In the afternoon, two visitors entered the city. One had little to tell, but the other made amends for his companion's taciturnity with a graphic, Othellonian description of the dangers he had passed, and his wondrous experiences for many days and nights. He had, it appeared, a regard for Mr. Rhodes, (who is less popular in the Free State than in Kimberley), and the Government across the border had arraigned him on the charge of being "a Rhodes man" (whatever that is). For this high crime and misdemeanour he had been sentenced to three years' imprisonment. But the Rhodes man resented the injustice, and, with his friend, contrived to escape. After a series of peripatetic adventures they were more dead than alive when the head-gear of De Beers burst upon their view. The spectacle revivified them, and with a desperate rally they crawled undetected through the Boer lines, to an asylum in which they were glad to find even horseflesh to eat.
Wednesday was in no way eventful; lassitude had gripped the people. This was the more noticeable in that our friends outside appeared to be uncommonly vigorous. They devoted great attention to their redoubts, to strengthening them, and conducted themselves like men who were sanguine of the fall of Kimberley. They bombarded us lightly in the afternoon, on the chance of stretching hors-de-combat a unit of the garrison—not more than one or two, as they had no special desire to prejudice the appeal they felt sure we must soon make for food. They did not want that consummation delayed a moment longer than was necessary. It would leave them free to establish railway communication between Kimberley and Bloemfontein; they had such a scheme in contemplation.
All these things, however, were now of secondary interest; it was the horseflesh peril that held the field. The masses were still determined never to submit to such an ordinance on the eve of the twentieth century; the innovation was too horrible. But the military, undaunted by popular opposition, were bent on making the horse acceptable; and their next move was to equalise the proportions of the two species that constituted a ration. The effect of this little twist of the screw was to reduce our meat ration (nobody allowed that horseflesh was meat!) to two ounces. The ounces from the ribs of the tougher animal were left severely alone—by the majority of the people. On the other hand, controversialists of strong anti-vegetarian views were forced to experiment. Their verdicts differed. Some of them knew a little about cooking, and they were "not surprised." Others, who knew nothing of cooking, re-harnessed the horse at once; while a third school, expert in the culinary art, triumphantly overcame their prejudices, but were afraid openly to smack their lips. Unanimous approval or toleration was never forthcoming, and, for myself, I am most inclined to respect the judgment of the heretics who pronounced the equine dish "as good as the meat that was going." It was certainly not better, and to make it universally acceptable it would require to have been very much better.
On one "point" agreement obtained; it was admitted on all sides that the horse tasted sweet. One might suppose the adjective to be a recommendation; but it was not so; quite the contrary (the nearer the bone, etc. does not apply to a saddle of horseflesh). And yet there were people who liked their porridge sweet! who, after wasting their allowance of sugar in it, would go running about the streets to borrow a little sugar for their tea. Had it been practicable to utilise a little horse-essence for the tea, all would be well. But it would hardly do. Nobody ventured even to hint at the adoption of such a course to a neighbour; with borrowing rampant it was undesirable to be on other than amicable terms with the lady next door.
Time passed, and our antipathy to horseflesh abated not a jot. It did not improve on acquaintance, we were told by those who tried it, while the self-respecting persons who would not so demean themselves were no less bitter in their diatribes. It was useless to argue that the horse was a "clean" animal. He was deemed too useful, too tough, too sinewy, too hard-working to be digestible. We could not connect a horse-chop with what was fit for human consumption. Most of us indulgently spared the butcher the trouble of weighing it; we preferred—with an air of dignity—to take the two ounces that civilisation sanctioned, and to forego the rest. And there were numbers who did not consider it worth while enduring a certain jostling for the right half of their ration; it was not worth it—and they might get the wrong half! The meat man did not like the boycott at all; he wanted to get rid of his surplus sirloins, and the asceticism of those who preferred to thrive on black tea enabled him to invite the unparticular people to pick and choose the rib—the equine rib—they liked best. The authorities, to do them justice, had acted straightforwardly in differentiating between the two animals; no deception in the way of palming off the one for the other was permitted. But in the confusion things got mixed; and the poor butcher, who was only human, succumbed in spite of himself to strong temptation. Whether he was governed by the motive of doing a little wrong for sake of a great right is beside the question. The great right was done. In veterinary circles the meat dispenser was relished as a rather daring "perverter," while hundreds of smart people began to enjoy their pseudo-beef. And when afterwards informed of the "mistake" they did not seem to care, but went on serenely pandering to the butcher's genial ambidextrousness.
