where he purchased some clothing, he set out with Tom Salter, looking every inch a young colonist, dressed in riding-breeches and gaiters and a dark-blue shirt. On his head he wore a slouch hat, and over his shoulder was a bandolier filled with cartridges which fitted the Lee-Metford rifle which Tom had lent him. At his hip he carried his Mauser pistol, now no longer concealed, and thus equipped he and Tom rode out, and turning north-west, made for a country which was noted for its wildness.

More than six weeks passed, and during that time he and Tom Salter made many expeditions, sometimes to the west into an almost unknown country, and at other times into the Orange Free State or the Transvaal. After each one they would return to Kimberley, and Tom would write reports on the properties he approved of, and leave Mr Hunter and the other partners to purchase them and secure the rights. In this way Jack quickly became hardened to the saddle, acclimatised and weather-beaten, and moreover was a rider who by constant practice could have held his own now in an American ranche out west by the Rockies. He was, as even Piet Maartens would have been compelled to admit, a strapping, well-set-up young fellow, whose laughing lips and open face almost belied the bull-dog squareness of his chin, and the daring, unflinching look in his eyes. The sun had tanned his cheeks and arms, and as he sat his native pony, his left hand well down, while his right grasped his rifle and leant the butt against his thigh, the natural, upright pose of his body and set of his head, together with a certain jauntiness, don’t-care-who-comes-along sort of style, imparted by an artful bend in the brim of his hat, made Jack Somerton look just what he really was, a plucky young Englishman, who had come out to rough it in this far-away country, and had done exactly what he had intended.

But Jack was not only a fine-looking young fellow. His rough life and his contact with the Boer had made him quick and slim. He looked even-tempered and easy-going, and appeared to take little heed of what he heard or saw; but he was wide-awake, very wide-awake. He missed nothing, and he put all he saw away to be remembered. Thus his various rides had not only made him acquainted with many people, but by now he knew the surrounding country, and could have found his way over it in the darkest of nights.

In addition, he had had many opportunities of practising with his weapon.

“You’ve got a gun there, Jack, my lad,” Tom Salter had said when they first started out prospecting, “and it’s not for appearances only. You want to learn to use it. I never miss a chance even now, and I’m a pretty good shot, I can tell you, without the slightest wish to boast. Still, I am always practising, because I know there is nothing one gets out of so easily. You must be at it constantly to be a good shot. If you’ve got good eyes, and can spare the time to shoot, you’re bound to turn out a marksman. Look at the Boers! Every one of them living outside the towns is a crack shot, simply because he starts when he’s young and sticks to it. Now what you want to do is to take a pot shot at any likely object we come across out in some of these deserted places. The trunk of a tree, a white stone on the side of a distant kopje, or even a vulture, of which there are numbers hereabouts. They are brutes, and the more you hit the better. You’ve got a Mauser pistol too, and had better make use of it. If this war comes, you’ll find your time has not been wasted.”

Jack followed this advice. During their long, and generally lonely, rides, he would often fire as many as twenty cartridges in an afternoon, galloping up to the object afterwards to see what success he had had. As a rule, he fired from the saddle, but sometimes he would jump to the ground and aim whilst standing; at other times, at Tom’s suggestion, he would slip from his saddle, scuttle hurriedly across a piece of open ground, taking advantage of every boulder or ant-hill, and firing at an imaginary enemy from behind each one. Then, when he had reached a ridge, or a piece of better cover, a glance from his trained eye would pick out the best spot to fire from, and he would lie prone on the ground, without so much as the brim of his hat showing, while the muzzle of his rifle projected between two boulders and hurled forth a stream of bullets as he used the magazine.

“That’s it, my lad,” Tom would say encouragingly. “That’s just how our Boer friends fight, and it’s the only method nowadays, when bullets carry so far, and everyone is armed with a modern weapon of precision. It’ll be ticklish work, I can tell you, if our fellows have to attack from the open, and that’s what it will have to come to, for you won’t find these Dutchmen exposing themselves if they can help it. They’ll sit tight behind their boulders, and we shall have to turn them out at the point of the bayonet. Yes, it will be ticklish work, and will require real grit, but I’ll bet anything our boys will tackle it. There’s another thing too. Every youngster armed with one of these magazine rifles is inclined to blaze off all his ammunition at the first alarm. It’s wasting cartridges, which cannot always be spared; and what is more, it is apt to demoralise the others. That’s what you must guard against. Never use the magazine unless there are lots of beggars coming pell-mell at you. If there’s a rush, then is the time to pump in the lead as fast as you possibly can.

