On the Heels of De Wet

T >> The Intelligence Officer >> On the Heels of De Wet

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After the usual worries of settling into camp--mule-drivers leading
animals to water in the drinking reservation, and commanding officers
making themselves disagreeable--there was time to turn one's attention
to the inmates of the roadside mansion. The great whitewashed bungalow
seemed to be alive with inhabitants. The Intelligence officer went
about his business with the air of an expert, and in two minutes the
head of the house, a fine old specimen of the patriarchal Boer, and
his son, a poor slip of a man, were standing before him, hat in hand,
while women-folk of all ages and fulness of costume peeped from every
convenient crevice in the background. The general attitude of the
household was that of humility, in contrast to the usual reception
which the column had experienced in the majority of Karoo farms. And
presently the cause for the deference became apparent. The gaping
children in the main entrance were thrust aside, and a woman of
magnificent proportions pushed in between the two humble men. The old
man mumbled something about his daughter-in-law, while his callow son
looked, if possible, more sheepish than at first. The Intelligence
officer for his part could hardly keep his countenance. The lady had
donned her best. Her ample form was swathed in the rustling folds of a
magnificent silk gown which had evidently been cut in the days of the
crinoline attachment. Her hair, showing signs of the rapidity with
which its present gloss had been applied, was knotted somewhere
adjacent to the neck; and not satisfied with nature's adornment, this
prehistoric beauty had fixed a great white ostrich feather in her
well-greased tresses, which drooped down upon her neck and shoulder.
The Intelligence officer bowed deeply in order to keep his feelings in
due subordination. The lady was not slow to introduce herself.
Dropping one armful of a skirt that was so voluminous that it had to
be held in both hands, she limply took the officer's hand.

_Frau._ "Good morning. I am Mrs Van Herden; this is my man[32]
(_indicating the meek son of the house_). We are glad to see you. Will
you have some coffee?" (And as she spoke a microscopic Kaffir maid
appeared with the inevitable coffee on a tray.)

_Intelligence Officer._ "Thank you, madam, but I must first search the
house and outhouses."

_F._ "You are welcome to do that. We are perfectly loyal. Have you not
heard what the Van Herdens did in the Kaffir wars, and my grandfather
was Scotch."

_I. O._ "It is only a matter of form, madam. Any one could see that
you were loyal!"

_F._ "Are you a general, mister?"

_I. O._ "No; I ought to be if I had my deserts; but I am the next best
thing. I'm the general's secretary." (Thereupon the old man grunted
approval, while the chorus of gaping maids nodded an endorsement
behind him.)

_F._ "Can I see the general, Mister Secretary?"

_I. O._ "That depends upon the information which you give me now. Why
do you wish to see him?"

_F._ "My children have never seen an English general; besides, this is
the first time that the English have ever been to the house; we
should like to cook a dinner for the English general!"

_I. O._ "But your children have seen Burgher generals?"

_F._ "Oh, yes; they are nothing. We had Commandant Brand here
yesterday!"

_I. O._ "When did he leave?"

_F._ "Early this morning!"

_I. O._ "Which way did he go?"

_F._ "He went out on the veldt; they took the Strydenburg road. But
they were Free Staters; you cannot say where they were going. They
would tell us Strydenburg, and then go somewhere else. You see, they
knew that you were close!"

_I. O._ "How many men had he with him?"

_F._ "Only a few. It was a small horse commando, perhaps twenty. All
Free Staters!"

The old patriarch, who had been fumbling in his pocket, now produced a
slip of paper which he presented to the Intelligence officer. The
writing on the paper ran as follows:--

"_O.V.S. Receipt for Property Commandeered._

"Taken from Jan Van Herden, of Melk Kraal, Cape Colony, two
sacks of mealies, 500 bundles of oat forage, two mules, four
sheep, for the use of O.V.S. commando.

"This receipt to be presented for repayment at the end of the
war to the O.V.S. Government.

(Signed) "ADRIAN FISCHER,
_Corporal, O.V.S. Forces._

Dated "_February_ ----."

_I. O._ "Who is Fischer?"

_F._ "He is Brand's adjutant!"

_I. O._ "I thought that you said there were only about twenty in the
commando. They and their horses must have been hungry to eat four
sheep and 500 bundles of oat hay. I should say that there must have
been more like fifty of them!"

