Irene—that’s where Lumsden’s Horse have been putting in time since Lord Roberts supplanted Paul Kruger in the jurisdiction of the town and in the hearts of the people of Pretoria. Irene is not so called because of any resemblance it bears to the Irene of the classics. For of all the forsaken places which it has pleased Providence to dot down on this earth of ours Irene is the most forsaken. Perhaps the Boers, in their cunning, calculated that by giving it a name like music its reproach in the land might be less. The predominating feature of the scenery in Irene is the railway. That, with rare persistence for a Transvaal railway, runs right through the place in a straight line. The late Government of this country knew a lot about railways. A crow might have done the distance between, say, Bloemfontein and Pretoria in 250 miles, but it takes the railway 500 miles. And each mile cost as many hundred pounds to build. The Government fell in with the contractor’s miscalculation. The railway is full of curves, elegant but unnecessary, and the Government—garib admi, sahib! Huzoor, bucksheesh!
Near the station stood a culvert so big that it deserved to be called a bridge. There the Boers had placed a charge of dynamite. The dynamite went off pop, and the bridge, the embankment, a section of the river, and a large slice of the scenery became as naught. Then as Lord Roberts swept north he dropped a Sapper or two—no orders, no need of any. But in three days trains as long as Chowringhee skipped over where the bridge had been, and only the two Sappers trembled for the safety of their bag o’ tricks. No Tommy ever doubts the inventions of a Sapper. And, despite the absent-mindedness attributed to him, Tommy is a man ever suspicious of the doings of his neighbour. But everybody knows about Sappers and their wonderful works.
Hence it was that Lumsden’s Horse went to Irene. The powers that had newly begun to be in Pretoria said we were to do steady Horatio, without any theatrical business, to that bridge, while the Sappers slung things about and made it pucca. After three weeks of guarding this babe of the Royal Engineers the truth dawned upon Lumsden’s Horse that they were on lines of communication. ’Twas no place for them, thought they, but the authorities had their own designs, and Lumsden’s Horse were spread out to such places as Zurfontein, Kalfontein, Oliphantfontein, Springs, &c., where the railway had been foolish enough to risk itself in the air and endanger its existence thereby, for the Boers are death and dynamite on everything in the shape of a bridge. However, while Lumsden’s Horse took care of those places no Boers ventured to disturb the peace, though they played the devil with them when we had gone.
Troopers who had not been spoilt by luxurious idleness as prisoners of war in Pretoria took a less cynical view of their situation at Irene until the monotony of it began to depress them. Notwithstanding their disappointment at having to leave Pretoria behind them before they had a chance of discovering how illusive was its outward show of plenty, they soon became reconciled to the fate that deprived them of a share in the garrison duties which would have seemed but a dull substitute for the festivities and celebrations that imagination had conjured up as a natural sequence of a triumphal entry into the Boer capital. On discovering that the surrender of Pretoria had not brought peace appreciably nearer, the correspondent of the ‘Indian Daily News’ wrote quite cheerfully:
We saw very little of the town, as, after waiting near the racecourse for about two hours, we were, much to our disgust, marched off to a station called Irene, about ten miles down the line, where we were to be put on lines of communication. Our hopes of a bit of a spin in the town after the toilsome march up were therefore blasted, and growling was more or less general, naturally enough. I think our tempers were not improved by the fact that the road out was a mass of dust, which kept going down our throats and into our eyes till one could hardly speak or see. Once in camp and settled down, things wore a very different appearance, however. Irene is a nicely wooded place, with a beautiful stream of water running just handy—in fact, a perfect camping ground; just close by is situated the model farm of the Transvaal. The grounds are very extensive, and fruit and vegetables of all sorts are grown. There is also a large fenced-in enclosure, where deer, hartebeeste, and other animals run wild. We stayed at Irene two days, and then the 8th Mounted Infantry, accompanied by three sections of B Company, went on to Kalfontein, a station about ten miles further south, leaving A Company and No. 3 Section B Company to garrison Irene. Arriving