Mr. Winston Spencer Churchill, M.P., wrote his story down of how they rode into Ladysmith: “Never shall I forget that ride. The evening was deliciously cool. My horse was strong and fresh, for I had changed him at midday. The ground was rough with many stones, but we cared little for that—onward, wildly, recklessly, up and down hill, over the boulders, through the scrub. We turned the shoulder of a hill, and there before us lay the tin houses and dark trees we had come so far to see and save. The British guns on Cæsar’s Camp were firing steadily in spite of the twilight. What was happening? Never mind, we were nearly through the dangerous ground. Now we were all on the flat. Brigadier, staff, and troops let their horses go. We raced through the thorn-bushes by Intombi Spruit. Suddenly there was a challenge: ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ ‘The Ladysmith Relief Column.’ And thereat, from out of trenches and rifle-pits artfully concealed in the scrub a score of tattered men came running, cheering feebly, and some were crying. In the half-light they looked ghastly pale and thin, but the tall, strong colonial horsemen, standing up in their stirrups, raised a loud resounding cheer, for then we knew we had reached the Ladysmith picket-line.”
One word more on Sir Ian Hamilton, one of the greatest of our soldiers. It was he who held command on Cæsar’s Hill during those desperate seventeen hours of fighting. Spare, tall, quiet, smiling, he had the masterful manner of the born soldier, who fights and makes no fuss about it, and draws the soldiers after him in the forlornest of hopes by the magic of his sympathy and valour. Valour without sympathy, ability without the devotion of your men, can do little; but when both are united, steel and lead cannot prevail against them.
[CHAPTER XXVI]
SIEGE OF PORT ARTHUR (1904)
Port Arthur—Its hotel life—Stoessel not popular—Fleet surprised—Shelled at twelve miles—Japanese pickets make a mistake—Wounded cannot be brought in—Polite even under the knife—The etiquette of the bath—The unknown death—Kondrachenko, the real hero—The white flag at last—Nogi the modest—“Banzai”—Effect of good news on the wounded—The fleet sink with alacrity.
Port Arthur consists of a small land-locked harbour surrounded by hills. As you sail into the harbour you have on your right the Admiralty depots, dock-basin, and dockyard, sheltered by Golden Hill; next the waterfront, or commercial quarter; on the left the Tiger’s Tail, a sand spit which narrows the entrance, behind which the torpedo-boats lie moored. The new town lies south of Signal Hill, on a plateau rising to the west. All round the town were hill-forts elaborately fortified.
The hotels were, like the houses, very primitive: the best was a one-storied building containing about twenty rooms, each room being furnished with a camp bedstead and no bedding, one deal table, and one chair. Sometimes, if you swore hard at the Chinese coolie, you could get a small basin of water and a jug. There was a permanent circus, a Chinese theatre, music-halls, and grog-shops; a band played on summer evenings.
General Stoessel, the military commander, was not loved by soldier or citizen: he was very strict, and, during the war became despotic. They say he once struck a civilian across the face with his riding-whip because the man had not noticed and saluted him as he passed. His soldiers dreaded him, and would slink away at his appearing. Some such words as these would come from him on seeing a sentry:
“Who are you? Where do you come from? When did you join? Why are you so dirty? Take off your boots and let me inspect your foot-rags? Oh, got an extra pair in your kit? Show them at once. Go and wash your face.”