_F._ "That may be, we did not count them. But can we ask the general
to dinner?"

_I. O._ "That depends. First, I must go through your rooms."

Followed by the whole family, the Intelligence officer passed through
to the various rooms, furnished and upholstered in the stereotyped
Dutch fashion, till they came to the end of the long house. Here a
closed door barred their way.

_I. O._ "What is in there?"

_F._ "Nothing--it is only my daughter and her 'man'; they have only
been married a few days, so we let them live apart. (_Throwing the
door open._) You may go in, of course. We are jingoes, we have nothing
to conceal."

The Intelligence officer entered the room to find an overbearded young
man and a very touzled, plump young lady sitting sheepishly
hand-in-hand. They rose as he entered and stared vacantly at him. The
man was a mean specimen of the Dutchman, tall and thin, narrow chest,
and sloping shoulders. An aggressive red beard for one so young,
growing backwards after the fashion prevailing with the Sikhs. A
cadaverous wretched creature, yet doubtless with strength enough in
his forefinger to make the seven-pound pull of a rifle.

The Intelligence officer's eyes ranged the room, which was bare
enough to have satisfied the most ascetic of honeymooning couples.
Half a glance was sufficient to prove to him that the frau had been
speaking the truth, so he turned upon the pair and shot at the man a
question so sharply that he started, "Do you know the road to
Zwingelspan?" The man recovered himself slowly, and then affected that
look of imbecility which is invariably the Dutchman's effort at
self-protection when he is cornered by a question which he does not
wish to answer. But his new-found mother-in-law was evidently anxious
that nothing should occur to irritate the visitor, for she blandly
answered his question herself. "Of course he knows the way to
Zwingelspan. Why, he lives there himself!"

_I. O._ "Then he is the very man I want. (_To the man_) You must come
along with me over to my cart and wait there in case the general wants
a guide to Zwingelspan between this and midnight."

A complete silence overtook the whole group after the Intelligence
officer had delivered himself of this speech. It seemed as if he had
inadvertently upset some plan. But the only thing he noticed at the
moment was that the pale face of the bride, as she stood limply in
front of him, grew a shade paler, and that her great blue eyes filled
with tears, which poised a moment on her eyelashes and then trickled
down her cheeks. If, as the Intelligence officer was only too ready to
surmise, he had upset an elaborate ruse to shield one of Brand's
special envoys, then the girl was an accomplished actress; but if, as
possibly was the case, she was moved to weeping in anticipation of
peril to her husband or lover, then she had adopted a course most
likely to serve her purpose with the man about to place himself
between her and the man she loved. There are few British officers who
can persevere in a distasteful task in face of the reproach furnished
by a silent weeping woman.

_I. O._ (_softening the authoritative tone in his speech_) "You need
not be distressed. I promise you we will not take him farther than
Zwingelspan, even if we take him there at all."

_Weeping Bride._ "If you take him, how shall I ever know what you will
do with him? You say here that you are going to Zwingelspan; but we
know that you are not going there. You would not tell us if you were.
Besides, the British were at Zwingelspan this morning, and you are
following the Boers."

_F._ "Oh leave her, Mr Secretary, she is only a child, and she loves
her 'man.' She is afraid that you will take him, and that the Boers
will catch him with you and treat him as a traitor!"

The Intelligence officer led the man out to hand him over to the
Tiger, when the latter returned from "noseing" round the outhouses.
Though perplexed in his mind as to the real attitude of the inmates of
the farm, yet he had elicited something, namely, that information
would be sent to the nearest armed Burghers that the column was not
bound for Zwingelspan, and that a British force had been at
Zwingelspan that morning. The latter was important, since the only
force which could have been at the pan was the main force, which meant
that the general had been up to time in his advance on Strydenburg,
while the New Cavalry Brigade had failed in the tryst.

The brigadier's comments on the intelligence surmises were short and
quaint. "Quite so. But I am not here to sweep up De Wet's
red-herrings. The old man will probably strike half-a-dozen of Brand's
or Vermaas's men when he reaches Strydenburg, if my cyclists haven't
turned them out. We, crossing the trail to-night in our journey north,
may strike something big. Anyway, we will have the satisfaction of
knowing that we are playing the game every time. And that being the
case we will let the old fat frau cook us a dinner to-night!" The
brigadier, who had estimated De Wet's movements with consummate
foresight, did not of course know that the replenished Plumer had
picked up the guerilla's back trail from Strydenburg, and was, at the
moment that the New Cavalry Brigade was bivouacking, practically
running him in view....