“Then, too, you must learn to train your pony, and whilst I’m teaching you to use your rifle, I may as well instruct you in the other matter also.”

Jack was naturally only too willing to learn. Riding all day long across the open veldt was somewhat monotonous at times, and his rifle practice and other manoeuvres helped to make the journeys pass more pleasantly.

Thanks to the allowance which his father had left him, and which was regularly transmitted from England, he was always supplied with an ample sum, and this, when supplemented with the wages paid him at Johannesburg, had given him sufficient for all his wants. Something to ride was one of the most pressing of them, and with Tom’s help he had, soon after his arrival at Kimberley, become possessed of two Basuto ponies, noted for their hardiness and agility. They were about the size of an English cob, mouse-coloured, and somewhat scraggy looking. But for all that they were wiry little animals, with plenty of spirit, but not vicious. Jack named one Victoria and the other Prince, and had no need to complain of his purchases. They turned out to be fast and sturdy little animals, who could easily thrive on the veldt when stable-fed horses would have starved. In addition, they were absolutely sure-footed, so that one could trust them to gallop down the side of a rough kopje, with the reins on their neck, without fear of an accident, for they were used to the work, and could be left to themselves to leap the boulders which came in their path, and steer clear of the ant-bear holes and nullahs which cut up the ground in every direction.

A few weeks’ training was sufficient, and before the prospecting tour came to an end they would stand stock-still while Jack fired above their heads, or at a touch from his heel would canter on, and turn swiftly with the merest pressure of a knee. A jerk of the reins across their necks, and down they would drop on the ground, the rider standing in his stirrups and easily freeing himself, and there they would lie while Jack fired his rifle over them. Sometimes, too, he would knee-halter them and leave them to graze unattended. This knee-haltering was rapidly effected. A long thong of untanned hide was passed over the neck, close up to the head, and one end put through a slit in the other. The free end was then taken round the leg just above the knee and secured with a clove hitch. The animal could then hobble about over a limited area in search of grass, but could not get far, and the halter could be thrown off at a moment’s notice.

But by this time other and more important matters began to engage his attention. There was an ominous cloud of unrest hovering over South Africa. It affected all, and filled them with anxious thoughts, for none knew when it would burst and let loose the thunder and lightning of a terrible war.

Already negotiations between the Boers and the British Government were at a deadlock. Both sides were arming, the former with the absolute certainty and wish for war, and the latter slowly and with evident sorrow. Suspicion was in the air, and hatred between the two races unconcealed. A conference at Bloemfontein had been held between Sir Alfred Milner, the Governor of Cape Colony, and President Kruger, but had led to no result, save a further deadlock. Kruger would make no satisfactory proposals. He was firmly determined that the Transvaal should be for Boers alone, and that no Englishman should have a voice in the country. England asked for equal rights, and was laughed at – defied. Yes, this small state, with a history which could only record some two hundred years of peasant existence, and a total population less than that of one of our big northern towns, had as good as cast down the glove at the British Lion’s feet. And the Lion still sat half-crouched, silently waiting, and hoping that matters might be arranged for peace.

Opposed to England’s forces was a minor state, which was snapping its fingers at her and practically daring her to retaliate. Once before the Transvaal had acted in a similar manner, and then, because there was some doubt as to the justice of our cause, and because we have ever been magnanimous, we made peace with her.

But, like a little dog, the South African Republic had continued yapping at us, distracting our attention while she grew and thrived, and armed herself to the teeth. And now that she had attained to full proportions, the conceit of youth and the impetuous desire to play with her new guns had led her to seek a quarrel, the result of which she hoped would for ever free her from the hated British suzerainty, and give her that independence for which she longed.

And on every side the world looked on and laughed in its sleeve at our difficulties, while it openly upbraided us for having ulterior designs on so small a state.

Matters could not remain as they were. Business was at a standstill, and crowds of refugees were fleeing from the Transvaal. Then the Orange Free State intimated that in the event of hostilities it would cast in its lot with the Transvaal, while there was open disloyalty amongst a portion of the Dutch Cape Colonists, which proved the existence of a wide-spread conspiracy.

