We arrived at this place at ten o'clock and, to our secret joy, found no signs yet of a British occupation. We heard, however, that an engine had brought two English officers thither from Bethulie on a short visit the night before.
Shortly after arriving mounted scouts of Montmorency's Horse made their appearance, and were followed by General Gatacre, who rode up, somewhat surprised to find us already in possession. Cordial greetings were exchanged between the Generals, and after a short stay we pushed on in the direction of Norval's Pont, which we were assured had been evacuated by the enemy 24 hours before.
On the strength of this information we left the three rear trains behind, and pushed on through rapidly steepening country to Prior's Siding. Here we were enthusiastically welcomed by the only inhabitants, two Russian Jews, who so far allowed their feelings to overpower their pockets as to present the General with a box of excellent cigars in honour of the new flag.
Another half hour through a horrid defile brought us to Donkerpoort, and at this uninviting station we found the vanguard of General Clement's force. These had crossed the Orange River by means of a pontoon bridge, flung across the river 2-1/2 miles below the great bridge, and consisted of a squadron of Inniskillings, the 4th Field Battery, 250 Australians, and some Infantry.
As we steamed slowly ahead, the extended lines of horsemen advancing over the plain raised cheer after cheer, and we were moreover honoured by a patriotic officer dismounting and taking a historical snapshot with the ever-present kodak at the advancing engine. This latter, one should add, was adorned by 4 officers sitting just over the cow-catcher, who obtained an excellent view of the surrounding country. Their admiration was, however, somewhat tempered by the knowledge of a widely spread report that at certain places there lurked under the line masses of deadly dynamite. Considerable caution was at first observed at the culverts; but when the engine-driver assured us that dynamite was hidden at one place only, and that place known to him, we bade him proceed until within 50 yards of the spot, and then halt. When within half a mile of the bridge, we asked whether the fatal place was near at hand. Judge of our mingled horror and relief when we heard that the miscreant driver had not recognised the spot until within 5 yards of it, and had driven unwittingly over it at full speed!
Except for a short glimpse a mile back, one cannot, from a train, see the bridge broadways on. It was, therefore, difficult to estimate the exact damage that had been done as we approached it, even when we had walked out as far as we could go, and actually stood over the gap. The wreck is terrific; 3 spans and one pier had been blown up and lay in the water 100 feet below, connected with the standing part by a steep and tangled wreckage of beams, girders, and iron. Three months at least must elapse before the bridge can be thoroughly in working order again; but a little bird has whispered in the ear of the writer that by an ingenious series of connections from bank to bank a very large amount of stores will shortly be passing across. Those Burghers who refused twice, when ordered, to blow up the bridge, were wise men in their generation, for its destruction will mean a much more serious loss to the Free State than to the British troops.
CHAPTER VI
Ours was no Bed of Roses
Kipling's regard for "Tommy Poetry"—Our English as it was set up by Boer compositors.
"THE FRIEND" was an afternoon paper published at three or four or five o'clock in the evening, according as the Dutch compositors chose to get it out. We editors went to our tiny editorial room between nine and ten o'clock in the morning, and worked until lunch time—one o'clock—writing, seeing visitors, correcting proofs, and reading manuscripts. What I have called "seeing visitors" mainly consisted in turning away private soldiers who came for copies of the paper. Though we posted notices that ours was the editorial room, and that papers were to be had at Barlow's stationery shop, "Tommy" would insist upon coming to us; therefore we gave up a large part of our time to sending him away, now yelling at him, now bursting into expletives, and anon pleading most politely that we were neither newsboys nor railway bookstall keepers.
What I have called "reading manuscripts" was largely the work of examining the poetry of this same Mr. Atkins, who, fired by the genius of Mr. Kipling, is sometimes a better poet than you would think, sometimes a worse poet than you can imagine, but is generally a poet—of one sort or another.