It was, all considered, a very creditable repast which the good lady
of Melk Kraal prepared for the brigadier and his staff. But on
occasions such as this it is the custom of the hosts to sits round the
walls of the dining-hall while the honoured guests feed alone at a
table in the centre. In this case the ladies and children of the
household lined the walls, taking an active interest in the serving,
which was at the hands of a couple of Kaffir girls. There were no
courses. The whole of the dinner was put upon the table at once, and
it consisted of boiled mutton hacked into hunks and swimming in a
greasy slop; fowls so boiled that the flesh had lost its resistance
and become a mere pulp; a mess of ochre-coloured boiled pumpkin,
boiled mealie[33] cobs, and boiled coffee of the consistency of
treacle. In fact, everything boiled and boiled to death. A repast
truly characteristic of the Dutch, who are most carnivorous in their
choice of food, and far too feckless and lazy to spend time and
trouble over such a common function as eating. It was the meal of a
people devoid of imagination and artistic taste. None the less it was
the best that the house could produce; and as the guests had taken the
precaution to bring their own liquor, it was a change from the tinned
delicacies of the modern active service meal. The banquet closed with
a quaint incident. The Intelligence officer had brought in his pocket
a bottle of _creme-de-menthe_. The hosts were invited to drink from
the brandy-bottle, which they did with the relish of experts in the
art of neat spirit drinking. To the hostesses was shown the
consideration due to their sex, and they were offered the green
concoction of peppermint. There is little of that coyness in the Dutch
composition which is met with in the civilisation of the West: each
lady of the household received her glass demurely and tossed off the
contents, pouring it, after the manner of Dutch spirit-drinkers,
ungracefully far into the mouth. The old Frau smacked her lips. "But
it is good," she said naively, and then taking the bottle from the
table she poured out the whole contents into a tumbler and emptied it
with one gulp down her capacious throat.

The brigadier was equal to the occasion. Raising his glass, he said,
"Madam, may I be permitted to drink your health and to thank you for
your hospitality." Madam smiled blandly, in no wise inconvenienced by
the severity of the potion which she had absorbed!...

But the good-humoured revelling of the dinner-table was shortly to be
changed for the stern reality of war. The brigadier and his staff had
barely bid farewell to their happy hostess and returned to their
bivouac when the voice of a tired and excited man was heard calling to
be directed to headquarters. It was the captain of cyclists who had
started that morning before daybreak for Strydenburg. The man's face
was a study when, having flung himself clear of his machine, which was
clanging like a _teuf-teuf_, he presented himself in the solitary tent
which during halts served the headquarters of the little column as a
living and sleeping apartment. In the dim light of a flickering
candle, it seemed that he was swathed in a sheet, so thick and white
was the crust of dust which covered him from head to foot. He
staggered into the mess-tent, swayed a moment, tried to salute, and
then dropped in a heap on to the camp chair offered to him.

_Brigadier._ "Give him some brandy."

After a long drink from the brandy-bottle the little captain of
cyclists recovered sufficiently to smile at his own weakness.

_Brigadier._ "Well, have you been fighting--where's your crush?"

_Cyclist Captain._ "Fighting--there never has been such fighting in
this war, it has been simply bloody!"

_B._ "Sanguinary, my boy; well, are you the last survivor? You rather
remind me of the last man of the poet's imagination."

_C. C._ (_dejectedly_) "It has been a long, sad, and terrible day.
Harvey of Damant's is mortally wounded, and I have had a man wounded!"

_B._ "The devil you have. I thought at least that you must have been
annihilated. Where are the rest of you, then?"

_C. C._ "Lost or captured, I am afraid. Seventeen were captured in
succession at the top of one rise. I only got through by the skin of
my teeth and the luck of there only being three Boers at the top of
the hill."

_B._ (_unconcernedly_) "Horrid adventure! What luck there were not
four Boers! But give me a detailed story. Have you been into
Strydenburg? have you seen any of the staff of the other column?"