England awoke sorrowfully to the fact that hostilities were not to be put off, and, calmly making the best of a bad matter, set to work to prepare for the struggle. Already she had despatched special officers for the defence of certain parts, and now she sent sufficient men to raise the garrisons of Cape Colony and Natal to 20,000, and that done, set to work to mobilise a complete army corps and call up 25,000 of her reserves.

The Boers, too, showed that they meant business. Every male of a certain age was bound to serve, and by October let had been called upon. From Pretoria and Bloemfontein the call to arms was passed on by the telegraph wire, and then by the field-cornets, or local magistrates, and within a few hours, bringing their rifles, horses, food, and ammunition with them, the burghers mustered to their several commandoes. The Orange Free State men manned the passes in the Drakenberg range of mountains looking into Natal, and also sent other commandoes (a large force of men) to watch the southern border along the Orange River, and the Basuto border, where trouble from their old enemies might be expected.

The Transvaallers for the most part went south by train through Volksrust to Laing’s Nek, the scene of the former struggle, while others went north to Komati Poort, where the railway from Delagoa Bay entered the country, and to the northern border near Tuli. A large commando was also despatched to threaten Mafeking, and another marched south towards Kimberley.

Thus, armed to the teeth, the Boers awaited the coming war, and now that they were fully prepared, with all their burghers on the borders and within striking distance, they despatched an ultimatum to the British Government, the more audacity of which set the world agasp, and made our countrymen shut their teeth with rage. It was addressed by President Kruger on October 9th, and declared that forty-eight hours’ grace would be allowed for our forces to be withdrawn from the Cape, our war preparations to be suspended, and our grievances submitted to arbitration. If we refused to do as demanded, war should commence on October the 11th, in the afternoon.

Never before had such an audacious message been addressed to us. There was no answer to be made. Its despatch made war unavoidable. We were forced into it, and accepted the inevitable with a sigh. But had we known all that was in store for us, had we as a nation realised that this was no tribal war, such as we were accustomed to, but a stern struggle against a race of born soldiers armed to the teeth, and favoured by a rough country suited to their tactics, that sigh would have been replaced by a start and by an anxious foreboding which would have led us to throw all our available forces into Africa without a moment’s delay.

But to return to Jack Somerton.

Early in October he and Tom Salter found themselves back in Kimberley again discussing the news, and on the 9th of the month, the very date upon which President Kruger despatched his ultimatum, a letter reached Jack from Mr Hunter, earnestly begging him to come to his help, and aid Wilfred in escorting Mrs Hunter to the frontier.

I know it is asking a lot of you, he wrote, for it would be awkward if you were found in the Transvaal after the warning you have had. But I know you and Tom have often been prospecting in this country during the past few weeks, and really, my boy, I should be grateful if you could come. Wilfred is a good lad, but scarcely capable of the work which will be required, for I can tell you the refugees are likely to meet with trying times.

Jack naturally determined to go at once, and communicated his intentions to Tom. “I’ll risk it,” he said. “An old tweed suit and a slouch hat ought to disguise me, and if I carry a rifle all the better. I shall ride through on Vic and Prince. It would take longer by rail, and all the stations are certain to be watched. I know the way, and ought to get through in about three days.”

Accordingly he saddled up his ponies, jumped into the old suit in which he had left Mr Hunter’s house, and with a hearty shake of the hand from Tom and his wife, set out towards the north, carrying sufficient water and provisions with him to last for a week.

“Good-bye, old boy!” Tom shouted after him. “We shall expect to see you here in a week or so, but we shall be closely shut up, and you will have to find a way in. Ta, ta! you’ll manage it, I’m sure.”

Jack waved his hand, shouted back that they might expect him in about a fortnight, and, shaking up his ponies, cantered away out of sight.

Chapter Seven.

Refugees

It was shortly after noon when Jack set out from Kimberley on his long ride to Johannesburg, and as he could not expect to get there before the afternoon of 11th October, when the ultimatum addressed by President Kruger to the British Government expired, he determined to ride at a moderate pace, for he knew that Wilfred would wait for his arrival. But there was another matter to be considered. An Englishman would now be a marked man in the Transvaal or the Orange Free State, so that if he wished to get through undetected, he must choose the darkest hours for travelling, and lie up during the day.

About five miles out from Kimberley he pulled up, knee-haltered his ponies, and sat down on a boulder, with a map of the two republics spread out before him.