at Kalfontein late in the evening, we camped about a couple of miles from the railway station till next day, when our company moved into the station compound. We parted with the 8th Mounted Infantry here, they being sent to various stations down the line, and sorry we were to lose our old friends. Kaalfontein railway station is surrounded by nice trees, under which we kept our horses and made ourselves at home. Knowing that this would be our station for some time, we laid in a stock of pots and pans collected from the empty farmhouses, of which there were several in the vicinity, and did our cooking in pucca style. Ducks, geese, and turkeys, to say nothing of cocks and hens, besides our rations of mutton and beef, kept us going merrily, and groceries, &c., were obtainable from a few storekeepers, who paid us visits once a week. It was not surprising, therefore, that after a month of this sort of thing, with comparatively light work, after the rough time we had been having on the march up, the appearance of the men all round improved considerably, chubby rosy cheeks and well-filled-out bodies taking the place of hollow sunken-in features and more or less meagre frames. The weather, though bitterly cold in the nights and early mornings, and very warm as a rule during the days, was thoroughly enjoyable, and accounted in a great measure, no doubt, for the improved state of most of the men’s health. Our work consists in patrolling the line south of Irene, and also the country round on every side, and we also supply men daily for observation posts in various directions.
The life we lead is, for the most part, a peaceful one, though in examining farms and scouring the country round, which we do in parties of six, under an officer as a rule, there is always the chance of being potted by the wily Boer. This has happened on three occasions during our stay, our men being fired upon at close range, and having to flee for their lives. None of us was touched, but the bullets came pretty close most times. These small patrols, by the way, are, I think, the most unsatisfactory part of one’s work, looked at from a personal point of view. One stands every chance of being shot, and knows that immediately one is fired at it is a case of turning and riding for dear life, without a chance of retaliation, or at any rate immediate retaliation, as the Boers always outnumber us and hold the positions on these occasions.
Most of the farms round about Kalfontein are unoccupied, the farmers and their families evidently having left in haste, only carrying away a few necessaries with them; but some of their houses have been left in charge of the Boer Memsahibs, the Sahibs having gone on a man-shooting expedition with the nearest commando, or, perhaps, being Commandants themselves. A case in point is that of Commandant Erasmus, who has a large farm about seven miles from here, where he has left his wife and five or six comely daughters. Needless to say, this is a favourite patrol, though the girls are shy and retiring, and the old lady waxes very wroth when approached with a view to doing a deal in sheep, saying she has only enough to keep herself and family going, doubtless including papa when he pays them his periodical visit by stealth during the night.
Another trooper takes up the narrative with a sigh of regret for the things that cannot be got at Boer farms for love or money:
We are all languishing for an iced whisky peg and a decent meal, and often wonder whether we shall enjoy either again. Our work has been no picnic, and, though we are all as enthusiastic over it as ever, I must admit our experiences have been many and hard. We have dwindled down in numbers, too, through casualties and sickness, and our clothing is showing signs of wear and tear. The spick-and-span stage has long since vanished, and a wash once a week is a luxury. Some had grown quite respectable—disrespectable I might say—beards, but the Colonel has a rooted antipathy to hirsute growth on the chin. We have also had some changes. Trooper Percy Smith has obtained a commission in the Berkshires, but pro tem. is doing duty with the 8th Mounted Infantry; Trooper Huddleston (a cousin of Lady Roberts and brother to the E.I.R. Traffic Manager) has been appointed Assistant-Commissioner of Police in Kroonstad, while Lieutenant Pugh fills a similar office at Heilbron.
We have been cut off from our mails for more than a month, and are very anxious to see the letters that have accumulated somewhere for us. Our doings, I expect, have been telegraphed to India as they occurred, for there is a plethora of newspaper correspondents following in the wake of the army and with Headquarters—Lionel James represents the ‘Times,’ and has been to see his Indian friends.