At last, in late September three letters from Caleb come at once. It seems the postal service out there is quite unreliable. But the letters are not for me alone, rather to the two of us, to Lottie and me. Of course, this is how it would be. I could not hide letters from Africa in this house from Lottie or anyone. Caleb knows that. So we go to Lottie’s bedroom and she opens them, the elder of us, the sister. I read over her shoulder, searching for clues to his love for me, a message for our future.
Senekal,
Orange Free State
31 May 1900
My dear Lottie and Liza,
Thank you for your letter and photograph. You both look very pretty. I am sorry not to have written at length to you as yet. We have been on the go for months now, what with training and the voyage and setting up things over here. I hope to remedy this now with a description of our first major action, at Biddulphsberg. We have been on the edge of a few skirmishes – and our lads got very frustrated by the lack of action – but this is the first large-scale battle I have fought in. And as you can see from my handwriting, I made it through all right.
I am in the 33rd (East Kent) Company, attached to the 11th Battalion Imperial Yeomanry. This may not mean much to you ladies, but it does work out that I have several Men of Kent about me. We are currently fighting alongside such broad notions of what makes a man British, including the Grenadier Guards, Scots Guards and East Yorks. On Monday, 28 May our British columns under the command of General Rundle numbered around 4,000 and we left Senekal at 1 p.m., moving in an easterly direction for about eight miles. Even on this short march, some men had very bad boots and had to fall out for a while, footsore. We were heading between Sandspruit and Quarriekop to a big kopje on the veldt. (You probably know by now from newspaper reports that this means a hill on the African plain. Kopje is a charming word that means ‘little head’. A nice language all round, Dutch.)
We halted for the night about four miles from our destination. Our objective was to give some heat to the Boers around there. I was immediately assigned outpost duty which lasted all night. I spent hours looking out across the misty land, the odd hill breaking the aspect. You could call it dull country, with the same squat farms and hillocks the only interest in hundreds of miles, each one merely serving to make it all seem more lonely. But the skies are enormous and impressive, and the colours on the veldt change every hour of the day with the rising and falling of the light, and it has its own rough loveliness. Some of the moths are splendid, with one landing on my boot six inches across the wings. We see foreign creatures like snakes, scorpions, centipedes and lizards scuttling about, yet also more English familiars such as hares, rabbits and pheasants, to take the edge off the strangeness. ‘Arouse’ next morning at 4 a.m., then all the tents were struck and packed and we sat on the ground eating breakfast in darkness, but the dawn comes so quickly here it was broad daylight once we’d finished.
We moved on at 6 a.m. on Tuesday, 29 May, advancing towards the kopje. Within 3,000 yards the two Boer big guns opened on artillery to our left. Once you’ve seen the smoke of the big gun there is a worrisome interval of about ten seconds before something happens. Then you hear the boom of the report, then the whine of the shell which turns quickly into a horrible scream. But hearing the thing coming makes no earthly difference to you, as you have no idea where it will land until the red earth explodes beside you. We went down the slope towards the guns. We couldn’t see anyone, but straight away were fired upon very fierce, from all sides it seemed. Bullets buzzed like wasps about our heads. As the Boers have no parapets it is almost impossible to see where they are firing from, as well as the fact that they were using Mausers which emit no telltale puff of white smoke. (We heard later that the Boers’ position higher on the hill was well planned. They had some in a dry dam, others in a donga – that’s a word for a dried-out lake bed – and more behind long grass.) So they caught us in a duck shoot and we suffered under the crossfire. The order came to ‘lie down’. We heard the bugler pipe up, ‘Pepper ’em, pepper ’em, pepper ’em, boys’ (in a mad moment I thought of your father, Liza, and his bugle calling us hoppers to work!) and recognised the order to keep firing at the big guns.
We rushed on another sixty yards or so, the enemy raining rifle fire on us. I lay on my stomach, firing at the kopje. I emptied my pouches. The fellow next to me – Wallis – got a smack in the leg and called out, ‘They have made a rat hole in me!’ After that he turned on his back and lay still. I helped him put his coat and equipment at his head for shelter and I did the same. Our coats and mess-tins got shot to pieces by bullets. They saved our lives. We lay there for five hours, pinned to the ground under tremendous fire. Some of the men wore shorts and had awful sunburn on the backs of their knees and were in agony the next day, all blistered up and unable to walk. Wallis called over and over for water. I had given him all mine and had no more. Then he started moaning about the blasted Boers taking all our gold and using it to buy the latest European weapons and how the British are far too lenient on the Free-staters who surrender and take the oath of allegiance then go out and fight for their brothers the very next day and they should all be shot. In the end I told him to put a sock in it. By this point, my nerves were quite jagged.
At 3 p.m. we heard the order to retire. We saw some soldiers fall back and I was about to help Wallis up when we heard a dreadful sound. At first I thought we were being shot at again, as the crackle of rifle fire can sound like dried trees burning. But then a roaring came from behind us and we saw the grass that had been our cover was all alight. We were surrounded by fire! Some of the wounded were dragging themselves through it, appalling burns on their faces. I helped Wallis stand and he leaned on me as we stumbled through. Boers came out of their trenches and helped some of the British wounded through the fire. One Boer lad got Wallis some water and wrapped him up in two coats taken from the dead. They are very fair when it comes to the wounded.
