With Rimington

by L. March Phillipps

The thing began at grey dawn. Chester Master and two or three Guides were sent forward to reconnoitre a kopje where the Boers the day before had had a gun. We found the gun gone. Some marks of blood, a half-dug grave, and two dead horses, showed that the fire of our long naval gun had been more or less effective. We then rode on, the column we were guiding getting gradually into formation, and we were just mounting the next ridge, when down in the valley beneath we saw a long line of waggons, stretching away eastward for miles, dragged by huge bullock teams. They were making the best of their way forward, each with a party of mounted men riding at the side, and at the first glance, so close to our army and camp were they, I almost fancied it must be a convoy of our own. However, we realised what was up pretty quickly. The Boers, hearing of French's flank march, and fearing they would be cut off if they remained, were abandoning their position in the hills about Magersfontein, which they had intrenched so strongly, and were quietly and promptly moving off towards Bloemfontein. The rearguard of their line was at that moment just opposite to us.

Chester Master immediately sent back an orderly as hard as he could go to tell our fellows what was in front and hurry them up, every moment being now of the utmost importance if we wanted to intercept the enemy. The Boers themselves took their measures instantly and with their usual coolness. A long line of kopjes ran eastward across the plain, flanking the line of their march, and directly they saw they were discovered, their horsemen dashed forward and began to occupy these, thus guarding the right flank of their retreat from our attack. Seeing this, Chester Master galloped back himself to urge on our Mounted Infantry, who were now mustering rapidly to the attack.

From the kopje on the extreme left front, where we were, we could now see extended at our feet the whole plan of the approaching battle, while as yet the two sides were invisible to each other. In the valley on the north side of the kopjes the Boers were urging on their convoy and rapidly despatching their sharpshooters to hold the hills along their right. On the south side were the masses of our columns, with the squadrons of Mounted Infantry now detaching themselves from the main body, and beginning to stream across the level plain towards the same hills; all with heads bent one way, horses prancing and pulling, and with all the signs of eager excitement, as though they divined, though as yet they could not see, the presence of the enemy. Over the dusty plain they canter, but they are too late by a few minutes. The Boers are there already, and as the Mounted Infantry come along, passing close beneath us, an outbreak of rifle-fire occurs, and the dry plain, which is of perfectly bare earth, is dotted with little white puffs of dust as the bullets strike along it. The fire is a bit short, but schooled by this time in "kopje tactics," and realising what is coming, our squadrons very prudently pull up and wait for the guns. They haven't long to wait. I always love to see the guns come up. Over stones and rocks and bushes, six strong horses at the gallop, the drivers lashing the off horses, the guns jumping and rumbling and swinging; then the yell, "Action front," and round come the teams with a splendid sweep; next instant they are cast off and jingle to the rear, and the little venomous guns are left crouching like toads, looking towards the enemy; the gunners are upon them before they are at a standstill (everything happens simultaneously); there is an instant's pause while the barrel rises, and then comes the naked spurt of fire, no smoke, and the officer steps clear of the dust and glues his glasses to his eyes as the shell screams on its way. Within ten minutes of our first viewing the enemy, half a battery had got into action near our kopje, and was bombarding the first hill along the enemy's flank.

Two or three of the Boer waggons, the last of the line, had been abandoned when their retreat was first discovered. These we took possession of, and with them two Dutchmen and some coloured boys, one of whom had been driver to a field-cornet of Cronjé's. From him we learnt that Cronjé had definitely abandoned the whole Magersfontein position, that this was the tail of his force going through, and that consequently there was nothing to be feared from a rear attack. Chester Master wrote a hasty despatch to this effect to Kitchener and gave it to me, after which I had a most amusing ride through our lines from the extreme left to the extreme right, where Kitchener was. First by our batteries, thundering and smoking (the enemy only had one gun in action that I saw, but I must say it did very well, feeling for the range with two short shots, and after that getting well into our guns every time), and then on through the Mounted Infantry, who kept on charging and retiring, until finally after three miles' ride I came to the far right, where Kitchener and the big naval gun sat together in state on the top of a small kopje strewn with black shining rocks. Here I gave in my despatch, "From Captain Chester Master, left front, sir," and the best military salute I have yet mastered (inclined to go into fits of laughter at the absurdity of the whole thing all the time), and the great man, with his sullen eye, sitting among his black rocks all alone, reads it and asks me a question or two, and vouchsafes to tell me that the information is "very important," which I suppose meant that he had not been certain whether he was in contact with the middle or extreme tail of the enemy's force. Various officers of the staff come up and I tell them all I know. I am very hungry and parched with thirst, but I know I shall get nothing out of these fellows. However, my luck holds. Under some thorn-trees below I spy the flat hats of the sailors, and under the lee of an ammunition waggon hard by a group of officers. All is well. Five minutes later I am pledging them in a whisky and sparklet, and sitting down to such a breakfast as I have not tasted for weeks. God bless all sailors, say I!

