THE SURRENDER OF CRONJE
Then all was activity. A note was borne to Lord Roberts stating that Cronje had given in, and General Pretyman thereupon rode out to take his surrender. The scene was highly impressive. Lord Roberts, in front of the cart in which he slept, walked up and down awaiting his prisoner, while a guard of the Seaforth Highlanders with drawn bayonets formed a line to either side. In the distance a small group of horsemen was seen approaching, a silhouette which gradually grew clearer in the golden light of the morning. It was General Pretyman with the redoubtable Cronje riding a white pony on his right and the escort of the 12th Lancers following. The subsequent scene was a study in reserve. After all the tumultuous passions, the ferocity of bloodshed, the diamond-cut-diamond activities of death-dealing lyddite and Vickers-Maxims, the two leaders met without the smallest sign of emotion. To Lord Roberts, who stood with his staff awaiting him, Colonel Pretyman said, “Commandant Cronje, sir!” The two great men looked at each other, the Dutchman touched his hat, the Englishman returned the salute. The group dismounted, and then, regretfully be it noted, Lord Roberts, the blameless upright British soldier gave his hand to the tyrant of Potchefstroom. “You have made a gallant defence, sir,” said the British Commander-in-Chief; “I am glad to see you. I am glad to get so brave a man!”
The picture of the redoubtable Cronje as he approached our great little Field-Marshal was remarkable in its contrast. On the one side you saw a burly square-jawed agriculturist, grizzly of beard, tanned and battered of complexion, portly and cumbrous of form. On the other, you had the lithe figured aristocratical British soldier, trim in his kharki uniform, and wearing his sword with the air of nameless distinction which belongs to the born ruler of men. Cronje’s aspect was that of a substantial farmer, his heavy cane, his slouch hat encircled by its orange leather band, his bottle-green overcoat and tan boots were distinctly bucolic, but his rigid implacable countenance, an utterly impenetrable façade, betrayed the masterly and indomitable character of the man.
There is no doubt that by his fierce, his masterly resistance to the British he won for himself the respect of all who trapped him. His undoubted pluck, a quality which has such unending fascination for the English, served in a great measure to wipe off the terrible remembrance of his atrocious deeds in other years. Cronje spoke scarcely a word. He said there were 3000 Boers in the laager—as a matter of fact, there were over 3700—and also requested that his wife, son, grandson, and secretary might be allowed to remain with him. This request was acceded to; arrangements were made that his relatives should accompany him into captivity. He then partook of refreshment in Lord Roberts’ quarters with the staff. Though he smoked, he said little and remained gloomy and preoccupied.
The prisoners trooped across the river like some patriarchal or gipsy horde, with trousers turned up so as not to damp them in the swollen drift. They splashed along, each armed with his household effects, pots and pans, blankets and rifles, some jesting and skipping in sheer exuberance of animal spirits that long had been subdued, some stolid and serious in the full comprehension of the grievous end of all their pluck and endurance. And they had endured! From the hundreds of wounded that were brought in the same tale of suspense, and misery, and horror was told in varying keys. Always they had awaited reinforcement; they had even invented a scheme for cutting a way out to meet the relieving force which never came. But volunteers for this deed of daring were few. About a hundred in all. This meagre array was not sufficient. Others had pressed on the relentless Cronje the philosophy of surrender. They urged that directly, if not annihilated by shell fire, they would be laid low by fever; already eighty-seven men were slain and a hundred and sixty wounded. These had no doctors even to attend them. The surgeons had been left behind on the Modder, and the offer of Lord Roberts of medicine and succour had been refused. The suffering had indeed been terrible and now was of no avail.
It was not pleasing to the vanity of the British army to find themselves confronted with such a rabble of tatterdemalions, and to remember how this nondescript mob had so long held them in check. But there was no denying that the ruffians had qualities, and that they, unkempt and undisciplined as they were, had proved themselves foemen worthy of our steel and tacticians meriting study.
“MAJUBA DAY”—CRONJE SURRENDERS TO LORD ROBERTS AT PAARDEBERG.
Drawing by R. Caton Woodville, from a Sketch by Frederic Villiers, War Artist.
It was curious how much our troops had learnt both from the undisciplined Boers and the inexperienced Colonials. From the latter they picked up the art of taking cover, and from the former the art of obtaining it. The Boer was not content merely to crouch behind a stone and show a head only when about to shoot. He cunningly arranged his sangar so that he should expose no head at all. He built up his small stones to the necessary height, taking care to leave a central loophole through which he could take aim and yet remain invisible. An officer, in giving his opinion of the Boer as a fighter, showed the lessons that had been taught by him. “As a defender of defensive positions in a mountainous country he is unequalled. He digs good trenches and chooses good defensive positions, and he lies there quietly and waits for his enemy to advance across the open. But he never, hardly ever, dares to attack in the open, and if his flank is turned or his rear threatened, he gets nervous, and retires to a better position if he can. If our positions could be reversed—that is, if Tommy Atkins had to defend the kopjes, and if the Boers had to attack them in the open, there can be no doubt as to the result. Tommy, perhaps, would not be quite so good as the Boer in defence, but, on the other hand, the Boer would fail in the attack; indeed, he could not be brought to attempt it. As a shooter the Boer is no better than our own men. The only difference is that he attempts to shoot at far longer ranges. The Boer has taught us to dig big trenches and to use big guns as mobile artillery.”