It was stated that President Steyn was outside, to stimulate the burghers with his presence and eloquence. The news was interesting, and the hope was fairly general that no worse fate would be his than that of a prisoner of war. There were also some particulars of the Modder River fight; the Boers had been driven from their kopjes; hundreds had been shot; thousands made prisoners; and whips of guns captured. This was not quite a proper version of what happened at the Modder (it is questionable whether we were ever made acquainted with the actual facts); but we believed it all; it sounded well. One of the funny features of the siege in its earlier stages was the readiness on the one hand with which a practical community swallowed good news, however false; and the stern disinclination evinced on the other to be "taken in" by the truth when it chanced to leak out and happened to be disagreeable.
Such was the condition of affairs when forty-nine long days had crept by. As to the brightness of the immediate future no misgivings existed. The days would soon shorten to their normal duration, and be all the happier for the antecedent gloom. Relief could not in the nature of things be very far away. Ah, no; it never was; that was the pity of it—the irritant destined to deepen our disgust—to nourish our discontent. At Mafeking they were spared at least the galling consciousness of relief so near, and yet so far. The irritation, however, was not to be felt yet. We looked confidently to an early release—so confidently that the decadence of dinners did not distress us. We considered it of relatively little consequence that provisions were becoming scarce; they would last another fortnight "in a pinch," we thought. As for luxuries, we talked of them, and promised shortly to make up for lost time. The anticipated reunion between bread and butter was a sustaining thought. The Column might be trusted to carry with it a sufficiency of firkins to achieve that glorious end; and we were meanwhile content to be fastidious in our choice of jams, and to be the bane of our grocer's existence.
Chapter VIII
Week ending 9th December, 1899
For such comfort as preserved fruit could shed over the soul was still ours. It was not classed as a "necessary," and the retailers being free to charge freely for it could sell it at a price too "long" for the purses of the many. Dry bread is an unpalatable thing, and the new "Law's" loaf was superlative in that respect. The grocer was beginning to discriminate, so far as he dared, between his friends (his customers) and the casual purchaser, whose affected cordiality did not deceive the shrewd old wretch. Butter had ceased to be practical politics; fruit and vegetables were sorely missed. When existence is rendered trying by the scorching rays of a Kimberley sun, fruit and vegetables are essential to the preservation of health; but there was none preserved in the summer of the siege. Grapes grew in corrugated green-houses outside the doors of the houses, but there were no vineyards to speak of. The quality of the fruit, too, was poor; and though it was yet far from being ripe, it was guarded with a vigilance that made robbing a garden a suicidal proceeding. The indefatigable coolies—our not too green green-grocers—did contrive to get hold of a species of wild grape, no bigger nor sweeter than haws, and to sell them for two shillings a pound! Two pence could in normal times procure the best product of the vine; but these of course were siege grapes, and siege prices were charged for them, as in the matter of siege eggs, siege drinks, siege potatoes, siege everything—that the "Law" allowed. Morning lemons were never so badly needed; oranges would hardly suit the purpose—but they, too, were gone. Apples were out of the question; water-melon parties had ceased to be. The absence of the "Java" (guava) broke the Bantu heart. "'Ave a banana" was (happily) not yet composed, and gooseberries—Cape gooseberries do not grow on bushes. Small green things which lured one to colic were offered by the cool coolies for twopence each—a sum that would have been exorbitant for a gross had they not borne the hall-mark of siege peaches.
For vegetables, too, our livers waxed torpid, and our blood boiled in vain. The potato was gone; the benefits conferred on posterity by Sir Walter Raleigh were at length realised in a negative way. Miniature "Murphies" fetched four pence halfpenny each, while an adult member of the genus at ninepence was worth two of the little ones. Mr. Rhodes may have luxuriated on potatoes (cum grano salis!) but few others were so very Irish. The De Beers Company owned a large garden, and that this should have been given over to the hospital was a delicate consideration of which even the dyspeptic could not complain. Cabbages were a dream. Of cauliflowers a memory lingered. Soft words buttered no parsnips. Onions were "off"—so we went on weeping. Everything in the garden but some wizened carrots had withered away. Such carrots! small, cadaverous, brick-coloured things, no bigger than a cork, as dry, as masticable, and, still like a cork, with little save a smell to commend their indulgence. But like the donkeys that we were, we ate them every time!
