And the time was at hand when Lumsden’s Horse were to take their plunge and emerge from it with the reputation of soldiers in whom trust could be placed from that day forward. The share they had in operations that extended over a front of nearly thirty miles, from Thaba ’Nchu to Ospruit, was comparatively small. But for them it was the most eventful episode of the campaign—their first fight, their passing of the threshold beyond which was the secret of more of human life than they had ever known. In that one day they were to look death in the face, to see comrades, the friends of their youth, fall beside them, to have thoughts of sorrow in their minds but no pang in their hearts. Grief was to come days, perhaps months afterwards, when a chance word or the touch of a hand might set the pent-up currents flowing in channels that war had closed. Above all, they were to know the British soldier as he is in fight—a creature of strange impulses, of wonderful tenderness, when he might be expected to show the roughest qualities with which habit has endowed him, and of sublime endurance. Writing after the plunge, one of Lumsden’s Horse thanks God that he had seen it all:
For such is the British Tommy—taken from the lowest classes, so our sixth-class paper editors take care to blazen forth. Drunken louts in the streets, not allowed into a decent theatre, knocked about if a bit drunk by an officious policeman—everything that is bad, in fact. Change the scene, and what do we see? Mile after mile of ‘the thin red line,’ now changed to ‘the dirty khaki rag’; the battered khaki helmet, Tommy’s only pillow at night; the coarse, hard ammunition boots. Dirt and vermin cover him from head to foot—no water to drink, much less to wash with—a heavy marching kit, rifle, and cartridges, and as for food, why, not enough to feed a dog. Ay! Many and many are the dogs that would have refused Tommy’s South African menu with turned-up noses. Overhead at times a scorching sun; at others a blinding, cold, blustering rain; and at night always the bleak, cold, north-west wind. March! March! March! On they go, bravely, truly, sturdily, hardly a grumble, while safely at home you have your collar-and-tie renegade telling us of the atrocities these brave men are committing. Lies! all lies, I say. I’ve met some of those people since I came back, and my one wish has been to have them out against a brick wall with six good brave Tommies to fire a volley. Yes. I am glad, ay, more than glad, spite of wounds and hardships, that I have seen our good brothers of the khaki as they ought to be seen—no swell uniforms there, no pipeclay, no shining cuirasses and polished helmets to ‘catch on’ with a non-military public. Ye gods, no! all khaki, khaki; all one great army, be it a Colonial, be it a London slum, or a Highland bracken born lot of men. They are all brothers in arms, one in object, one in deeds of bravery and devotion to an Empire.
That eloquent passage, written by Trooper Burn-Murdoch, gentleman and tea-planter, should be enough to silence the tongue of calumny and convince any unprejudiced mind that whatever war may do it does not brutalise. In illustration of that truth many other instances will have to be given before this narrative runs its course to an end.
Now, however, it is necessary to describe briefly the general scope of operations whereby Lumsden’s Horse were drawn, much sooner than they had any hope of, into their first fight. Attempts had been made by Generals Rundle, Ian Hamilton, and French to surround Boer forces that were retiring sullenly from their futile siege of Wepener. But De Wet was in command there, and his mobile ‘slimness,’ aided by secret information from Free State burghers, who, having taken the oath of neutrality, were allowed to live on their farms or to move about freely without any watch being kept on them, frustrated every attempt to hem in the commandos. General Brabant’s Colonial division, following Sir Leslie Rundle’s, was still some distance off, and General Pole-Carew’s retirement to Bloemfontein for fresh orders at this juncture unfortunately left a gap open between General French’s left and the force under Sir Ian Hamilton, which was by that time extended along the Modder valley near Sanna’s Post, facing north-east. Through this opening the Boers slipped back to the high ground round about Thaba ’Nchu. Pressed hard by French, they were driven from the southern and western spurs of these hills, but still clung to the commanding mountain itself, where they gathered reinforcements day by day. Then French ceased to press, and the turn came for Ian Hamilton to strike, in the hope that he might drive a wedge across the lower ridges between Thaba ’Nchu and Brandfort, which would not only tear the chain of Boer positions asunder, but also open the way for a combined movement by which their left wing, under De Wet, should be enveloped if he attempted to prolong his stand in the Thaba ’Nchu range. It was cleverly designed; but we all know what often happens with the best-laid plans, especially when there are spies free to move about without danger to themselves. It was at this phase of the extended operations that Sir Ian Hamilton began to advance towards Houtnek, where he found himself confronted by a formidable gathering of commandos under General Louis Botha, and they were being reinforced from all directions, the Boers having regained hope and courage from the presence of a leader whose reputation then stood incomparably high among them. Though the numerical strength and boldness of his enemies were something of a surprise to General Hamilton, he had in some measure prepared for the unforeseen by calling upon General Tucker to make a diversion by which the Boers under De la Rey’s command in Brandfort might be discouraged from sending reinforcements