THE HERDING OF CRONJE
To return to General French. The cavalry division bivouacked outside the town of Kimberley, but their repose was limited. At 3 A.M. on the morning of the 16th they were up and doing. The enemy in the north was giving trouble. Some sharp fighting took place, during which Lieutenants Brassey (9th Lancers) and P. Bunbury were killed. This early activity was tough work for the already weary troops, who had been fifteen hours without a meal. Indeed, it was generally remarked that the relievers looked sorrier specimens of humanity than the relieved. The Colonial troops, the Queensland and New Zealand Contingents, and the New South Wales Lancers, considering all things, were wonderfully fit after having played a conspicuous part in the operations. These troops had joined General French’s column from the regions of the Orange and Modder Rivers. The New South Wales Lancers rode on the extreme right flank of the first brigade, and their ambulance corps, under Lieutenant Edwards, kept up with the column, and was complimented on being the first ambulance to cross the Modder River. Like the rest of the troops, they had taken their share of small rations, merely nominal rest, sun-scorching, and maddening thirst, and yet were full of zeal—“keen as mustard,” as some one said—to engage in the herding of Cronje and effect his capture. Worn out as they were, they had sprung to attention on a rumour brought in by a despatch-rider to the effect that Cronje had evacuated Majersfontein and was in full retreat.
At midnight on the 16th, no confirmation of this news had been received. The jaded troops, and still more jaded horses—mere skeletons in horse’s skins—were preparing for real repose, when all was changed! A telegram arrived from Lord Kitchener saying that Cronje, with 10,000 men, was in full retreat from Majersfontein, with all his waggons and equipment and four guns, along the north bank of the Modder River towards Bloemfontein; that he had already fought a rearguard action with him; and that if French, with all available horses and guns, could head him and prevent his crossing the river, the infantry from Klip Drift would press on and annihilate or take the whole force prisoners.
Here was a surprise! Pleasant yet unpleasant, for shattered men in the last stage of fatigue. But General French—whom some one has described as possessing the shape of a brick, with all the solid and excellent qualities of one—rose to the occasion. He was on the point of going to sleep, but there was no thought of rest now. Arrangements had to be made, horses weeded—out of a division of 5000 only one brigade was fit to move!—more borrowed from the Kimberley Light Horse, whose holiday-time had come, and other preparations hurriedly set on foot to ensure an immediate rush—a swoop that should be as swift and successful as it was startling!
One may imagine the midnight picture. The dark immensity of veldt—the dust-driven, sweltering veldt—and Cronje, miles ahead with his horde, the remnant of his convoy, his women and children, fleeing along the north bank of the Modder, harassed by the Sixth Division, threatened by the Seventh and Ninth, and yet longing to cross the river, to get safely to Koodoosrand Drift, where he hourly expected reinforcements would come to his succour. French, dead beat after glorious work accomplished, rising from the first hospitable pillow he had seen for days—springing suddenly to action, ordering, organising, deciding how to effect the great swoop on Koodoosrand Drift and head off the fugitive. There was no time for the buckling on of mental and moral armour; only the warrior at soul could have been ready for such a situation. But such an one was here. He gave swift orders. In three hours’ time General Broadwood and his brigade and three batteries of artillery—the only ones available out of seven—sallied forth towards the east, in the dusk of the morning. Their destination—Koodoosrand Drift—was some forty miles off, and once here Cronje’s last loophole of escape would be gone! The General and his staff followed at 4.15 A.M., riding at full speed, and catching up the brigade about fifteen miles off.
The whole nature of their errand and the proposed movement was a surprise, for this manœuvre had not entered into General French’s original calculations.