The Boers helped set up a hospital back in Senekal at the Dutch church and Wallis was taken back there with the other wounded. He’ll be all right. Do not believe everything you read in the newspapers about Boers. There are brave and honourable Boers and cowardly and dishonourable ones too, like people everywhere, like the Tommies. I must say, though, that despite the foul language and tendency to steal and loot, the character of your average Tommy is good-natured in the face of lack and discomfort, as well as possessing a dogged courage in long advances that test the mettle of the bravest man. The hot dash into battle is exciting to be sure, but the valour it takes to plod on through whizzing bullets seeing men around you fall is a testament to the Tommy’s stubborn will to endure and carry on. We can also be very fair with Brother Boer. After the battle, our medics helped them too, particularly their General de Villiers who was shot in the jaw. There was a ceasefire agreed the next day. It is a kind of gentleman’s war, as they say, despite pounding each other with explosives.
I stayed behind with some others to bury the dead. We carried them all to a field with a thorn tree nearby. I saw an officer called Campbell write a note and pin it to the tree. I looked at it before we left and it read something like: ‘This tree must never be cut down as it is the resting place of those who fell on 29 May 1900.’ It strikes me as a sad thing to be buried in this dry soil, so far from England. A bit like being lost at sea, never to return to your old home ground. There are times in the rage of battle when I am glad to be alive and in this fight, and there are quieter times when I think of how the half-ware are doing and I feel a b----y fool for ever leaving Whitstable.
Please keep the newspapers with reports of our battle at Biddulphsberg for me. If you’ve already thrown them out, I hear you can get back copies at bookstalls; please do. I will be interested to see what nonsense they make of it. We have seen a few English papers out here and are amazed at the ridiculous lies in them about all manner of things and think most of it is invented in London.
I lost all my equipment to the Boers. I had collected
some curious mementos that I was sure would have pleased you. Looting is forbidden, but so far I had found a Boer Bible with a bullet hole right through it, a Free State flag and a shrapnel shell picked up inside one of their gun-pits, but all are lost now. I also had your letter and photograph in my haversack, lost too. I am very sorry for this, as I am in the habit of taking it out and remembering my girls, in this hot, strange and barren place so far from the cool sea breezes of East Kent.
Anything you could send me from home would be very welcome. Our rations are pretty dire. They were cut down recently – on account of the single-track railroad and poor rolling stock – to ½lb bully beef and two biscuits per day. You can smash up the biscuits and boil them in water to make a nourishing gruel that does the job, but they are so hard you risk breaking your teeth to eat them plain. The Kaffirs bring us milk some mornings, 3d a pint and better even than Kent cows’ milk. Sometimes we can buy stuff from farmers who come in on their wagons or even the Kaffir police, like sugar or tobacco. But it is dear, jam 1/6 a pound and butter 3s. Most of us can’t afford to buy anything but mealy bread. If we get any fresh meat – which is rare, with hams costing 10s – we then must find firewood and cook it, which takes a while on hungry legs. The other night three of our lot were cooking away merrily on a little fire when a Boer shell landed smack in the middle of the cooking pot, sending the meal every which way yet luckily the cooks were unharmed. We heard of a tent attacked by a lion some miles away. Even the ostriches are a bit fierce. Such are the dangers of eating here!
Our kits are pretty patched and ragged by now too, with one Scotchman I saw last week wearing a sack as a kilt. I hear we may be issued new shirts and puttees soon, but think it is a bit thick that we have to pay out of our own wages to mend our boots. I do not wear a beard if I can help it – some fellows keep their whiskers on and look the villain – but my razor is so blunt, shaving can be hard going. It would be helpful if you could send some decent grub and other useful bits and pieces, like a new razor and soap and some thick warm socks as winter will be on its way soon (seasons are all topsy-turvy here).
For now, we are camped out in tents and bivouacs beside the Valsch River not far from Lindley. We have amused ourselves by competing for the best handmade wigwams. I helped build a superior one for the mess, using a mimosa tree as foundation and weeping willow branches for roof and walls. It is a pretty river, yet yesterday was scarred with the sight of hundreds of dead horses floating in a grim procession, evidently killed by artillery bombardment upstream. Just beyond our camp is a small island in the river, where the dead horses catch and gather, the smell in the midday heat revolting. Luckily we can send Kaffirs out five miles west for drinking water, yet we must use river water for cooking, washing and fishing. With any luck, we will be on the move again soon. We are not sure where we are going next, but it is likely we head a little way south, as there is a huge force massing under General Prinsloo around there and we shall make short work of them. We are doing a good job all round, I’d say. We believe in a united South Africa and the only way that will happen is with the British Empire in charge, you can be sure. The Boers may be good fellows but they are hopeless at running a country. We British do need to teach them a thing or two, but I fear we will all learn a lesson before this show is over.
I will write again, when I can snatch the time. As well as all our duties, I write letters home for Wallis and two others too.
