TOPOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF MAFEKING.
25th, Wednesday. Last night we received warning from native sources that the Boers intended to make an attack on the town to-day, and that it was to be a personally conducted tour by young Eloff, who had been sent from Pretoria to take Mafeking or die in the attempt. He is, or ought to be, very much alive, for his operations were conducted from a safe distance and the town is much as usual. Of late we have been so dull here, that a considerable amount of fictitious enthusiasm was boiled up over this impending attack. Mr. Hamilton of The Times thought it was good enough to sleep in the advanced trench, but the more wary and possibly less enthusiastic, amongst which I include myself, considered a good bed was preferable to an indifferent one. However, I looked out cartridges and laid out weapons when I went to bed, but didn't wake any earlier next morning, and was roused by Ronny Moncreiffe shouting out, "Get up, there is a battle going on." I vainly tried to persuade him to allow me to remain in bed until the enemy were near enough to be dangerous, but he insisted that I should get up and look on. I decided there was no immediate necessity for weapons, and rode off to the nearest telescope to find the enemy. At the B.S.A.P. fort I found the officers of the Protectorate Regiment just coming off the roof, yawning and looking very bored. They told me what had happened up till my arrival, and I went and looked through the telescope for a bit at our friends the enemy whom we could clearly see. They were firing their guns and maintaining a heavy musketry fire, though in somewhat purposeless manner about one thousand five hundred yards from our advanced trench. A gentleman on horseback, presumably the dashing Eloff, galloped out from the western laager, and with many gesticulations and fruitless haranguing endeavoured to get them to advance, but they were obdurate. They pitched one or two shells up by the fort, which were promptly annexed by piccaninnies, as the majority did not burst, and they killed a nigger, and a ricochet hit old Whitfield in the stomach, but, owing to the width of his figure, the bullet did not penetrate. I think what put them off most was our absolute silence. We did not fire at all except some twenty rounds at some Boers that had been ambushed in the culvert, which had the effect of driving them into some bushes, where they hid for a couple of hours. I really think the people surrounding us here have honestly had enough of it, and it will take a better man than young Eloff to bring them up to the scratch, though there are certainly more Boers about here than there have been for some time. The object of this particular attack was to draw our fire and make us disclose our positions on the western front, and the result was a most conspicuous failure. We refused to be drawn by the feint, and so the real attack, which was supposed to be concealed elsewhere, was never able to develop. Apparently the plan was good, like General Trochu's, but it has at any rate so tired them that they have been unable to do anything since.
26th, Thursday. Received my first letters since this abominable isolation commenced. One from Weston-Jarvis and another from Smitheman. Weston is very cheerful. Smitheman, extravagant as regards paper, and rather sparing of words and ink; I also received some Morning Posts, and see that I have successfully established communication, which is satisfactory.
27th, Friday. More runners, but thanks to the usual breakdown of the Beira-Salisbury line, dates and news are so mixed, and the contending forces seem so extraordinarily and intricately involved with each other, that we have given up trying to understand how things really are going. It doesn't very much matter, as the result is a foregone conclusion, and at the worst can only be shortly delayed. One thing is amusing, and that is to see the various reasons different countries give for not offering to mediate.
28th, Saturday. Nothing doing. Preparing for the tournament to-morrow. My Kaffir wishes to go and join Plumer. He doesn't approve of the food supply of Mafeking. I thought I should never get rid of him. Thank goodness the brute has gone now. He has been a sort of "old man of the sea" to me. I only kept him because he appeared generally in small health, but when he flung his rations into the middle of the square yesterday, I thought it was high time for him to be off. The last few days the enemy has been more busy on the north-eastern front, and established themselves in a sniping trench seven hundred yards from our advanced trench, and made themselves rather a nuisance. We, however, made it so warm for them that they are concluded to have withdrawn, but everywhere else, since the 25th, they have been fairly quiet.
29th, Sunday. A most successful tournament, and almost up to Agricultural Hall form. Most regiments in the service represented, and the sword mounted and bayonet dismounted both particularly good. It was trying work judging on half rations, but well worth it to see such good sport.
