AT BETHULIE
Sir William Gatacre, owing to the species of general post that had been set on foot by Lord Roberts’ successful advance, suddenly found himself released from the shackles that had bound him. As we know, the enemy had retreated from Stormberg, and from Burghersdorp. Towards the Orange River they had betaken themselves in hot haste, and it was now time to fly after the retreating foe, to catch them, if possible, at the river. At Bethulie there was still the railway bridge. But even as it was neared it ceased to exist. Fragments filled the air. The Boers had blown it up behind them, and wrecked iron was all that displayed itself to the British troops. The road bridge, however, remained; a structure valued by the Colony at £100,000. Of course that would go directly, and the great question was whether the British troops, by putting the spur on their already jaded energies, would be able to reach the place in time to defend it. Captain M’Neill and thirty Scouts made a rush for it; and only just reached the scene of action in time! The Derby was never more hotly contested. The Scouts, like hunted fiends, had sped over obstacle and acre to gain the goal before the fell work of the Boers could begin. They won by a neck. The Boers were already buzzing along the bridge, manipulating with wire and explosive, putting the finishing touches on their design! At sight of the British there was a stampede to north of the river. Here the enemy had supports. (The Scouts carefully hid the fact they had none.) Here the enemy ensconced himself and prepared to do his worst. The Scouts took up their position in the kraal of a farm from which they could sweep the northern approach to the already laid mines, and sent back word urgently praying for reinforcements. Others took their well-deserved rest. Meanwhile with ferocious tenacity some eleven of them held on to the bridge, hawk-eyed, watching, firing, hiding, dodging, anything that should gain time till the reinforcements could appear. On the other side, only a question of yards off was the foe—numberless, it seemed to them, sniping, potting, and banging with every missile at their command, and determining to hang round the precious bone of contention, the valuable road bridge. The British maintained the same determination. Perhaps a touch, an unseen movement, would set the whole string of dynamite mines in motion; perhaps in this moment or the next, with a roar and a rumble, the clear atmosphere would be decked to blindness with little bits—bits of the bridge that stood before them—bits, too, of the men that were! Still they hung on. It was a grievous subject for contemplation, a sorry possibility to roll in the wrappings of meditation. But fear they scorned. The Boers in vast numbers thronged on the opposite side, bullets from Mausers and Martini-Henrys spurted and flicked up their little wisps of dust till sand became thick as a veil between Boer and Briton. But still the hardy Scouts clung to their post. Moments, every one long as days, sped on; hours passed, night waned, day broke. Still the tiny British band of braves behind bush and boulder stayed with rifles cocked and pointed at the bridge. They dared not approach, but they defied the enemy to venture. Then, with morn, the eternity of anxiety was ended—they were reinforced by the Cape Police! Later the artillery came up. Oh, the sigh of relief! The bridge was saved! Oh, the rejoicing to hear the grand bark of British guns, and see the great earth mushrooms opening up to the sky on the opposite side! Then, at eventide came the supreme deed, among deeds no less worthy. Shot and shell were now falling on all sides of the mined bridge. The Boers were firmly ensconced across the front; hidden and sniping, and now and then appearing and firing boldly. The gloaming was otherwise peaceful, the purple shades of evening blending with the gentle, rippling golden grey of the river. Then from his fellows advanced one Lieutenant Popham of the Derbyshire Regiment. Straight to the threatened bridge, already peppered with the storms of the enemy, he went, crossed to the other side, and quick as thought deftly cut the connecting wires for firing the mines! By a miracle no Boers observed the act, an act that rendered abortive all their ingenious efforts and made the British masters of the situation. Then followed more plucky feats. Young Popham, on advancing through the trenches, had come across large, suspicious-looking boxes. He returned to the British lines. He gathered together some of the goodly men of his regiment, and with them again made his way to the threatened bridge. The sight of the party was the signal for a volley from the Dutchmen, but still they pursued their way to the boxes. “Dynamite, by Jove!” said one; “Kingdom come!” said another. But up they took them, and there and then, under a storm of bullets that now meant more even than death, the splendid fellows marched back again. The astonishing feat cast dismay over the Federals on the other side of the water, as it filled with admiration and pride all in the British camp who were privileged to view a sight seldom seen in a lifetime. And then, later on, as though the quality of heroism were inexhaustible as the widow’s cruse of oil, another splendid act followed on the heels of the foregoing ones. In the dead of night Captain Grant of the Royal Engineers groped his way to the bridge. The Boers were on the alert, but he groped cautiously. The soldier’s martial step gave way to the catlike burglarious tread! It was ticklish work that had to be done—work that needed time and nicety of touch. But he meant to do it, and one hint, one rumour of activity would have roused the whole Dutch horde and ruined his plan. The bridge, as we know, was mined. Lieutenant Popham had cut the wires. But the charges of dynamite were somewhere. These Captain Grant found, removed, and dexterously dropped, buried for ever in the purling river! Then with infinite care he detached the other connecting wires, and the bridge was safe! This was the beginning of the end. A few more passages at arms, and then the British on the 15th of March crossed the Orange River.
CONVEYING WOUNDED TO WYNBERG HOSPITAL CAMP.
Photo by Alf. S. Hosking, Cape Town.
Yet another brilliant act was performed soon after the arrival of the troops at Bethulie. Captain Hannessy of the Cape Police, an officer on General Gatacre’s staff, was detailed to capture the railway station, which was situated some distance from the town. This he did. He examined the telegraph room, found the instrument intact, and learnt by communication with Springfontein that there were Boers still in that direction. Without hesitation he at once set off, in company with another adventurous spirit (Captain Turner of the Scouts), on his way to Springfontein. They commandeered a trolley and moved up the line. On nearing the station they saw two trains with steam up, ready for departure. Within the building were Boers—not slim Boers this time—but snoring ones, with bandoliers awry and rifles lollopping. It was a moment to be grasped. The rifles and the bandoliers were gently removed. Then the sleepers were awakened. They rubbed their eyes, and found, not rifles or bandoliers, but that they were prisoners of war! They were without arms, resistance was useless. They were escorted to the railway trucks; an engine-driver was found, and presently the two officers with their “bag” (two trains and eight prisoners) returned in triumph to Bethulie. Here their big-game hunting was vastly appreciated, as at this time, their engines having been left on the other side of the river, the capture of rolling stock was of tremendous importance. Soon after this, troops from Bloemfontein were sent off to occupy Springfontein.