Major Lee, who was in command of the New Zealanders at Arundel, was reported to be a splendid fellow—not the typical dashing officer by any means, but what was described as a regular paterfamilias of somewhat aldermanic proportions. He was hale, hearty, and beaming, and withal a man of coolness and courage. The qualities possessed by this officer were said to be shared by most of his men, who, though of the rough and ready stamp, were true chips of the old British block.
Mr. Gifford Hall was most enthusiastic about Colonials all and sundry, and, knowing their excellence and Great Britain’s needs, delivered himself of words of wisdom which are worthy of repetition:—
“Ex-frontier cavalryman myself, with further experience as cowboy in both the United States and North-west Canada, and also as stockrider in Australia, I have never for a moment doubted that in the raising of an irregular Anglo-Boer force lay the solution of England’s problem, ‘How to successfully cope with the enemy.’ Sans standard of physique, sans much orthodox training, sans everything but virility, inherent horsemanship, inherent wild-land craft, mounted on his own pony—bronco of Canada or brumbie of Australia—the Canadian ranche hand, the Australian stockrider, shearer, station rouseabout, or the ‘cull’ of all lands Anglicised might easily become the quintessence of a useful and operative force against a semi-guerilla enemy. A pair of cord breeches, a couple of shirts, his big hat, and a cartridge-filled belt, Winchester carbine, a pony of the sort that can be run to a white sweat, and staggering, tremble, and then be kicked out to nuzzle for grass or die—that’s what your man wants. The pants and shirts will be better than he has worn for years; the gun he has ‘shot straight’ with ever since he first handled his ‘daddy’s’ muzzle-loader; and the ‘hoss,’ why each is of the other, horse and man, each apart, a thing inept. Orthodoxy against the Boers in military operations doesn’t wash. Aldershot-cum-Sandhurst-cum-Soudan-cum-Further-India and War-Office tactics fall flat. The Boer is here, there, and everywhere, not to be followed by ‘crushing forces’—only to be checked and turned and tracked and harried and hustled by a brother Boer. There is scarce a Canadian ranche hand but owns a pony of bronco breed, scarce an Australian station hand of any decent calibre but owns or can procure a tough and serviceable semi-‘brumbie’ mount. And will these men volunteer? Yes, plenty of them, and those that won’t can’t. Surely Empire saved or gained is worth their worth to the Motherland they fight for. Let her hire them. Transportation and time? The Boer war is not over yet, and England’s pocket is deep. To-day she fights for her life, for her honour, and win she must. Arm them and saddle them, men of the wild-lands and prairies. Work them van, flank, and rear. This folly of ‘standard’ physique and ‘training’—to the winds with it. The theory of weight and height for effective fighting is exploded. Heart, eye, and seat, and wild-land inherent tact make up for it. Five-feet-six can ride and shoot and fight or die as well as six-feet-two. We wild-landers have proven it over and over again. Even when the war is over, and our regulars and reserves must return, make these men into protective police for a while, officered not by orthodoxy but by knowledge and experience. They will ‘learn the country.’ They will evolve scouts from amongst them who shall make no mistakes. They will give to England what she needs in times like these—to come again or not. Your yeomanry won’t do the trick; nor your oat-fed kharki-clad higher Colonials either. ’Tis your Anglo-Boer, cowboy, stockrider, shearer, rouseabout, cull, given his way and a cause—yes, he and his scrub-fed mongrel mount and ‘gun.’”
These expressions of opinion almost amounted to a prophecy, for very shortly the Canadian ranche hands, the Australian stockriders, the hardy New Zealanders, and the “higher” Colonials—as Mr. Hall styled them—taught us lessons which we were swift enough to follow.
At Christmas the troops fared well, and contributions of a homely and delectable kind were supplied to make the season pleasurable. The inhabitants of Naauwpoort showed their appreciation of Mr. Thomas Atkins in many tangible ways, notably by providing him with appetising refreshments as he arrived by rail. Of course, there was a run on the telegraph office. Christmas greetings went pouring out and came pouring in, while the mail-bags swelled with a plethora of seasonable blandishments. At Arundel Colonel Fisher and the officers of the 10th Hussars endeavoured to forward Christmas greetings to the Colonel of the Regiment, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, but for some unexplained reason the felicitation was not allowed to go beyond the vigilant eye of the censor.
The great attraction of Christmas, and its accompaniment the New Year, was the expectation of a gift from Queen Victoria, which was specially prepared according to the order of the Sovereign herself. It was to take the form of a tin of chocolate, and was to be presented to every soldier on service in South Africa. The box was specially designed, and adorned with the regal monogram. This unique gift, in order to make it the more valuable as a trophy or a family relic, was manufactured only of the exact number required for presentation to each individual serving at the front.
Naauwpoort enlivened itself with sports, and though the weather was almost tropical, the activity served to compensate for the absence of the mirth of Merrie England. At this time the Boers were approaching nearer the British camp. There was a three days’ truce, it is true, but their positions were only six miles from our troops, and they were warned that a nearer approach would mean prompt action by the guns.
The daily routine went on somewhat monotonously—the grooming, watering, and exercising of horses; drilling, exercising the mules of ambulance and transport waggons; unloading the food supplies, cooking them—occupations which afforded work in plenty, but the real business of warfare was suspended. Some of the officers made an effort to get up hunting parties, and succeeded in bagging a few springbuck, but their expeditions were fraught with even more risk to themselves than to their quarry. For instance, in one case, while two gallant Nimrods were in the act of stalking a splendid springbuck, their chargers made off. They suddenly found themselves almost surrounded by Boers, and an animated chase followed. Luckily the carcass of the springbuck, which was left behind, was too great a prize to be parted with, and the enemy captured it in preference to the huntsmen!
At this time there was great consternation in camp, as two cavalry officers were taken prisoners. It subsequently transpired that the officers, Lieutenant Till (Carabineers) and Lieutenant Hedger (attached to the 10th Hussars), were captured through an unfortunate accident. They mistook the Boers for New Zealanders, and therefore were unprepared to offer resistance. On discovering their error they made a desperate attempt to escape, but were overpowered.
The Colonials afterwards discarded their picturesque hats and took to helmets. Owing to the resemblance of their headgear to that of the Boers, some British pickets had mistaken them for the enemy and fired on them.