What a funny little Frenchman that Prince Henri d'Orleans must be? His compliments to a French comic paper on caricatures of the English would almost entitle him to a prominent position on its staff, where, at any rate, he would score a greater success than posing as an unemployed patriot. By the bye, was he not once attached to the British Army, and if so, whence this venom? But of tea-table tacticians and sofa strategists you must, indeed, have more than enough. Reading the papers from home one sees excellent persons with presumably nothing to do, recommending people generally to turn the other cheek to the smiter; personally, I and, indeed, most of my neighbours, think that the smiter has had quite sufficient chances at our entire carcasses during the last few months, and if they feel themselves so imbued with an overflowing Christian spirit, I should suggest their taking a turn themselves. I do not love the Boer, and I don't think I shall until the Boer loves me. There is only one way to obtain his respect and even toleration, and that is by proving yourself the better man. There will then be peace in the country which, at the present moment, there is not. I do think, too, that people at home should not be so free in their comments upon intelligence from this part of the world. For many years I have read Mr. Baillie Grohmann's letters on big game shooting with much interest. I have also tried to shoot big game and Boers with about equally moderate success. I do assert most emphatically that the Boers use explosive bullets. I have seen the bullets, heard the bullets, and picked up the base of bullets with fulminate caps in them. They were not Mauser bullets, they were not expanding bullets, they were explosive bullets pure and simple, and the Boers have confessed to their use. Therefore, I think it would only have been fair had Mr. Baillie Grohmann waited to know on what grounds people out here have made these assertions, before writing a somewhat conclusive letter in which the main point appeared to be that there was no such thing as an explosive Mauser bullet. It is rather hard on some hundreds of thousands of Englishmen who happen to be serving their country out here, that because they are on that service they should be immediately considered to be destitute of that sense of fair play with which the race generally is credited, and I am sure that Mr. Baillie Grohmann himself, would be the first to admit it. We don't expect much more from a Boer than a bullet, and as far as we know have not particularly grumbled at their using explosive ones, but it is hard lines to be told they didn't when we mention the fact. I personally felt a sense of great disappointment that I was not reading Mr. Baillie Grohmann's usual letters to The Field, instead of this one in The Morning Post.
We are threatened with another attack to-morrow. I hope it will be more productive of bloodshed than the last, because we can then clear them off a bit, and I hate feeling hungry, as do most of us.
Colonel Baden-Powell has just received a missive from young Eloff, in which he states that he sees in a Bulawayo Chronicle that we have concerts, balls, tournaments, and cricket matches on Sundays, and it will be very agreeable to his men to come in and participate as they find it dull outside. Colonel Baden-Powell has answered that he thinks perhaps the return match should be postponed until we have finished the present one and that as we are now two hundred not out, and Snyman, Cronje, &c., have not been successful he would suggest a further change of bowling. With such mild japes we pass the time away, but we shot a Dutchman this morning all the same. A bad joke in these times is worth more than a good pint of porridge, as the former will go round whereas the latter will certainly not. It is very edifying work trying to get fat on laughter and sleep, but hunger is not a very amusing form of entertainment. They have recently manufactured brawn of horse hide. It doesn't sound very appetising but the stock disappeared with marvellous rapidity. One cannot help thinking that after all even though we be hungry out here, yet we have the glamour of war over us, whereas at home in the Metropolis one knows hundreds of men are worse off than ourselves. It is to be hoped that our impotent sympathisers will feed the people they can reach, who, after all, want it just as much as we do.
30th, Monday. Very tired and stiff after the tournament. I feel as if all the competitors had been beating me with big sticks. Talking of sticks and Doctor Leyds, which always seem associated in my mind, I bought half a dozen very nice ones yesterday, I hope Dr. Leyds is having a good time now. I fancy he will have a moderate one when the war is over, as most people directly blame him for any discomforts they may have undergone. It is only natural for a Dutchman to fight, but for the man who pulls the strings and risks other people's skins with the utmost heroism seven thousand miles off, you do not feel a great amount of affection or respect, more particularly when he is living on the fat of the land and you are rather hungry. Besides, the fellow is an infernal thief; he has battened on these unfortunate peasants for many years, and at the first pinch of fighting flies and leaves them. I have no use for a creature like that. I was rather amused to hear Sergeant Cooke, of the Bechuanaland Rifles, report having slain a Dutchman this morning. He wasn't in the least elated, and in a shamefaced sort of way said he was afraid it wasn't a sporting shot. He couldn't have been more upset if he had shot a hen pheasant sitting, but to anyone else the episode was distinctly amusing.