The following is a paraphrase of the story which was eventually
elicited from the cyclist captain:--The cyclists, who broke down on
the heavy roads at the rate of about four an hour, kept up a steady
pace until they were some five miles from Strydenburg. Here going up a
steep rise they tailed out somewhat, and seventeen were captured in
rotation by three burghers ensconced in the nek over which the up
gradient passed. The captain and five others all came up together, and
in the scuffle he and three of his men succeeded in getting through.
Later on they were fired at by Boers just outside Strydenburg, into
which town they rode simultaneously with an advance-guard of Damant's
Guides. The Boers, who, with the exception of the rear-guard under
Vermaas, had left and gone north on the preceding day, just as the
Brigadier had surmised, had destroyed the telegraph office, but the
local operator, who had hidden away an instrument, by attaching the
broken wire to a piece of garden fencing was able to get through to De
Aar, and in half an hour the brigadier's "Clear the line" message was
ticking off in Pretoria. This all happened three hours before the
co-operating general entered the town. In the meantime the
advance-guard of Damant's Guides, as soon as they heard that the New
Cavalry Brigade was not on the road, pushed out to occupy the
Tafelkop Hills outside the town. Harvey took the cyclists with him.
And a very gallant little fight they had, in which three of the
Guides, though sorely wounded, held up and captured the five men who
had wounded them. Owing to his lust for blood it was late in the day
before the cyclist captain was able to find the general. This officer
had a despatch ready for him to take back to his own brigadier. The
return journey had been effected without other mishap than that of
extreme fatigue, which difficulty the captain alone had been able to
surmount: the rest of his cyclists, if not prisoners, were
spread-eagled over the veldt at such spots where death had overtaken
their machines.

Now what was written in the despatch which the cyclist officer had
brought is not known to the chronicler of the adventures of this
brigade. But it was evidently couched in not over friendly language,
for the brigadier's face worked with annoyance as he read it. Having
read it he tore it up into very small pieces and sat for a moment or
two staring steadfastly at the candle.

"Anything serious, sir?"

_Brigadier._ "No; the old man is peevish,--says that my disobedience
of his orders has caused us to lose De Wet. That he has washed his
hands of me, and that it only remains to report me to a higher
authority. To be philosophical, he has some grounds for his
peevishness if he really believes that he has ever been nearer to De
Wet than the latter gentleman desired. But you get no return in an
argument with seniors--they have the whip hand of you every time; so
here, ole man Baker, bring out your stilus and tablets and write out
brigade orders. Two hours hence we march direct on Hopetown. Mr
Intelligence, mark out a route, and mind you have a good guide.
Everything on a night like this will depend on your guiding." Such is
the history of a transformation scene which is of common occurrence
when men make war. A camp sleeping heavily and peacefully at midnight,
in a couple of hours may have disappeared, to be found sorrowfully
toiling along in the dark on some venture bent....

The Intelligence officer had reason to congratulate himself that he
had already got his guide held by the ear by the Tiger, as it is a big
undertaking to conjure up guides on notice only given an hour before
midnight. The guide himself was not best pleased, and aped that air of
imbecility which on occasions similar to this is the Dutch form of
passive resistance. But the Tiger took him in hand, primed him with a
few simple truths and the history of some imaginary executions, so
that he waxed more communicative when he found himself in the centre
of the advance-guard of twelve dismounted dragoons with fixed
bayonets,[34] with which the brigadier when night marching was
accustomed to head his advance-guard.

There is a limit to the fascinations of a night march if you have to
make many of them, especially if it is undertaken without the definite
promise of a fight on the following day. Men and horses dog tired,
yearning for sleep; the hundred and one irregularities which would
find no place in daylight. The weary waiting that intervals may be
corrected, the hitch with the advance-guard, the difficulty of
loading the supply-waggons. The irritability of the chief, growing in
intensity as he strikes match after match against his watch dial.
Semi-mutinous resistance of orders on the part of Irregulars;
lamentations from the major of the battery, whose horses have been
standing hooked-in for the last half hour. How impossible it all
seems,--how heartbreaking; yet everything shakes down eventually, and
the great dark caterpillar, bristling with armed men like a
woolly-bear, creeps forward into the veiled uncertainty of night.

The advance-guard has moved off, the brigadier is just waiting to see
the baggage fairly started, when a sudden spark gleams out from a
knoll above the camp which the falling-in night picquet has just
evacuated. A bullet whirrs noisily overhead. "Martini," conjectures
the brigadier. "I wonder what that means!" Two minutes later another
spark flashes out from the same spot, and a leaden messenger buries
itself with a skirr and a thud, within ten yards of the little group
of officers.