When the General had seen the Sixth Division safely at Klip Drift and secured his left flank, he proceeded on his rush to Kimberley. Of other movements save his own he was ignorant. Even as he and the troops were riding into the town, Cronje, who had discovered the futility of his position at Majersfontein and the danger of it, was trekking madly across the front of the Sixth Division. On the morning of the 16th Lord Kitchener, hearing that the Majersfontein laager and the Modder River camp were deserted, and seeing a cloud of dust in the distance, had guessed what was happening, and immediately altered his plans to meet the emergency. As we are aware, he instantly gave orders for the mounted infantry not to follow French, but to pursue and attack the Boer convoy, while he telegraphed later to French, with the results just described. General French grasped the position at a glance. He knew no time was to be lost, and soon Broadwood’s brigade, with horses that could barely move, was pushing on as fast as spurs could insist. The early morning dusk broke into the green and grey and gold of dawn; birds flew frightened hither and thither; foxes rushed to their holes; springbok and hares tempted the sportsmen, but never a glance to right or left was wasted. All eyes were strained to the east, to the momentous east, and the wooded banks of the distant river. Nearer and ever nearer they came—specks were seen on the horizon—men?—horses?—the enemy moving?—scudding away before he could be cornered? No—Yes? A moment of excitement, anguish—joy! The General had mounted a kopje, reconnoitred, and discovered the truth. It was Cronje’s force—the remnants of his convoy some 4000 yards off—the convoy streaming down into the drifts that lead to Petrusberg and thence to Bloemfontein! They must never reach that destination! Kitchener’s words—“Head him and prevent his crossing the river”—so simple in sound, so complex in execution, thrilled every heart. Quickly the guns were got into action—grandly—almost magically—the first shot plumped—bang! in front of the leading waggon just as the convoy was preparing to descend the drift! What a reveillé! Cronje, as we know, was rushing from the clutches of the Sixth Division at Drieputs. Breathless, he gathered himself together. Suddenly he found himself assailed by a new force—a new terror! He divined in a moment what had happened. It was French, the ubiquitous French—French redivivus, as it were—who was putting the finishing touch to the chapter of disaster. Poor Captain Boyle, in his letter to the Nineteenth Century, thus described the great Dutchman’s plight:—
“His only chance now was to sacrifice his guns and convoy, and cut his way across the river under the heavy fire of our guns. Immediately on the first shell bursting in the laager, about thirty Boers galloped out to seize a kopje on our right, afterwards called Roberts’ Hill; but the 10th Hussars in a neck-and-neck race had the legs of them, and seizing the hill in advance, beat them off with their carbine and Maxim fire. The Boers from their laager answered our shell fire for a short time with great accuracy from two or three guns. But these were quickly silenced, and shell after shell from Artillery Hill fell plump into the laager. Finally, our second battery was moved to a little distance from Roberts’ Hill and opened fire from the southern slope on to a kopje to which the Boers had retired. All that afternoon at intervals our guns poured shells into the laager, but no response came, and we spent our time watching the Boers, now 3000 yards away, entrenching themselves in the open and along the river-bank. Their waggons caught fire and the ammunition exploded, and as they realised their position more and more, so must their hearts have sunk. Anxiously must they have waited for the first sign of the infantry gathering round, as anxiously as we did in our turn watching from the high kopjes.
“The cavalry, worn out as they were and without food, had to hold the kopjes and water their horses in turn some five miles off. They got what grazing they could in the kopjes as they lay there, for no corn had come on from Kimberley, and neither men nor horses had had any food except the three days’ rations with which they originally started from Klip Drift the Thursday before, a good deal of which had been shaken off the saddles or lost in the long gallop up the plain to Kimberley. The General, the men, the horses, all alike had to live on what was found at Kamilfontein—a few mealies, a few onions, and the crumbs of biscuits in our pockets were all we had until some Free Staters’ sheep and cattle were rounded and killed. Had it not been for this plentiful supply of meat, the men must have fared very badly for the next three days. No transport came in until Monday night, and the horses had but 1½ lb. of corn in three days. The men were put on half rations of biscuits even after the transport arrived.
“Meanwhile, on Saturday afternoon about 5 P.M. Broadwood sent word to French that in the far distance he observed the dust rising, which he took for Kelly-Kenny’s division. French returned to Roberts’ Hill, and, until the sun set, anxiously awaited the arrival of the infantry—but they marched but slowly. From 6 P.M. till 7 P.M. we opened fire again from our batteries to show Lord Kitchener our exact positions.” The splendid work done by the Royal Horse Artillery was described by another eye-witness. He said: “I will give you an idea of what good gunners we have in the Artillery. General French said to one of the gunners, ‘See those three waggons over there? (a distance of about 3½ miles); see what you can do with them.’ The gunner fired three shell, and the waggons were no more.”