[CHAPTER IX]
ON THE HEADQUARTER STAFF IN SOUTH AFRICA
Early in 1899 I travelled with the late Lord Clarendon, who was at that time Lord Chamberlain, to Coburg, to represent the Prince of Wales at the Silver Wedding of his brother, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Lord Clarendon having been selected by Queen Victoria for a similar purpose. We spent about a week there, at the Castle, while the fêtes connected with that anniversary were in progress. It was a great pleasure to me to have this opportunity of seeing their Royal Highnesses, who had been so kind to me when on the Mediterranean Station, and talk over our mutual recollections of the numerous cruises of the old Surprise. The night we arrived we were both invited to dine with the Royal Family, and extremely pleasant it was; but for the rest of the time there were endless Court functions and banquets, and I found living in a small German Court, cheek by jowl with the German Court officials, one of the most disagreeable experiences that I can recollect. However, by pleading that I had acquaintances in the town,—which was not strictly true,—I managed to escape from most of the dreary household luncheons, finding it infinitely preferable to eat by myself at the extremely moderate hotel that was all the town of Coburg could boast of in the shape of a restaurant. Under these circumstances, it was eminently true that the “dinner of herbs” at that very bad inn was better than the “stalled ox” at the Schloss.
But soon more interesting events were to take place, for before the end of the year the South African War had begun. After what was known then as the “black week,” when, in the course of a few days, the British public received news of three very distinct reverses, I came to the conclusion that it was impossible for a man of my age to remain in England if by hook or by crook he could possibly manage to get out to Africa. The only plan I could think of was to try to get there on the Staff, as Naval Aide-de-Camp, on the plea that there was a considerable Naval Brigade being formed to work a battery of 4·7 guns to emulate what had already been achieved by their comrades in Natal. I applied to the Prince for aid, and, as usual, not in vain, for, when Field-Marshal Lord Roberts was appointed to be Commander-in-Chief in South Africa, through His Royal Highness’ kind offices the Field-Marshal allowed me to be appointed as Naval Aide-de-Camp on the Headquarter Staff. As it turned out, my duties consisted in doing pretty much the same work as the other Aides-de-Camp, the bulk of which was deciphering and enciphering telegrams; for though when on the march I kept as much in touch with what was called the “Cow-Gun Brigade” (the name being, of course, derived from the team of eighteen bullocks that dragged the guns along), I never could discover that they were in want of anything except ammunition, the fact being, I suppose, that if any particular article was lacking they immediately proceeded to try to annex it, and in general they succeeded, much to the delight of the Quarter-Master-General, who told me that they formed the only unit that never gave him any trouble.
Apropos of the “black week,” long after I had returned from South Africa, one of Queen Victoria’s gentlemen told me an interesting story on the subject. When the bad news arrived, Queen Victoria,—though she had much too fine, and well-trained a sense of proportion to feel in the least nervous,—thought that nevertheless she would like to consult some Military Authority who had a knowledge of South Africa. Accordingly, the late Sir Evelyn Wood was summoned to Balmoral. When he presented himself he was addressed somewhat as follows:—
“Sir Evelyn, I have sent for you to consult you about the campaign in South Africa, but, mind, I will have no croakers here.” I have always thought that there was something deliciously Elizabethan about this prefatory remark. All this is, I fear, a digression; but to revert to the end of 1899,—the main point for me was to get out to South Africa somehow, and that I succeeded in doing.
Lord Roberts sailed with his Staff on board the mail steamer just before Christmas, calling at Gibraltar on the 26th of December to pick up Lord Kitchener, who had been brought there direct from Egypt in a cruiser. He duly arrived on board on that date, accompanied by his two Aides-de-Camp, Lieutenant Walter Cowan, R.N., and Captain James Watson. Cowan is now Rear-Admiral Sir Walter, having done excellent work during the late war, and indeed after it, in the Baltic, while Jimmy Watson has made a career for himself in Egypt, where, amongst other things, he was on the personal Staff of the late Khedive, and I fancy still rejoices in the rank of Watson Pasha. Both of these best of good fellows became friends of mine, and I am glad to say we still occasionally meet.
Next to my Chief and Lord Kitchener, the man who gave me the greatest impression of outstanding ability was the late Colonel Henderson. He was, I think, appointed to the Commander-in-Chief’s Staff as Head Intelligence Officer, and a better appointment never was made. He was a really scientific soldier in the fullest sense of the word; as a literary man he had written one of the very best military books ever printed in his Life of Stonewall Jackson; as a lecturer at the Staff College he had delivered some most interesting and instructive lectures on military subjects,—indeed so clear and well-written were they that, when published, even a sailor like myself could understand and appreciate them. Moreover, he was a most charming companion, and always ready (if asked) to give others the benefit of his great erudition. Unfortunately, even then his health was failing. So ill was he that in a very short time he had to give up riding and take to a Cape cart, and, sad to relate, before the campaign was ended he had been invalided home to England, and died a year or two after his return. He was very kind to me, and,—perhaps because he was a great admirer of my brother John’s History of the Army,—he often gave me of his best in conversation. It used to be my delight on board the steamer to get hold of him after dinner and induce him to talk.
There was a considerable sprinkling of Germans and Dutchmen among the passengers, most of whom were probably spies; but any designs they might have entertained of making some sort of raid on the Chief’s day-cabin in the hopes of getting hold of his papers, was frustrated by the fact that we had a gunboat’s crew on board, going out to relieve men whose time had expired on some small craft on the South African Station. These men were at once made use of as sentries, and so we were able to post a permanent sentry on Lord Roberts’ cabin door, as well as permanent orderlies, to be at his beck and call.
The voyage out was quite uneventful, and our steamer duly arrived at Cape Town on January 10th. The Commander-in-Chief took up his quarters in a very decent little house that had been reserved for him, and I personally settled down close by at the Mount Nelson Hotel. There was not much for the Aides-de-Camp to do while there, for the real work of the Headquarter Staff was the preparation for the advance to Bloemfontein, the entire transport service being reorganised and increased by Lord Kitchener. A few days after our arrival I was sent down to Simon’s Bay to inquire into some complaints that had been lodged by the Boer prisoners who were confined on board a transport that was anchored there. The complaints were absolutely frivolous and hardly worth inquiring into, but were rather amusing as giving an insight into the character of that curious creature whom the British Tommy invariably talked of as “Brother Boer.” Their principal grievance was that they were overcrowded. On inquiry I found out that the transport in question had brought 1200 British troops from England, and whenever it was the least rough all the lower main-deck ports had to be closed, and naturally the ship was under a full head of steam all the time she was making her passage through the tropics. Probably under those conditions the heat and want of air was very trying, but war is war, and discomforts must be expected. The Boer prisoners on board numbered only 440; every sort of ventilation could be freely opened while the ship swung round her anchors, and of course no steam was up. So I explained to the Boer officer who was the spokesman that what was good enough for 1200 British troops at sea was luxury for a handful of prisoners in harbour. He was a decent fellow, and agreed with me that there was no real cause for complaint, but went on to say that Boers were accustomed to the freedom of the veldt and felt the confinement very keenly. It then devolved on me to explain that our prisoners at Pretoria, living behind barbed wire, were also, not exactly, having the time of their lives. This seemed to come quite as a revelation to him, and of course I reported that they had nothing whatever to complain of, and the matter dropped.