Orders meantime come thick and fast from the grim watcher on the rocks above, and troop after troop of Mounted Infantry go scouring away to the attack. It is a running fight. Kopje after kopje, as the Boers push on, breaks into fire and is left extinct behind. But still they keep their flank unbroken and their convoy intact. For the hundredth time I admire their dogged courage under these, the most trying of all circumstances, the protection of a slow retreat.

So it goes on through the day, and I have great fun galloping about on my own account, looking into things here and there, and watching the general progress of events. I meet Chester Master again about 5 P.M., and he asks me to ride forthwith to Kimberley with him if Flops can stand it. All the Boer force has cleared from Magersfontein (our information was all right) and is in retreat on Bloemfontein, and Kitchener is sending word by Chester Master to French, bidding him right turn and march to head off the Boer retreat, while he (Kitchener) hangs on their tail.

An hour later we start; four of us. Chester Master, myself, May, and a black boy. It is a twenty-three mile ride. A full moon is in the sky but clouds obscure it, which is a good thing, as the country is being traversed by stragglers of theirs, leaving the hills and in retreat eastward. We hear of several such fugitive bodies from our pickets for the first few miles. Then we are in absolute solitude. The plain lies bare and blanched around us. A thorn bush or two sticks up on it, or, now and then, the ghastly shape of a dead horse lying in puffed up relief with legs sticking out stiff and straight and an awful stench blowing from it. Kimberley's search-light at stated intervals still swings its spoke over our head.

Six or seven miles out from Kimberley my pony gives out, and Chester Master and May on fresh horses ride on, leaving me the boy. We plod on, an interesting, delicious ride. I get off and walk. A little wind rustles over the dry earth and bushes, but otherwise there is not a whisper of sound. The landscape at one moment lies white before us as if it had been washed in milk, and the next is blotted out with clouds. Now and again we pause to listen, and the boy stands like a bronze image of Attention with bent head and held breath, the whites only of his eyes moving as he rolls them from one object to another. At last from a low kopje top by the path comes the first loud and welcome "Halt! Who goes there?" of an English picket. Another two or three miles brings me to an outpost of the town, and there, dead tired and Flops the same, I fling myself on the ground, after hearty greetings and a word or two of talk with the guard, and do a three hours' sleep till the dawn of the 17th.

In a grey light I rouse myself to look out across the wet misty flat, hearing some one say, "Who's that? What force is that?" followed immediately by "Call out the guard; stand to your arms, men." But then, as light increases, we see by the regular files and intervals that the force is British, and I know that Chester Master has got in all right and delivered his message, and French already, at a few hours' notice, is casting back with that terrible cavalry of his after Cronjé and the retreating Boers.

Kimberley does not in the least give one the idea of a beleaguered and relieved town. There are a few marks of shells, but so few and far between as not to attract attention, and you might walk all about the town without being struck by anything out of the common. I have sampled the roast-horse and roast-mule which the garrison seems to have been chiefly living on for the past five or six weeks, and find both pretty good, quite equal, if not superior, to the old trek-ox. Some people tell us pathetic stories of the hardships to women and young children and babies, owing to the difficulty of getting proper food, especially milk. On the other hand, many seem to have actually enjoyed the siege, and two or three young ladies have assured me that they found it infinitely diverting and enjoyed an excellent time, making up afternoon tea-parties among their friends. The relief was not the occasion of any excitement or rejoicing whatever. People walked about the streets and went about their business and served in their shops without showing in their appearance or manner any trace of having passed through a bad time or having been just delivered from it. They seemed, on the whole, glad to see us, but there was no enthusiasm. This was partly due, I think, to the absence of drink. The Colonial's idea of gratitude and good-fellowship is always expressed in drink, and cannot be separated from it, or even exist without it. Many felt this. Several said to me, "We are awfully glad to see you, old chap, but the fact is there's no whisky." On the whole, except the last week, during which the Boers had a hundred-pounder gun turned on, one doesn't gather that the siege of Kimberley was noteworthy, as sieges go, either for the fighting done or the hardships endured. But that is not to reflect on the defenders, who showed a most plucky spirit all through, and would have resisted a much severer strain if it had been brought to bear upon them.