With dawn the overture had begun, an overture to a murderous opera, for shells, 1500 in number, during that dismal day, were hurled over the little British band. But these were not the fellows to be bombarded with impunity. They examined their resources, looked ruefully at their one gun, a muzzle-loader, which before long jammed, and became more of a danger than a defence. The Boers’ fire was too hot and snipers too numerous to allow of remedy to the damage, so nothing could be done but wait—wait for the kindly cloak of night. Then, the besieged set to work with a will, brawny arms and knowing heads helping to construct trenches and shelters, splinter proofs and tunnels, which should defy the snorting weapons of the Dutchmen. But these, despite the darkness, continued to snort and to shriek, and went on persistently till daybreak. Then the besiegers varied the entertainment by directing at the defenceless ones a pom-pom. This was as the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. Off rushed gallant young Aanat with twenty-five dashing dare-devils, creeping, rifles in hand, into the bush, and then—the pom-pom was silent! The Boers, chastened, were too cautious again to approach it. But alas! at night this remarkable young Queenslander, so full of grit and gallantry, dropped dead, a victim to the shells that still poured intermittently into the camp. But his good work was done, and the valiant Lieutenant, though he knew it not, had struck the keynote of victory. His comrades swore with a tremendous oath that they would die rather than give in, that the white flag should never float over those five acres that were then the melancholy and diminutive symbol of British Empire.
The Battlefields of Pretoria. (From a personal survey).
Scale 17 miles to an inch.
The next day Delarey sent in to say that Rustenburg and Zeerust were occupied by Boers, that they presently would be in possession of the whole country, and he further mildly suggested that if they refused to surrender, his 94-pounder “would blow them off the face of the earth.” Colonel Hore’s reply stated that he was in command of Imperial troops who would not surrender, and the ultimatum was met with renewed bombardment. All day long the tempest of artillery raged. Then, to their joy, and also to their anxiety, they heard the guns of Carrington coming to their relief—the echo of them in the distant hills—and hope grew and grew, and—waned. Carrington, as we know, had heard the report of their surrender, and having given battle to an overwhelming force of Boers for what he thought no purpose, had retired!
So, the 3000 Republicans in their hills laughed together, and trained their guns on to the spot where, at night, they knew the gallant men who defied them must water their horses and refresh themselves after their long day’s burrowing in the bowels of the earth. But these, emerging parched and sinking from their subterranean holes, were still equal to the ruses of their tormentors. Some took one way—the way towards the longed-for river—while others took another, and went forth on sniping operations which subdued, if they did not vanquish, their enemies, and protected those who had to run through fire to reach the longed-for draught. And so for eleven days the contest between Boer obstinacy and British determination continued, till at last on the horizon the dust rose and a rumour of the approach of Broadwood’s Cavalry brought gladness into a scene of desperation. But the little garrison by now was sadly thinned, and the nature of the warlike activities may be guessed by the casualty list. Five were killed, seven were mortally struck down, eleven were wounded, and twenty-seven, though slightly injured, remained combatants to the end! What the losses might have been had not the ingenious Colonials applied their pluck and their wits to the scientific construction of trenches, which defied the six big guns of the enemy, cannot be discussed, for surrender would have been inevitable.
However, on the 16th, Colonel Hore and his doughty warriors were still holding out when, to his intense relief, and that of his emaciated band of heroes, the Boers were routed. Lord Kitchener had pressed to their succour from the south-east. How Lord Kitchener contrived to push up and arrive on the scene, may be told in a few words; but, to make the movement intelligible, it is necessary to go back several days.
On the 5th of August Lord Kitchener, who was operating south of the Vaal, was joined by a strong detachment of what was familiarly known as “Brabanditti,” and also by the Canadian Regiment. The late Sirdar was personally superintending the hunt after the wiliest of foxes, De Wet, whose nimbleness since his rush from Stabbert’s Nek was a matter for marvel and admiration even to his opponents. On the one side of the quarry was Lord Kitchener, with cavalry and mounted infantry; while on the right bank of the Vaal was Lord Methuen, preparing to pounce on the Dutchman’s advance guard, which was known to have crossed the river.