to Houtnek. With the Seventh Division, or rather in advance of it as a covering screen, the Mounted Infantry brigade under Colonel Henry was ordered to co-operate, supported by General Maxwell’s brigade of Infantry. Of the Mounted Infantry, to which a post of honour was thus assigned, the 8th Battalion, commanded by Colonel Ross, was to form the advance guard. Thus Lumsden’s Horse were destined in their first fight to bear the brunt of the attack if it should come; and, in high spirits at the prospect, they looked with an interest they had never felt before towards the rugged line of low kopjes far away across the broad plain with light from the setting sun full upon them. That the orders were thus made known to all ranks twelve hours before they could be acted on is a proof that they had not been drawn up on the spur of sudden emergency, and, indeed, Sir Ian Hamilton was only then feeling for his enemy in the direction of Houtnek. At this point the picturesque pen of the ‘Englishman’s’ correspondent goes on with the narrative:
On April 29 we got warning to be ready to take part in a general attack early the next morning. So we bustled round and got everything ready. At 5 P.M. I and two other men of my sub-section were ordered out on outlying picket, leaving Trooper Thelwall to saddle our three horses before daybreak as well as his own, when we were to march into camp again and get mounted and ready to start with the rest. So, just having time to get half a pint of tea and some dry bread, we hurried out on picket for the night. And that was, practically speaking, the last food I tasted until 8 o’clock the next night. Not what you could call ‘’igh livin’,’ is it? It was bitterly cold, and, what with the everlasting night wind and only one blanket, we pickets were not much troubled with sleep that night. However, at 5 o’clock in the morning of the 30th we rolled up our blankets and marched into camp, and at once set to work at tightening up girths, adjusting saddles and kits. I had just time to put some bread into my haversack, and half fill my horse’s nosebag with cartridges and also two or three priceless ‘smokes,’ when we had to mount. So away went all chances of breakfast that morning. Alas! some of us had no need for food and drink in the evening. Just as old Sol began to rise up over the kopjes we marched out of camp, up over the ridge, and down the other side towards the open veldt. Here we paused for a while to allow the other troops to join us. Taking advantage of this short halt, we got into our proper sub-sections, dismounted, and had a last look at our girths, and tightened up curbs, &c. Poor old mokes! How many of them, my own included, were fated never to see another day dawn! Colonel Lumsden now rode up to us and gave us a rough idea of what we were to do, and informed us that our B Troop was to have the place of honour, and that we were to take the lead. And, knowing us as he did, he had not the slightest doubt that we would not fail to distinguish ourselves, &c. To which our gallant ‘Oirish’ Captain Chamney began to reply in his usual Indian after-dinner style, that he felt proud of his troop, and fully conscious of the great honour that was bestowed upon us in being allowed to take the lead; and he sincerely hoped that we would do justice to the confidence bestowed on us. He would no doubt have continued in this style for some time had not our good old Major chipped in with his usual ‘down-in-his-boots’ aside: ‘Oh, that’s all right, Chamney; damn it, man, of course you will.’ And these were the last words I ever heard the good old man utter in this life.
CAPTAIN H. CHAMNEY
Good old Showers, gruff as they make ’em, but a true white man’s heart inside for all that. Never afraid to jump on an officer for all you were worth if you thought he deserved it; and after those long hot Indian parades, how many times have we heard your hearty laugh at the head of the camp mess-table! For seven years our Colonel, and the man who made the Surma Valley Light Horse second to none in India.
All the attacking forces being now mustered, we made a start and away we marched. For some part of the time our route lay alongside a pretty little lagoon, and then the road gradually lost itself in the great open veldt. How peaceful it all seemed that morning! The few cattle and sheep that were quietly grazing here and there on the scanty tussocks would casually lift up their heads and gaze at us, and, seeing that there were no strange dogs with us, would go on cropping the grass, though possibly a sheep or two would scuttle out of the way with a contemptuous wriggle of their tails. Time of war! one says—humbug! one could not believe it on that quiet morning. The fresh ozonised air, the soft, steady breeze, now pleasantly tempered by the bright morning sun; and there, by the doorway of the quiet little farmhouse, the farmer’s wife standing with her milk-pails all ready, while she laughingly makes passing remarks to her departing ‘guests.’
The only signs of war, maybe, are those few fences with their wires cut down; and these you would suppose had been broken down by some restless calves or light-hearted foal. From our ranks could be seen and smelt the little clouds of tobacco-smoke which rose up in the clear air like so many stray wandering bits of cumulus clouds, while back in the rear could be heard the quaintly sad airs of ‘Bearer Ganga Dīn’ and ‘Who’s dat a-callin’?’ as some of our musically inclined troopers gave vent unconsciously to their feelings. What a lovely, jolly morning that was! All those dire hardships, cold, hunger, and wet, we had known only too well; but to-day—light, warmth, and the indescribable freshness of the open veldt, while under us were our plucky Indians, Arabs, and Walers, fresh as English daisies and keen as the air we breathed.