Your affectionate brother and friend,
Caleb
Lindley,
Orange Free State
14 July 1900
My dearest pets,
Still no sign of letters from you or home. I know you will have sent all sorts by now, but we get no taste of it. I hope to hear news from you all soon, and at least some socks, as my feet are getting bluer by the day. Who knows when you’ll read this request, but some warmer clothes would be most welcome, some of my old fishing sweaters for night time or a woollen cap, as your head gets terrible cold when you have to sleep out on the veldt.
Since I last wrote, I have travelled about the Orange Free State and into the Transvaal with my company engaging in various bouts of fighting: driving in Boer outposts and capturing scattered fighters. I am not yet wounded or dead, so I feel quite lucky. The war proceeds and we are swept along with it. The course of the war is changing. There have been some major battles since it all began. Sometimes our forces do very well, other times we are sent packing. The Boers are highly organised and totally committed to their cause. They have formed commandos which are groups of men who live on the run, engaging in sabotage and skirmishes. Their women and children stay on the farms and supply the men, so that the commandos come and go as they please, blowing up or blocking railway lines, delaying or destroying important supply links to our men (including delivery of your packages). If we carry on angling for big fights, this war of little skirmishes will just go on for ever. So something has had to change. Our latest orders are to cut off supplies to the Boer commandos at the root.
This means burning down their farms. We travel across the veldt. Sometimes it is a farm where a white flag is flown, but then someone fires a shot as we approach. Sometimes the farm is on a list of those that qualify for destruction because their men are away fighting in commando, or because they have supplied local fighting Boers, or simply because they are within a few miles of a railway line or a sniping incident. The people living there are almost always women and girls, and very small boys, as at a certain age the boys join the men. These families have little say in what the commandos do locally, so have no power over whether they are burned or not. But some do supply the men with food and other goods and are therefore branded rebels. We make an example of these by punishing them, to deter others from aiding the commandos. The hope is that eventually this could lead to starving out the fighting men, forcing them to surrender. But recently orders have come to burn farms that are not on any list, because someone up high says you can’t trust any Brother or Sister Boer, they are as bad as each other. It might have begun fairly a few weeks back, when the order first went out to start the burning, but now it proceeds almost at random.
I have attended at several burnings now and this is the way it generally goes. We ride up to the farmhouse. The women are often outside, watching us and pointing. At first, they think we are stopping for refreshments but then our officer tells them we have come to burn their farm. It is a horrible moment and mostly I look away. Some get angry and curse us, or fly into hysterics and collapse. Others are simply downcast and miserable. We give them a short while to get all their things out of the house. Sometimes we help them with the heavy furniture. It is all piled away from the house and they stand amongst their higgledy-piggledy possessions, looking forlorn. We fetch bundles of straw to get the thing going and we set the fire. Sometimes you see Tommies chasing chickens and ducks around to take for food, while others are driving off the horses and cattle or trampling the crops, taking away the wagons or burning them too. We often dig up any newly-made graves; I know this sounds ghoulish but the Boer women often hide weapons and valuables there. I’ve heard of some Tommies sent to burn stocks of grain and even sheep, leaving them half-dead in agony, rotting under the sun. I want you to know I haven’t done this particular act myself. Some of us are sent to the nearest patch of high ground to look out for trouble. More than once I’ve seen Boer commandos on horseback watching the destruction of their homes from far away – too far for us to bother engaging them – only to turn dejectedly and amble away.
Once we are sure the buildings are burning well, we go, the little group of women left watching their home burn to the ground, holding on to each other. Some of the women cry, while others hold up their chin or even raise their fists to us as we leave. The children always watch the fire with big eyes, like we do on Guy Fawkes’ Night. I think the little ones have no idea what the fire means for their future. They are just awestruck by the sight. I’m afraid they will understand it soon enough.
All across the veldt you can see columns of black smoke dotted throughout the landscape, as another farm goes up in flames. Wallis says the Boer men are a mean type of humanity with low cunning stamped on their faces, while Boer children are mostly brutes and the Boer women are stupid and stubborn and they’re all spies and deserve what they get. They certainly are stubborn. When they do talk to you, it is astonishing how sure they are of their success. They say they shall fight for ever, that they will never give in, that they are only waiting for us all to pack up and go home. There is a kind of calm acceptance that this may take a long time, that the Tommies will do as they like in the meantime, that their men will be away for months, perhaps years, and that even their homes will be burned and their livelihoods destroyed. But still they believe they will win in the end. I think it comes from their belief in God, that He is protecting them. In every Boer home you visit you see an heirloom Bible in pride of place and find one in many a Boer haversack or pocket.
But it’s more than that, it’s about patriotism too. They believe completely in their right to that land. They have fought the Kaffirs for it and won that hard fight at great cost. Now they will never give in. It is this attitude – one you find in every home and every heart – that I believe will doom this war to years of fighting. It will take great hardships to break these people. And all that will be left of this land is desert. When you think of those children with frightened eyes watching their homes burn down, this will kindle a deep hatred in them of the British which will last all their lives and surely be passed to their children and their children’s children, and so it will go on. The farm burning begins it, and who knows what will end it?
The Visitors Page 14
