CHAPTER VII
BLOEMFONTEIN UNDER BRITISH RULE
The pastoral little town of brick and tin in the vast expanse of toasted grass had now become a centre of civilisation, one may almost say a fashionable rendezvous. There regiments multitudinous were congregated, and these helped to convert the sleepy, dozing capital into a miniature sphere of many dialects born of a common tongue. Human beings, the conquered and the conquerors, brushed shoulders in friendliness, bought and sold, listened to the bands playing the well-worn British airs in the market-place, and discoursed, under the ægis of the Union Jack, which fluttered from pinnacle and spire, of trade and prospects as though such things as big guns had never acted in place of handshakes, and such men as Steyn had never staked their all on the possibilities of a mirage.
That potentate had betaken himself to Kroonstad, which, in new conditions, had also assumed a new aspect. It was now the capital of the Free Staters, and the seat of the polyglot army that was gathered together to consider the new face of affairs. A Norwegian attaché, who was with the strange horde, gave a description of the quaint dust-bound town and its still quainter inhabitants:—
“Kroonstad, March 16.
“Here prevails the most extraordinary life it has ever been my lot to witness. All hotels and private houses are filled to overflowing, whilst little laagers are spread everywhere in and outside the town. A wild stream of loose horses, mules, donkeys, and oxen, and little bodies of troops and solitary riders pour through the streets, broken by heavy ox-waggons and mule-carts driven by whips and shouts. All nationalities and all colours are present, and the most Babylonian babble of tongues resounds on all sides. Here are foreign military attachés, surgeons, nurses, regular and irregular Boer troops, volunteers of all arms, officers as well as privates, and besides a goodly lot which I can only stamp as ‘freebooters,’ for they do not belong to any fixed commando, but look upon the fighting as sport or chase. Frequently, however, among them I come across men of high culture and of first-class families, often fine handsome men with martial bearing, side by side with the worst scum of the earth. Many pass from one war to another. I have spoken with some who have gone through the Greek, Cuban, and Philippine wars. And what uniforms do these mercenaries wear? None at all, or, more correctly speaking, each one has invented his own! The only common badge is the bandolier across the shoulder and the slouch hat. Otherwise every one wears whatever clothes he may possess, only so that it is nothing new. Many of them who are well off have donned a fantastic costume—slouch hat, with waving ostrich feathers and gold lace, jacket edged with yellow, orange, and green bands, epaulettes with great gold tassels, white or gilt buttons, stripes on the trousers, top-boots with spurs, cockades in the hat and on the breast, and revolvers in the belt. At present the Boer troops are spread all over the place, mostly without any order or discipline. Most of them, particularly the Orange Boers, are sick of the war, and long to go home to their families and farms. Others have simply gone home after the Bloemfontein débâcle. In these circumstances Steyn considered it best to allow his men to go home for a few days, and call them together again when the great council of war at the end of the week had decided whether the war should be continued. Many thousands have thus gone home, with or without leave. Will they return? It seems a dangerous experiment.”
The fact was that gradually, very gradually, the eyes of the Boers were being opened, though they still tried to persuade themselves that Lord Roberts’ presence in the capital of the Free State had no decisive effect on the game of war. They began to look anxiously towards the Continental Powers, who, they had been led to believe, were in sympathy with them, and to wonder when some intervention would save them from the doom they had brought on themselves. In one respect they were beginning to see clearly and to understand, that the great ideal of sweeping the British into the sea was a chimera, and that they must limit their aim to retaining their own freedom, the sole one that could be indulged in and clung to with any shadow of success.
The Dutchmen still hoped against hope for victory, but their scorn for the British was fast dying a natural death. Our repeated fights, had they served no other purpose, succeeded in educating those who had dared to flout us, and after the capture of Cronje the effect of the somewhat brusque lesson was very conspicuous. Before the battle of Elandslaagte, a resident of Cape Town indulged in argument with an obstinate Boer in terms somewhat similar to these:—
“We are going to send 50,000 or 60,000 troops into the field.”
“They will be all shot!” he bragged.
“We shall send another 50,000 or 60,000.”
“They, too, will all be shot!” he repeated.