When news of Black Week reached the United States, Theodore Roosevelt, himself of Dutch ancestry, soon to be president and now governor of New York, wrote to his friend Cecil Spring Rice in Persia:
I have been absorbed in interest in the Boer War. The Boers are belated Cromwellians, with many fine traits. They deeply and earnestly believe in their cause, and they attract the sympathy which always goes to the small nation. ... But it would be for the advantage of mankind to have English spoken south of the Zambesi just as in New York; and as I told one of my fellow knickerbockers the other day, as we let the Uitlanders of old in here, I do not see why the same rule is not good enough in the Transvaal.... the fighting will be hard and bloody beyond doubt. But the end is inevitable.12
Difficult as it was for the British government to absorb the shock of the three military defeats, the prospect of worse to come set off alarm bells throughout the higher reaches of Whitehall. Buller’s message to White suggesting surrender sent shivers down ministerial spines. The public was not told, but the Queen through her secretary expressed her sentiments to Lansdowne: “I thought it quite impossible to abandon Ladysmith.” Salisbury, Lansdowne, and his colleagues agreed, and Buller was told, “Her Majesty’s Government regard abandonment and consequent surrender of White’s force as a national disaster of the greatest magnitude.”
In Ladysmith itself, not only White but all of his officers were incensed at the supposition that they might surrender, for such an idea had not occurred to them. Some were bitter. Ian Hamilton wrote in his diary: “After all, a nation which possesses a Roberts and a Buller and selects the latter for a vital undertaking deserves almost any misfortune which it is possible to imagine.”13 Roberts’s name came to the minds of politicians in London as well. He had taken pains to see that it would. On 8 December, just before Black Week, he had written to Lansdowne from Dublin:
I am much concerned to hear of the very gloomy view which Sir Redvers Buller takes of the situation in South Africa....
As I have, I think, often remarked to you, it is impossible to gauge a general’s qualities until he has been tried, and it is a regretable fact that not a single commander in South Africa has ever had an independent command in the field. It is the feeling of responsibility which weighs down most men, and it seems clear ... that this feeling is having its too frequent effect on Buller. He seems to me overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task imposed upon him, and I confess that the tone of some of his telegrams causes me considerable alarm. From the day he landed in Cape Town he seemed to take a pessimistic view of our position, and when a Commander allows himself to entertain evil forebodings, the effect is inevitably felt throughout the army.
I feel the greatest possible hesitation and dislike to expressing my opinion thus plainly, and nothing but the gravity of the situation and the strongest sense of duty would induce me to do so, or to offer—as I now do—to place my services at the disposal of the Government.
The difficulty of making this offer is greatly increased by the fact that, if it is accepted, I must necessarily be placed in supreme command, and to those who do not know me I may lay myself open to misconception. But the country cannot afford to run any avoidable risk of failure. A serious reverse in South Africa would endanger the Empire.14
This was a remarkably candid letter, and timely. Lansdowne showed it to Salisbury, but the sixty-nine-year-old prime minister thought that sixty-seven-year-old Roberts was too old. Lansdowne therefore politely thanked Roberts, said he would keep his offer in mind, and pointed out that Buller had not yet had an opportunity to show what he could do and that he might “achieve a brilliant success on the Tugela within the next two or three days.” Lansdowne’s letter was dated 10 December. Just six days later—when the news of Stormberg, Magersfontein, and Colenso had reached London—Roberts looked like a prophet.
When Buller’s report of his message to White arrived, the government lost no time deciding what must be done. Salisbury hurriedly met with Lansdowne and a few other cabinet members and, without consulting Wolseley, the army’s commander-in-chief, or the Queen, decided to send Lord Roberts to supersede Buller as head of the army in South Africa. To back him and to overcome Salisbury’s objection to his age it was decided that Lord Kitchener, forty-nine, should go out with him as his chief of staff. Lansdowne telegraphed Roberts in Dublin to come at once to London and to be prepared to leave immediately for South Africa.