On Thursday a good many shells fell in the neighbourhood of Scholtz's Nek. With an energy which few had hitherto been disposed to give him credit for possessing, the enemy continued to engross himself in establishing, as it were, a fixity of tenure. This growing feeling of security which animated our friends was most depressing. True, it was something to hear that the Boers at Ladysmith had been repulsed with heavy loss—if it were true. It was something; but it was not much. Privations had developed our bumps of Provincialism; the claims of Empire took a secondary place, as also did the fortunes of Ladysmith. One authority stated that forty-five thousand Boers had been killed or wounded in Natal. But these figures, to be correct, would necessarily have embraced the warriors outside Kimberley—who were much alive! The figures were afterwards reduced to four, and eventually to two. But these important amendments were not proposed and carried for weeks after the events to which they related, by which time we were so deep in the slough of despond over something else that we could not sink deeper. We were still in the dark as to the progress of the campaign. No accurate accounts of the disasters, mishaps, and reverses that marked its opening stages were placed before us. Brief and garbled references to Stormberg, Colenso, and Nicholson's Nek were allowed by "Law" to illumine the columns of the Press—getting lightly treated as trifles of no consequence. There existed a small, astute minority who hazarded unpleasant opinions of these "trifles." Our Teutonic friends candidly expressed the view that England, to save her Empire, must shortly sue for peace; but though they were just as anxious as anybody else to see the Column come in, too much weight was not attached to what foreign fellows said. The Advertiser, too, though ever sanguine in its editorial columns, was sometimes indiscreet in its humour. It gave us, for example, an anecdote anent the utterances of a certain prominent Boer, which was in no wise calculated to allay the unrest prevalent since Magersfontein. The Boers, he said, were willing to make peace at their own price, and that price included a full recognition of their Independence, an indemnity of twenty millions of money, and a perquisite in the shape of Natal for the Transvaal. For the Free State it was stipulated that the border should be widened to admit Kimberley back to the fold. These were extravagant terms; they were amusing, as amusement goes—or might go in the ordinary trend of things. But when coupled with other symptoms—the misfortunes of the army, the reticence of the authorities, the uncanny demureness of the fourth estate—they were not conducive to peace of mind. Had there been aught that was good to tell it would have been proclaimed with glowing candour; the "new diplomacy" would have exercised its sway in riotous triumph. The Military, it was conceded, knew everything. Unanimity obtained on that point. But it stopped there. On the question of the Colonel's reticence, its cause, effect, wisdom, or unwisdom, discord was rife. Acute ones had hit the nail on the head, but they could not drive it home. Every man, or set of men, had his or their own peculiar theory to expound. The army, some said, was marching on Bloemfontein with a view to expediting our relief by forcing the Boer back to defend his own State. Against this it was maintained that Kimberley was outside the ambit of the army's high and mighty consideration. Others argued that the Colonel's policy of "mum" was mainly intended as a protest against the traffic in "Specials." We were all weary; the strain was weakening our mental faculties; the most sensible and philosophic cherished the queerest thoughts. As a cynic observed, one night at souchong, it took a siege to test one's intelligence—and it tried the cynics as much as the non-intellectual. All honour to those gentlemen—lay and clerical—who by dint of hard work and in doing good preserved their equilibrium. We had, on Thursday, an instance of their worth in the establishment of a cook-house to supply the native population with cooked rations. This was a praiseworthy innovation, for wood and such fuel as Mars permitted to be combustible were extremely scarce. The native had been cured of his weakness for the dismemberment of mahogany; indirectly the cooking-depot warded off a "relapse," and was altogether an Institution creditable to its founders.
Friday came and went unmarked by incident of note; but no; we were told—it was something new to be told anything—that a Cape dorp called Kuruman had thrown up the sponge. The place had been poorly garrisoned, and the end was not unexpected—in Official quarters. We protested against the military habit of publishing things we did not want to know, while all knowledge of more important events was kept hermetically sealed in one or half a dozen heads. We were not altogether consistent in this, but—no matter. Saturday wound up the unlucky thirteenth week of our sorrows. It saw us emaciated, thirsty, and filled to satiety with the romance of isolation. It found us irascible, contumacious, with an aptitude for fluent swearing at the tales (of how light we had grown) unfolded by the weighing-machine. It found us in lucid intervals conjuring up visions of a beer saturnalia when—alas! when the barrels were full again. It heard us howling against horseflesh and the devilish ingenuity of him who discovered a precedent for roasting it; it heard the chorus, "where is the Column?" and the mocking echo answering "where!" It heard many divergent opinions as to what the Column was going to do; some contending that it was waiting to be re-inforced by the "Sixth Division"; more dictating with fiery rancour that it was for the "Seventh Division" the Column waited; another insisting that the "Seventh Division" was operating a thousand miles away—and all of us knowing about as much of the Sixth or Seventh Division's movements as Plato did of ping-pong! The need of Army reform was much felt and talked of. But there was behind this conflict of tongues a weary but firm determination to keep unfurled at all costs the flag of no surrender.