“Let me see!” he thought; “I must pick out a route which will be little frequented just now. The Transvaallers, I know, are rushing west and north to Mafeking and the northern border, and east and south towards Natal. The other fellows in the southern state are making down this way to Kimberley with some of the Transvaallers, and they are certain to combine at Bloemfontein, coming across country by train. The remainder go east to Natal. That leaves the Vaal River deserted, and that ought to be my direction. I will wait here till dusk, and then cut straight to the right into the Orange Free State, and make for the road to Hoopstad. From there I must manage to get to the neighbourhood of Reitzburg, cross the river, and trust to luck to get through the remaining distance. It will be touch and go, but, dressed as I am, I ought to have a chance.”

And, indeed, looking at Jack anyone might have admitted the same. Clad in Mr Hunter’s old tweed suit, which was a size or two too big for him across the shoulders and round the waist, but all too short at wrists and ankles, he looked for all the world like the average Boer. Beneath his trousers he wore a pair of high riding-boots, round his neck was a blue woollen scarf, and on his head a dilapidated and weather-beaten felt hat. Over his left shoulder was a bandolier filled with cartridges, and hitched over the other, and drawn tight against his back so that the butt swung well free of his saddle, was his Lee-Metford rifle. In addition he carried a water-bottle, a mackintosh sheet, with a hole in the middle through which he could put his head, and his Mauser pistol, which was comfortably hidden away in its old position.

Extra shoes, or implements for putting them on to his ponies, were not wanted, for in addition to their many other good points, these shaggy, unkempt-looking Basuto animals, though never shod, were nevertheless equally fast over grass or stony ground.

It was still early in the day, and after riding on a few miles, Jack pulled up again and off-saddled, so as to rest his ponies. Whilst they set about foraging for themselves, he sat under a large eucalyptus-tree, pulled out his pipe and lit it, and proceeded to clean his rifle. A few hours later the shadow in which he sat had lengthened considerably, and he turned round towards the west to see the sun, which had been streaming down upon him all the day, just declining behind a far-distant range of mountains. It was a sight which set Jack moralising, for here, before his eyes, was a gorgeous scene, a fit subject for any artist. The sun was sinking in a splendour of gold and purple lights, and the heavens above it were decked with beautifully red and silver-streaked blue clouds, against which the jagged broken peaks of the mountains stood up boldly, while their rugged and boulder-strewn slopes, and the stretch of rolling veldt below, were already clouded with the shades of coming night. It was a peaceful scene, and why, thought Jack, should not all the beings dwelling within reach of it, or, for the matter of that, dwelling in a country capable of displaying such a prospect as lay before him, live in peace and good brotherhood with one another and enjoy it? South Africa was a vast country, so sparsely populated that one could ride for miles and miles without sighting so much as a roof or habitation, let alone a man. And yet no one thought of the beauties of the country. Other and deeper matters vexed their minds, and because they could not agree they were on the brink of a sanguinary war which would mean an awful loss of life, and – what then?

“Mr Hunter says it’s a case of British supremacy,” he murmured. “Yes, that’s what it is, and that is what it shall be when the war is over.” And straightway Jack forgot all about the declining sun, and the peaceful landscape, and with a curious feeling of elation, which the thought of coming excitement had given him, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, jumped briskly to his feet, and set about saddling his ponies.

Half an hour later it was dark, save for a small moon which just gave sufficient light to show the road. Jack vaulted into his saddle, hitched his rifle over his shoulder, shook the reins, and cantered off across the main road running north, and then on over the rolling veldt, which was just beginning to send forth a few blades of fresh green grass.

Alternately cantering and walking, and changing from one pony to the other, he kept steadily on, the unshod hoofs of his animals making no sound, so that Jack had the advantage of being able to hear anyone approaching. Five hours later he stumbled upon the road from Kimberley to Hoopstad, and at once off-saddled to rest himself and his ponies for an hour.

During that time no one passed, and having eaten a good meal of biscuit and hard-boiled eggs, he started again, riding along just by the side of the road, and turning on to it now and again, when the veldt was so strewn with boulders or cut up by nullahs and deep water-courses as to make it difficult for him to pick his way.

About half an hour later he heard a low, murmuring sound in the distance, and in a few moments could plainly distinguish galloping hoofs. Instantly he turned on to the veldt, and made for a steep kopje a hundred yards off, amongst the boulders of which he quickly hid both himself and the animals.