Roberts received Lansdowne’s message on the same day that a telegram from Buller was handed him telling that his son had been seriously wounded at Colenso. Torn between anxiety for his son and elation at the prospect of a high command, Roberts left for London. He arrived on Sunday, 17 December, and that same day met with Salisbury, Lansdowne, and other ministers at No. 10 Downing Street; he was offered and accepted the appointment as commander-in-chief of the largest army England in its history had ever sent from its shores.
The telegram announcing that Freddy had died of his wounds reached Dublin that afternoon and was forwarded to Lansdowne, who located Roberts late in the afternoon at Mackeller’s Hotel and broke the news to him: “The blow was almost more than he could bear, and for a moment I thought he would break down, but he pulled himself together. I shall never forget the courage he showed, or the way in which he refused to allow this disaster to turn him aside from his duty.”15
The following week was a busy one for Roberts; fortunately so, work being a blessing in time of grief. One of his final duties was to see the Queen at Windsor, and on 22 December she wrote in her journal: “Saw Lord Roberts after tea. He knelt down and kissed my hand. I said how much I felt for him. He could only answer, ‘I cannot speak of that, but I can of anything else.’ ”
The following day he went with his wife and daughter to Southampton, there to board the Dunottar Castle, the same ship which had carried Buller to South Africa. On hand to see him off was a crowd of the great and famous as well as the unknown and the curious: “A dense and unmanageable crowd, with danger of being squashed,” the Prince of Wales grumpily reported to his mother. It was a grey, overcast winter’s day, and Robert, standing on deck, was dressed in a black coat and a top hat, which he raised to the cheering crowd. The Times described him as a “little, vigorous, resolute, sorrowful man in deep mourning.” His farewells said, the well-wishes of the crowd acknowledged, he turned to pace the deck, doubtless to think of South Africa, where his son now lay in his grave and where his country expected him to turn defeat into victory, the greatest challenge he had ever faced.
ACT II
18
LORD ROBERTS AND LORD KITCHENER
Britain’s two greatest generals in the late Victorian era, rivals for military glory and honours, were Garnet Wolseley, “our only general,” and Frederick Roberts, “our other general.” Each had but one eye—Wolseley had lost his in the Crimea and Roberts his as a result of “brain fever”—and each had a peculiar aversion—Wolseley could not stand the sight of raw meat and Roberts was afraid of cats—but here all similarities ended. What Roberts thought of Wolseley is unknown; Wolseley thought Roberts a “cute, little, jobbing showman,” “a snob,” “a scheming little Indian,” and “a man of whose abilities I have a poor opinion.... a very inferior fellow.” But Wolseley met Roberts only once, his opinions were biased, and certainly his was a minority view.
Lord Rawlinson thought Roberts was “the greatest and most loveable man I have ever known.” Young Churchill was impressed with him, and L. S. Amery called him “the greatest British soldier of the century between Waterloo and the world wars.” Bron Herbert in The Times History wrote:
His unaffected geniality and kindliness won the hearts of all officers who served with him, while his personal gallantry, his success, and his genuine and untiring interest in the welfare of the common soldier endeared “Bobs” to the army as a whole.... Of the qualities essential to generalship he was gifted with the imaginative intuition necessary to divine the movements and the intentions of the enemy, with the
courage of his own judgement, and with the true thirst for victory. . . .1
Field Marshal Frederick Sleigh Roberts, first Baron Roberts of Kandahar (1832–1914), known as “Bobs” and frequently as “little Bobs” because he stood only 5 feet 3 inches tall,f was a son of General Sir Abraham Roberts born in Cawnpore. British children born in India were usually shipped off to Britain to grow up, and Frederick Roberts was carried there when he was two years old. After Eton, Sandhurst, and Adiscombe (the military college of the Honourable East India Company), he was gazetted at the age of nineteen to the Bengal artillery and returned to India. He served first under his father on the Northwest Frontier, and then, when the great Indian mutiny shook the Empire, he saw much active service and won the Victoria Cross in a cavalry charge.