Talking of corks reminds me of bottles, and the precious little that was in them. We had no whiskey; think of that, ye Banks and Braes! There were nice crystal brands in the hotel windows, but—I shall be dealing later with oils. Sceptical tipplers, whose every feature spelled whiskey, were reduced to the painful necessity of diluting their sodas with lime juice; and so strongly did the "claret" taste of timber that the beverage was adjudged a non-intoxicant with extraordinary unanimity! Port and sherry, being beyond our reach, were despised, like our neighbour's sour grapes. The publican, however, had good spirits still; Cape brandy (or "Smoke," as it was called) found a market at last, and swelled heads enormously. But if the signs and portents of a drought in beer and stout were to be trusted, the unkindest cut of all was yet to come. And it did come. In the thirsty clime of Kimberley the consumption of the brewer's goods was large; and in the restaurants, with bars attached, good meals were sold cheaply to facilitate the sale of the beer which "washed" the food down. When the drought came the proprietors of these delectable taverns promptly raised their charges by fifty per cent., albeit the value and the variety of the victuals had lessened. Men in receipt of good wages loved beer and indulged the passion freely. The addition of the Imperial allowances to their incomes had intensified their thirst. Then there were the unusual conditions under which they lived, the paucity of provisions, the great heat—all these things tended to damage temperance and to exalt the flowing bowl. A multitude suffered when beer and stout gave out. The tipplers grew pale and visibly thinner; nature made her exactions with unwonted abruptness. A certain degree of sympathy was felt for the Bacchanals, by none more sincerely than by the druggist—artful old quack! It was to him the sufferers had to turn, to such straits were they reduced. Drugs were booming, and the druggist, not satisfied with the normal hugeness of his profits, slipped into the fashion and fleeced all round with unprecedented flagrancy. A purgative proclamation—classing pills as "necessaries"—was called for, but it never came. Obese folk, fearful that their flesh was falling off in lumps, drank freely of cod liver oil. On the other hand, fragile creatures of delicate mould thought black tea not only cheaper but ever so much nicer. Of course, the poor chemist was not responsible for tastes. He had much to answer for; but he was really sorry for the nerves and the penury of the poor.
With Monday came three despatch-riders who reported that heavy fighting had taken place—somewhere; the authorities declined to tell us where. The Boers remained docile all day; the heat was oppressive, but their silence was more generally attributed to a tardy realisation of their position. The military were unusually alert and watchful. The public graciously approved of this watchfulness, but pooh-poohed the danger of invasion. We were tired hearing day after day that an attack on the town was to be made "to-night"; it was to be "taken" six nights out of every seven, the last being, if I mistake not, the one on which General French was feted at the Kimberley Club.
Elaborate arrangements were made on Tuesday for the better protection of our cattle. The quadrupeds, Dutch and English, were on the best of terms—a happy augury, surely, for the amity which would unite the bipeds of the land when the war was done. We had a batch of natives employed digging trenches for the cattle-guards. A patrol was at hand to nip in the bud any interference with the work which might be contemplated. If the Boers did interfere, so much the better; interference would involve a fight, and from a friendly tussle in the sun the patrol was not averse. On the south and west sides the enemy still laboured at their fortifications. We knew not what to make of this; it nonplussed us. We had ceased ascribing it to want of knowledge: for we had, reluctantly, let it down on us that the Boers knew as much of the Column's movements as we did ourselves. But of course we also knew that the Boer was a child in such matters as generalship and tactics.