SOME SOUTH AFRICAN REMINISCENCES
I never enjoyed better health than I did during the twelve months when the hard veldt was my bed and the deep, dark, starry night was the roof over my head. No one can wish for a more healthy climate than that of the Orange River Colony during the dry season. I was only twice hit; once near Karree Siding when a pom-pom shell burst just under my horse and took off the heel of one of my boots; the second time a sniper’s bullet went through my coat sleeve without touching me. But I was unfortunate otherwise. One night I was riding along the veldt on a horse which had been presented to me when I left Adelaide by a friend of mine, one of the best horsemen in South Australia, Stephen Ralli, which we had christened Bismarck. We suddenly came to the edge of a dry donga with, of course, rotten sides. Down we had to go, and down we went. For a moment I had no idea whether we were being flung into a river or into a dry channel. It happened to be a dry channel, some sixteen feet deep and about the same width. We hit the bottom hard. I was sent rolling off, Bismarck fell on his head and broke his neck, turning over on his side. I picked myself up and could find no bones broken, and I called out to some of my men who had seen us disappear and had halted on the edge. They were glad to hear me call out. The question was then, how to get out of the donga. The banks were steep. So, unhooking the horses out of one of the Cape carts, they joined up the traces and I was safely hauled up. I did not for some time afterwards really feel any ill results from my fall. In fact I had forgotten all about it. But, later on, I found that I suffered a good deal when riding and that I had received an internal injury which afterwards caused me considerable trouble.
I shall never forget the constant and uniform kindness which I met at the hands of Lord Kitchener. Many and very different opinions of Lord Kitchener’s capabilities as a soldier and of his temperament as a man have been expressed. I formed my own opinion in both capacities from actual and continuous contact with him in his work. He was a silent man. Talk was of no value to him when it wasn’t to the point. He possessed a peculiar but very useful gift of getting at the kernel of a subject, seizing its meaning and promptly making up his mind what action he was going to take. If he wanted any further information on any point he asked you for it. If he didn’t want it, he did not thank you for volunteering to give it. He was a master of detail. He was forceful in his opinions—too forceful for those who disagreed with him. He may not have been too generous in giving open praise, but he never forgot those who had done him good service. As to whether he was a great general I have no opinion to offer, but he could always be depended upon to carry out whatever he took in hand.
During his trip to Tasmania, years later on, at the time of his inspection of the Forces of the Australian Colonies, a Light Horse Camp was being held at a place called Mona Vale belonging to Major Eustace Cameron who commanded the Light Horse. The homestead was a fine modern house. Mrs. Cameron had arranged for a large party of young people during the period of the camp. Lord Kitchener was the guest of Cameron for the day and night of his inspection. After dinner that evening a small dance was held. Songs with choruses were sung between the dances, and perhaps nobody enjoyed himself so much as Lord Kitchener. Later on in the evening, or rather in the early hours of the morning, he told us several good stories and much hearty laughter filled the smoking-room. Lord Kitchener was no woman-hater.
War has not always a grave side. Interesting events, and sometimes even amusing ones, intervene. Some of them now come to my mind. In the early part of the war Capetown had become overrun with men in officers’ uniforms and many ladies, most of whom were by way of being attached to voluntary and other hospitals. Most of these ladies were amateur, not qualified nurses. Mount Nelson Hotel was their chief resort. While a very large building it was unable to house the majority of them. They were scattered about throughout the city in other hotels and boarding-houses. Yet Mount Nelson was the place where all met.
Each night the resources of the Mount Nelson were strained. Dinner parties, music and dancing were the order of the day. Tables had to be engaged for days previously. A night arrived when the festivities were at their height. Dinner had begun. The large dining-room was full to overflowing, with the exception of one small table set for two in the middle of the room. The entreés were being served and the band had just finished a spirited selection.