Later he took part in the Umbeyla Campaign on the Northwest Frontier, was sent to Abyssinia for the war against the Emperor Theodore, and to the Northeast Frontier for the arduous Lushai Campaign. During the Second Afghan War he was given command of one of the three invading columns, and for his victory at Peiwar Kotal he was promoted major general, knighted (KCB), and given the thanks of Parliament.
After a lull the hostilities resumed and Roberts again led an army into Afghanistan, defeating the Afghans at Charasia and occupying Kabul. He then captured the imagination of the British public and became a popular hero by marching 300 miles south with an army of 10,000 men for the relief of besieged Kandahar. A special Kabul-to-Kandahar medal was struck: Roberts was awarded a GCB, created a baronet, and made commander-in-chief of the Madras army. He fought no more battles but was made a baron in 1892 and three years later became a field marshal. He was commander-in-chief in Ireland, an honourable post in which to conclude a fine military career, when he was called to take the field in South Africa.
Roberts was, all things considered, the best choice the British government could have made from among the eight field marshals and nineteen full generals on the active list. Some had never been in battle or had seen little active service; others had, in their day, been fine battlefield commanders—Wolseley, Evelyn Wood, William Lockhart—but all were over sixty and most had not survived their years of campaigning with their faculties unimpaired. Of those senior to Buller, only the Duke of Connaught might have been as good as Roberts, but there was great reluctance on the part of the politicians to expose members of the royal family to the dangers of the battlefield, and the Duke’s royal blood had always been a hindrance to his career. Even had the government been willing ignominiously to jettison Buller—which they were not—there were no military geniuses among the more junior generals. Aging but agile and tough Little Bobs was not only the logical choice but practically the only choice for the command in South Africa.
By accepting the appointment, Roberts put his own reputation on the line. Certainly he had more to lose than to gain. By his intellect, gallantry, character, and a reasonable amount of luck he had won for himself the Victoria Cross, a peerage, and a field marshal’s baton; he was also one of the most popular of Britain’s soldiers. There was little then in the form of honours or acclaim which success could bring him, while there existed the possibility that his military reputation might be shattered. Although he had not heard a shot fired in anger for twenty years, Roberts, unlike Buller, had no doubts about his own abilities and he was absolutely confident that he would succeed.
Wolseley was furious when told of Roberts’s appointment, and he predicted that Buller, his protégé, would resign as soon as he heard that he was to be superseded. Lansdowne apparently thought so too and intimated as much in breaking the news to Buller. But instead of being disgruntled, Buller seemed actually relieved that the responsibilities of commander-in-chief were to be lifted from his shoulders. From Camp Frere he telegraphed a confidential message to Lansdowne:
I have for some time been convinced that it is impossible for one man to direct active military operations in two places distant 1,500 miles from each other. ... Lord Lansdowne is kind enough to suggest that the decision may be distasteful to me, but I trust that any decision intended for the interests of the Empire will always be acceptable to me.2
Before leaving Southampton Roberts telegraphed to Buller asking him to stay on the defensive until he arrived. From Gibraltar and Madeira he sent similar messages. The voyage itself was not pleasant; Roberts was a poor sailor. He occupied his time reading books on South Africa and the American Civil War. At Gibraltar he was joined by Kitchener, who had come up from the Sudan.
