You can see the great mountain of Thaba Nchu quite clearly from here, though it is forty miles away, and trace every ravine and valley in its steep sides, defined in pure blue shadows. We have been out there these last ten days on what is known as a "bill-sticking" expedition; distributing, that is, a long proclamation which Lord Roberts has just issued, in which he explains to the Free State Burghers that all their property will be respected, and they will be allowed themselves to return to their farms forthwith if they will just take a little quiet oath of allegiance to the British Crown. A few have done so and received passes, but the interest taken in the scheme seems less on the whole than one would have supposed likely. Some explain it by saying that the Boers are such liars themselves that they can't believe but what the English are lying too; while others think the move is premature, and that the Free State is not prepared yet to abandon the war or her allies.
We were by way also of endeavouring to cut off any stray parties of Boers who might be making their way north from Colesberg and that neighbourhood. Broadwood was in command of us. There was a stray party, sure enough, but it was 7000 strong. It passed across our bows, fifteen miles east of us, and we let it severely alone.
Meantime there is a general lull. In the midst of war we are in peace. I am going off to-morrow to our old original Modder River camp (having ridden in from Thaba Nchu yesterday), that cockpit where so much fighting was done and where we spent so many weary weeks watching the heights of Magersfontein, to get luggage and things left behind. It will be strange to see the old place deserted and to ride near the hills without being shot at. Buller is peacefully sleeping at or near Ladysmith; the sound of his snoring faintly reaches us along the wires. Gatacre slumbers at Colesberg. Kitchener has disappeared, no one knows exactly where; and Little Bobs has curled himself up at Government House here, and given orders that he is not to be called for a fortnight. What news can you expect in such times? There is positively none.
Bloemfontein gives one the curious impression just now of a town that has been unpacked and emptied of all its contents, and had them dumped down on the land alongside. The shops contain little or nothing. They have been bought up and have not had time to restock. But outside the town, on the veldt, a huge depot of all sorts of goods is growing larger and larger every day, as the trains, one after another, come steaming north with their loads of supplies. There is a street, ankle deep in mud, of huge marquees, each with a notice of its contents outside: "Accoutrements," "Harness," "Clothing," "Transit Store," and what not. Behind and between are vast piles of boxes, bales, bags, and casks heaped up, and more arrive every hour on loaded trucks along a branch rail from the station. It is a busy, animated scene. Orderlies run or gallop about; quartermasters and adjutants and others hurry here and there, with their hands full of papers from one marquee to another, collecting their orders; shopping as it were, but shopping on rather a large scale; and the big ox-waggons come creaking along and churning up the mud. This is where the cost of a war comes in. These are a few of the little things that our army will require on its way to Pretoria. There will be money to pay for this. We shall feel this some day, you and I.
And poor unstuffed Bloemfontein lies there empty. There are all the shops, and here all the merchandise. You may guess that the tradesmen are indignant. Never has there been such a market. Here is the whole British army clamouring for all kinds of things; most furiously perhaps for eatables and drinkables, baccy and boots. All these things have long been bought up, and the poor Tommies can only wander, sullen and unsated, up and down the streets and stare hungrily in at the empty shop windows; while out of the empty shop windows the shopkeeper glares still more hungrily at them. I have heard how in the Fraser River the fish positively pack and jostle as they move up. So here; but the unhappy sportsman has nothing to catch them with. Brass coal-scuttles and duplex lamps are about all that remains in the way of bait, and these are the only things they won't rise to. He rushes off to Kitchener. "Give me a train a day. Give me a train a week." "You be d——d," growls Kitchener. Back he comes. The hungry eyes are still staring. Incarnate custom flows past. Never in all his life will such a chance recur. Poor wretch! It is like some horrible nightmare.
LETTER XV
MODDER REVISITED
BLOEMFONTEIN, April 9, 1900.
All the way from Modder River down the Kimberley line and up the central one from Naauwpoort, the most dismal rumours reached me at all stations, growing more definite as I neared Bloemfontein. Sanna's Post and Reddersberg! You have heard all about them by now. Nearly 1000 casualties and seven guns taken.