The babble of tongues was all over the room when in walked two gentlemen in uniform, preceded by the manager of the hotel, making their way to the empty table set for two. The babble of tongues began to subside. The first officer following the manager was a tall man with rather a severe look in his eyes. It happened to be Lord Kitchener, followed by his personal private secretary. For a moment there came a dead silence, immediately relieved by the strains of the band beginning an operatic overture and the dinner proceeded. At the end of dinner all officers in uniform were notified to interview a staff officer previous to leaving the hotel. Within two days the number of officers frequenting the Mount Nelson Hotel was reduced to a minimum. A couple of days afterwards the manager informed me that he had been instructed the night of the fateful dinner to give notice to all officers in uniform then staying at the hotel who could not produce a permit to vacate their rooms. Steps were also taken to inquire into the positions held by many of the amateur lady nurses, and those whose services were deemed to be superfluous were provided with return passages to Europe. Thus ended this episode.
Photo: Shier, Melbourne
THE COMMONWEALTH MILITARY BOARD, 1914
Standing: Colonel Wallace, R.A.A., Master of Ordnance; Colonel Selheim, C.B., Quartermaster-General; Colonel Chauvel, C.B., Adjutant-General.
Seated: Brigadier-General J. M. Gordon, C.B., Chief of the General Staff; Mr. Laing, Financial Member.
An amusing incident occurred at a place called Derdepoort, some ten miles outside Pretoria, where one of our columns, under General Hutton, was holding a section of the defences of the capital. I had dispatched their supplies of winter clothing to them, and it was decided to issue them on a Sunday afternoon. Amongst the thousands of cases that my depôts were handling were many containing presents of tobacco, pipes, books, and so on, to the men of the contingents. When the unpacking of those that had arrived at Derdepoort had taken place on the Sunday afternoon it was discovered that several very large ones contained women’s and children’s garments of all kinds and descriptions. The Tommies were not slow in appreciating the situation. The sounds of hearty laughter were soon ringing throughout the camp. I heard it in my tent, where I was taking a quiet afternoon nap. I went out to see what was happening. It was indeed a quaint sight. An amateur fancy dress ball was being held, and anything more comical it is difficult to imagine. The explanation of the arrival of the costumes was soon made clear. An association of ladies had been formed in New Zealand with the object of supplying clothing for the Boer women and children in the refugee camps that had been established by us for them in South Africa. The cases containing the clothing had been forwarded to Derdepoort by mistake.
During Lord Roberts’s stay in Pretoria it was discovered that a plot was set on foot to kidnap the Commander-in-Chief. It was, however, nipped in the bud. One of the leaders was an officer of the Transvaal State Permanent Artillery. The plot, of course, failed and the officer was brought to trial and duly shot. Tommy enjoyed his bit of fun over the attempt to kidnap Lord Roberts. At that time Lady Roberts and her daughters were at Pretoria, and the Tommies thought that it wouldn’t be so bad if they kidnapped Lady Roberts, but they had the strongest objection to losing Bobs.
Previous to the Battle of Diamond Hill a short armistice was arranged for. The commanding officer of the Boers opposed to us at the time was General Louis Botha. The military situation then was a difficult one. Had it not been that just then General De Wet, in the north-eastern part of the Orange River Colony, had become suddenly and successfully aggressive, it was probable that General Botha would have come to terms. However, as the result of De Wet’s action he decided to carry on. The interesting point in the incident was the fact that General Botha’s wife was selected as our emissary. Probably it was the first time, and the last, that the wife of an enemy’s general acted in such a capacity.
On our arrival in Pretoria the whole of the conditions appertaining to the civil life of the town had to be reorganized. Previous to its occupation by us Kruger had ordered that all Boer families who had members serving in their forces and who occupied leased houses could do so free of rent, while men in business with relatives fighting could occupy their leased premises at half the usual rents. This disability on the part of the property owners to obtain their rents was at once removed by Lord Roberts. In order to give effect to this decision it was necessary to appoint officials. Practically what was really required was a sort of glorified bum-bailiff, with the necessary assistance, the bum-bailiff holding a position similar to that of a magistrate. I was asked to suggest the name of a senior officer of the Australians who would be suitable. I did so. But the point arose by what name was the appointment to be designated? I don’t remember who was the happy originator of the name, but it shortly appeared in General Orders that Colonel Ricardo, of the Queensland Forces, had been appointed “High Commissioner of Ejectments” at Pretoria. Surely a name worthy of Gilbert and Sullivan.