Roberts had met Kitchener once before, only eight months earlier in Ireland at the suggestion of Henry Rawlinson. The short, kindly Roberts and the tall, cold Kitchener seemed to take a liking to each other, though it is hard to see how or why. George Younghusband pointed out their dissimilarities:
Lord Roberts was the modern Bayard, chevalier sans peur et sans reproche [sic]. Lord Kitchener was fashioned more on the lines of Bismarck. Both were born British, but one developed into the highest type of English gentleman, the other acquired more Teutonic characteristics. It would therefore be somewhat difficult for an honest admirer of Lord Roberts to be an equally honest admirer of Lord Kitchener.3
Horatio Herbert Kitchener, first Baron Kitchener of Khartoum (1850—1916), had only recently become a hero by conquering the Sudan. He was in many respects a peculiar hero for the British to embrace, for he lacked compassion and his eccentricities were not endearing. Cold, calculating, ruthless, and arrogant, he had great energy and was driven by a fierce ambition. He never loved a woman, and the only people in the world for whom he ever exhibited any affection were two of his young aides, one of whom disappointed him by marrying. He formed few friendships and made no acquaintances except with those whom he felt might be helpful, and these he did not hesitate to turn against when they were no longer useful and when it suited his purpose to do so. He had risen in the army by virtue of his intelligence and his energetic devotion to the tasks assigned to him—and in spite of the fact that few of his colleagues liked him. He did not cultivate the friendship of those beneath him in social or military rank, and he never spoke to a common soldier except to give an order. He was never known to allow love or hate or even his likes and dislikes to interfere with his decisions; personal feelings never kept him from doing what was best for his own interests. He could, and frequently did, lose his temper, raging and screaming, revealing that behind his great thick moustache and stern, impassive face there lurked a highly emotional nature. He preferred things to people or ideas, and as soon as he had the means he began to collect objets d’art, not hesitating to add to his collections by looting when opportunity offered.
Like many Victorian soldiers, Kitchener was the son of a soldier. As a boy he attended school for five years in Switzerland, where he became fluent in French, then went on to the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, obtaining his commission in the Royal Engineers in January, 1871. Military duties occupied very little of his career, for he spent most of his time in engineering work, mostly surveying, in Cyprus and Palestine. His first real experience with troops was late in 1882 when he took an appointment as second-in-command of the cavalry in the new Egyptian army Britain created after destroying the old one and occupying the country. He learned Arabic and served as an intelligence officer during the unsuccessful attempt to rescue Gordon from Khartoum. After more survey work in East Africa he was appointed governor general of the Eastern Sudan.
On 17 January 1888 Kitchener fought his first battle when he marched against Osman Digna, one of the best of the Dervish generals. It was not a well-conducted operation. His force was soundly trounced, and he himself was severely wounded in the jaw. After a number of other appointments in Egypt, Kitchener, although only a colonel in the British army, was appointed sirdar, or commander-in-chief, of the Egyptian army in 1892. Sir Evelyn Baring (later Lord Cromer), who had recommended him, was impressed not with his military abilities but with his sense of economy; he described him as “a sound man of business.” There is no doubt that he was a go
od organizer, and although he kept his army in rags to save money, he put together a sizable force of well-trained Egyptians and southern Sudanese. When in 1898 Britain decided to invade the Sudan in Egypt’s name, he at last had the chance to achieve the glory he craved.
Exhibiting great logistical skill, he moved an Anglo-Egyptian army into the heart of the Sudan and at the battle of Omdurman mowed the Dervishes down with his rifles, cannons, and machine guns. For this he was raised to the peerage, received the thanks of Parliament, was feted, and was sent back as governor general of the Sudan. He was serving in this post when he was asked to go to South Africa with Roberts. Although his title was chief of staff and he was not a very senior general (he ranked 41st among major generals on the 1899 Army List), he really served as second-in-command and Roberts was to use him as his alter ego.
On 10 January 1900 Roberts and Kitchener arrived in Cape Town. The problems of the British in South Africa had not diminished while they were on the high seas: Gatacre was struggling to maintain his position; rebellion in the Cape midlands was still a threat; French had tried and failed to wrench Colesburg from the forces of Christiaan de Wet; Methuen was still sitting on the Modder River unable to advance; Ladysmith, Kimberley, and Mafeking were still besieged. The only encouraging factor, but an important one, was that men, guns, and supplies were pouring into South Africa at a prodigious rate and the fighting strength of the forces had risen to 86,730 men and 270 guns. The men came not just from Great Britain itself, but from all her “white colonies”; from India, Ceylon, and smaller possessions came groups of white colonials. Several thousand Indians also came to South Africa to serve in noncombatant roles.
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