Early on the 7th, Lord Methuen engaged a portion of De Wet’s force, which was occupying a strong position on a succession of kopjes near Venterskroon. In brilliant style the Scots and the Welsh Fusiliers charged hill after hill, driving the Boers therefrom, but without frustrating the designs of De Wet, who had succeeded in getting across. The fighting was costly, for seven men were killed, and among the wounded officers were Major F. C. Meyrick and Lieutenant H. Gurney, both 5th Battalion Imperial Yeomanry; Major A. P. G. Gough, Captain G. F. Barttelot, Second Lieutenant E. A. T. Bayly, all Royal Welsh Fusiliers; and also Lieutenant E. S. St. Quintin, 10th Battalion Imperial Yeomanry.
On the 9th, Lord Methuen fought a rearguard action near Buffel’s Hoek, captured six waggons, two ambulances, but—no De Wet. Lieutenant Knowles was killed, and Colonel Younghusband was wounded. The fugitive, fleeing before the forces of Kitchener at Gatsrand (south of the Krugersdorp-Potchefstroom Railway) and those of Methuen still further to the south-west, now strove to cross the rail at Welverdiend Station, and in so doing dropped almost into the jaws of Smith-Dorrien, who promptly engaged him. Into the plan for frustrating the Dutchman’s design the City Imperial Volunteers and the 2nd Shropshires flung themselves with zeal, the former regiment marching thirty miles in seventeen hours, the latter forty-three in thirty-two hours, in order, as they hoped, to be “in at the finish.” But De Wet accomplished his purpose and eluded all. Later Lord Methuen, after a forced march of thirty-two miles, came in contact with the Boer convoy, fought vigorously a whole day, recaptured one of our guns lost at Stormberg, sixteen waggons of stores and ammunition, but again—no De Wet. Still the troops were full of hopes, and telegrams home said, “His capture is only a matter of hours.”
But the Dutchman was more than their match. He blew up three waggons rather than be impeded by them—(he always attributed Cronje’s downfall to the tenacity with which he clung to his waggons)—and let loose from his camp sixty British prisoners and an officer, left behind thirty wrecks of horses at Schoolplats, and even flung away ammunition. Having thus thrown out ballast, as it were, he soared into the unknown. The disappointment on all sides was extreme, for sometimes the troops had been so close on the track that they had even boiled their kettles on the camp fires left by their quarry. “Collisions, but no cornering,” was the terse telegram home of a youthful officer who had been keen in the hunt. Colonel Ricardo (10th Battalion Imperial Yeomanry) whose gallant men had displayed first-rate cavalry qualifications, had gone so far as to offer £50 for the prize, dead or alive! Yet the ignis fatuus danced gaily ahead, but never within clutch! Still, clever as he showed himself to be, it must be remembered he had everything in his favour. His spies were in every farmhouse, and no inch of the country was strange to him; he could burrow, circle, or climb by day or by night, while his pursuers, though their waggons had double teams of picked animals, were forced to relinquish their vigilance at sundown. So both Lords Methuen and Kitchener found themselves outmarched, and De Wet (who had gone off through Olifant’s Nek in the Magaliesberg range, while Methuen was blocking Magato Pass, some twelve miles further westward) doubtless plumed himself on his ingenuity. The reason for his success lay in the fact that, owing to some synchronal accident, General Baden-Powell on vacating Olifant’s Nek had not been immediately relieved by General Ian Hamilton, who was due on the 13th. Lord Methuen, unaware of this hitch, thought that by veering towards Magato Pass De Wet must effectually be cornered, and discovered too late that his mighty marches and spirited efforts had been thrown away. Thus in following De Wet’s evolutions we learnt not so much a lesson in strategy as a lesson in quick-wittedness. Moral maxims teach us to catch time on the wing; De Wet taught us more—to leap to the back of opportunity, and fly with it where it may lead. As at Koorn Spruit so elsewhere. He jumped to his decisions and acted on them at one and the same moment. At Koorn Spruit it was a matter of minutes that made him master of the situation. At Stabbert’s Nek it was little more. He was informed that there must be some hours’ delay in the clicking of the padlock round the Brandwater basin, and he used those hours, exactly as he had now used the synchronal hitch that left a gap at Olifant’s Nek between the evacuation of General Baden-Powell and the arrival of General Ian Hamilton. Deliberation in all three cases would have been fatal. He did not deliberate but acted, and in getting across from the south of Orange River Colony to the north of Pretoria he showed himself a born genius in the art of war. Lord Methuen, knowing further pursuit to be useless, moved afterwards to Mafeking, where he could recoup his force, and allow it to recuperate after having fought fourteen engagements besides skirmishes innumerable since his march from Boshof in May.