I was lunching one day at the Pretoria Club when Bennet Burleigh, the well-known war correspondent, told me that he had just lost the services of his dispatch rider and asked me to recommend him a good daring rider and first-class bushman to take his place. All through life I have found that trifles often have serious consequences. I just happened, on my way to the club, to have seen crossing the square Morant, otherwise Corporal Buller, of the South Australian Contingent. I had not seen him for some considerable time. I bethought myself at once that Morant would be just the man to fit the billet. If I had not happened to see him I should certainly not have thought of him and Morant’s career might have been a very different one. I told Burleigh that Morant was a gentleman, a good rider and bushman, and I didn’t think he personally feared anything. Burleigh thanked me and offered to take him at once. Next morning Morant became his dispatch rider.
Occasionally, after this, during the advance to Koomatipoort, Morant would turn up and pay me a visit. He usually arrived with a bundle of any old newspapers he could get, which he very gravely and without a smile handed over to me, hoping that they would be very welcome. But there was a look in his eye that I knew well. “Have a whisky and soda, Morant?” I’d say. “Well, sir, I don’t think it would be so bad. I would like one very much.” He would then settle himself down comfortably, light his pipe and start to tell me all sorts of bits of news that had come his way. I often had but a few minutes to give him and had to leave him in possession, telling him to look after himself and be happy. Which he did.
He was well pleased with his job, looked a typical war correspondent himself, and was making good money. I heard no more until, some months later, I received a note from him from England telling me that he had been taking a short holiday and was returning to South Africa. He was joining a friend of his, Major Hunt, and they proposed to raise an irregular corps on their arrival. The corps was raised, the “Bushveldt Carabiniers.” This corps had nothing whatever to do with Australia. Nor could Morant himself lay any claim to being Australian. The corps was raised from Colonials and British, chiefly out of a job, then in South Africa. They appear to have had somewhat of a free hand in the operations which marked the latter portion of the campaign. Drives were taking place. Units were scattered, and to a certain extent had to be left to their own devices. The Bushveldt Carabiniers occupied for some time a wild region called The Splonken. While dealing with the Boers in that locality Major Hunt had, so it was officially reported, been murdered by the Boers, having been induced to approach a farm house on which a white flag was flying. The story goes that he was found lying dead on the stoep of the farm and that his body had been mutilated. Morant swore to avenge his friend’s untimely end—it was reported that he had become engaged to Hunt’s sister during his visit to England. He determined to give no quarter, and several prisoners who fell into his hands were promptly shot there and then. He and four other officers were, later on, in January, 1902, court-martialled on the charge of having personally committed or been accessory to the murder of twelve Boers. The five were found guilty, in different degrees. Handcock, Wilton and Morant were sentenced to death, and Morant was shot at Pretoria.
I am in a position to give a short account of Morant’s last hours. When crossing over in the ss. Surrey from South Australia a man called John Morrow, who had been my groom for a couple of years in Adelaide, had become a close friend of Morant’s. It was difficult to say why. Practically the only thing they had in common was their love for horseflesh. Morrow was quite an uneducated man. Morant was the opposite. Still, friends they were. When the Police Force for the protection of Pretoria was raised the majority of the men selected came from the Australians, and Morrow was one of them. Later on he had been appointed one of the warders at the jail. As bad fortune would have it, he was given charge of Morant and was with him the evening before he was shot. I had a long letter from Morrow, later on, enclosing a photograph of the officers concerned, which had been taken, evidently, about the time that the corps was raised. On the back of it was written in pencil: “Dear Jack. To-morrow morning I die. My love to my pals in Australia.—Morant.” It was probable that these were the last words that Morant wrote. Morant died as he had lived. He faced his end bravely.