"Not bad for a chance shot--we'll see if they are going to
persevere!" Swish, came a third shot singing away harmlessly overhead.

"Sniping!" said the brigadier. "I would hang that beast if I could
catch him. Look here, gallop down to the officer in command of the
rear-guard and tell him to send a couple of quick-witted fellows to
stalk that sniper. I will give five pounds if he is brought in alive."

The messenger galloped out into the darkness, and as the last of the
waggon transport turned into the right track, the staff cantered
northwards in the direction of the head of the column, reckless of the
solitary bullets which at intervals whistled through the still night
air.

Considerable tension attaches to the head of a night-marching column,
especially when moving through an unreconnoitred country. And in spite
of the little text-books with smart covers, it is more often in
unreconnoitred country that the soldier is called upon to operate than
otherwise. Consequently the Intelligence officer forgot all about the
sniping incident, and busied himself with being ready to answer the
many queries of an imaginative major in command of the advance-guard.
Five miles of the journey had perhaps been made--at least it was at
the third halt that word was passed up that the brigadier wanted to
see the Intelligence officer. The brigadier had dismounted at the head
of the battery.

"Hulloo, Mr Intelligence, we have got the sniper--and it would beat a
very Solomon to give judgment in a like case. Strike a match."

The little flame burned up and declared to the astonished view of the
Intelligence officer the face and figure of his guide's weeping bride.
There was no sign of tears now. The girl stood with her hands clasped
behind her back, her mouth firmly closed, and looked her captors full
in the face. It was a fine figure, seen for a moment in the uncertain
light of the lucifer shaded from the wind. _Cappie_ blown back behind
her head, ill-concealing the wealth of glistening hair, pale
determined face, full of defiance, and thrown-out chest across which
the leather bandolier still hung in damnatory evidence. How different
to the limp and weeping woman of the afternoon. A second and the
little slip of pinewood had burnt out.

_Brigadier._ "What do you make of it?"

_Intelligence Officer._ "Magnificent woman--damnable undertaking."

_Bystander._ "Magnificent she-cat!"

_Prisoner._ "You steal my husband, and because I would do my best to
stop you, when the men were afraid to attack and offered you food
instead, you call me names. Give me back my husband and let me go, or
if you would shoot me, shoot and be finished with it."

_Brigadier._ "My dear young lady, no one will hurt you or call you
names. You shall have your husband back as soon as we have finished
with him. Until that time, I am afraid that you must stay with us, but
you shall be properly looked after. I cannot afford to let you again
be as naughty as you have been to-night. Hand her over to the supply
officer,--he's acting provost-marshal, is he not? (_Then turning to
his staff_) What a little vixen! That gives you a very considerable
insight into the temper of these loyal Cape colonists: to think that
while we were supping with this young lady's mamma she was planning a
little sniping party, as a revenge against us for breaking in upon her
honeymoon!"...

FOOTNOTES:

[32] Dutch method of describing a woman's husband.

[33] Maize.

[34] British cavalry at this period of the campaign were armed with
rifle and bayonet.

X.

JOG-TROT.

True to that instinct which finds the Boer the most insanitary race
laying claim to a civilisation of any standard, the squatters who
settled upon Hopetown as a site suitable for a village chose a
situation as insalubrious as any to be found on the fringe of the
Karoo. In a cup-valley of mean dimensions, the little collection of
shanties which group round the church and town-hall lay tucked away in
the folds of the bare dusty hills, so that if tracks did not converge
upon the village with consistent regularity there would be no evidence
outside a narrow radius of its existence. It was not until the
advance-guard covering the New Cavalry Brigade topped the actual bluff
above the hamlet that the temporary importance of Hopetown was
realised. The dip in which the village lay was black with the
transport of many columns, and the dust and smoke raised by the
thousands of animals and hundreds of cooking fires formed a heavy haze
which, covering the township as with a pall, hung half-way between the
level of the valley and the overhanging brae where the advance-guard
stood halted. It was not an inviting picture. The dust and vapour
seemed unable to face the perpendicular violence of the midday sun;
the only perceptible movement in the middle distance was the shimmer
of the atmosphere, squirming as it were under the relentless heat;
while the great pall of dust and smoke, as if ashamed to raise its
head, mushroomed out against the hillsides with undecided edging.

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