Barnes had been shot in ‘our brilliant little victory at Elandslaagte Station’, which for a while had raised British hopes of being able to halt the Boer advance. He told Churchill about their changing fortunes during the battle and their breakthrough in the middle of a thunderstorm which had obscured the Boers’ vision. To Churchill’s delight, the final attack had been led by Ian Hamilton, another friend from India, who had since worked his way up to the rank of brigadier-general. The thrill of the victory hadn’t lasted long. Hamilton, too, had been compelled to retreat in the end and was now under siege in Ladysmith with the rest of the British troops. All the more reason for Churchill to get there as soon as possible. The latest news from Durban was that Ladysmith was no longer accessible, but he was going to give it a try, anyway, confident that ‘Ian Hamilton would look after me and give me a good show’.16
Elandslaagte would certainly have fallen into Churchill’s category of ‘good shows’, except for its bitter aftertaste. On 21 October 1899 a memorable battle was fought there, along the railway line between Ladysmith and Dundee. It ended in tragedy for everyone involved, including the British victors.
The battle as such seemed to confirm the merits of the time-honoured Aldershot strategy. Major-General John French, leading a cavalry of 1300 men and 550 artillerymen with 18 guns, and Hamilton, with his 1600-strong infantry, kept to the rules of the book: artillery, infantry, cavalry. The only difference was that Hamilton’s formation was less compact than the manual prescribed. This time the formula worked. At the end of the afternoon, after the bombardment, they carried out the charge, with bayonets on their rifles and the battle-cry ‘Majuba!’ on their lips. With the weather on their side, the Imperial Light Horse—in this instance on foot—along with the experienced infantrymen of the 1st Devonshire Regiment, the 1st Manchester Regiment and the 2nd Gordon
Highlanders, flushed the Boers out of their positions. Some fled, others waved white handkerchiefs, but out of the blue a group of about 50 mounted a fierce counterattack. The initial confusion among the British soon gave way to outrage at having been deceived by a bogus surrender. The advance was resumed with a vengeance and culminated in a furious cavalry charge. Again and again, three times in all, the 5th Lancers and the 5th Dragoon Guards, brandishing lances and sabres, swept mercilessly through the fleeing Boers. When they counted their casualties that evening, the British discovered what they had paid for their victory: 52 dead and 213 wounded. And this for a position which Lieutenant-General White ordered his men to abandon shortly afterwards.
The Boers incurred even heavier losses at Elandslaagte: 46 dead, including Adjutant-General Jan Kock, who had led the contentious counterattack, 105 wounded and captured, and another 180 who had surrendered. All told, this amounted to 340 of the 800 Boers who had gone into battle. There was a reason for it—Kock had advanced dangerously far into enemy territory, where his men were outnumbered by four to one—but even so, the losses were unprecedented and the defeat was shocking. More shocking still were the tactics the British had resorted to. For the Boers, shooting each other was as far as one could go. Bayonets, sabres and lances were beyond the pale. One could expect that kind of thing from uncivilised black warriors, but whites weren’t supposed to skewer each other to death. They were appalled at the British cavalry’s massacre of fleeing Boers, including the wounded and men who had already surrendered. The battle at Elandslaagte drove home a hard lesson once more: steer clear of the British and, if they come too close, move on and take new positions.17
The lesson came too late for the Hollander Corps, one of the Boer army’s units. It had been formed by the Dutch community less than a month earlier, on 22 September 1899. These were people who lived and worked in the Transvaal, who had offered their services as volunteers, just like the Germans, Irish, Scandinavians, French, Italians and Austrians. About 2000 foreigners were deployed in their own units. The driving force behind the Hollander Corps was Herman Coster, a young lawyer from Leiden, who in 1895 had followed in Willem Leyds’s footsteps to become the state attorney of the Transvaal. But he hadn’t held out for long. Within two years Kruger’s quirks were more than he could bear. Coster resigned but remained in Pretoria. Four hundred and fifty of his compatriots and a handful of Belgians joined the corps. The majority, being either unfit or ineligible for active service, were deployed for surveillance. The rest, about 150 men, were sent to the front in Natal in early October, having had little opportunity to train beforehand. They had the misfortune of being assigned to the group led by the arrogant Kock. Elandslaagte was their baptism by fire. It was also the last resting place for eight of them, including Coster. Another 54 Hollanders, some of them wounded, fell into the hands of the British. The remainder were subsequently redeployed in other commandos. The Hollander Corps ceased to exist as an independent unit.18
The name Elandslaagte had a bitter undertone in Britain, the Netherlands and the Boer republics in particular. And in Germany too, because among the casualties were 30 men from the German commando, which was also disbanded after the battle.
For Churchill, however, Elandslaagte was ‘our little victory’, with a heroic role for his friend Ian Hamilton, who undoubtedly had more dashing exploits to tell him about the next time they met. It was only 200 kilometres to Ladysmith. The first stretch was uneventful, from Durban to Pietermaritzburg, the capital of Natal. On arrival, the reporters discovered that the regular train service had been suspended. They could hire a train, which they promptly did. After all, their employers were paying. For a few hours they enjoyed the illusion that they might still manage to reach their destination, but the bubble burst when they were held up at a small station. Further ahead, near Colenso, the Boers had blocked the rail bridge over the Tugela and no more trains could get through. Ladysmith was effectively surrounded. Their long journey had come to an end.
The station was in Estcourt. The reporters installed themselves in tents in the marshalling yard. While his man, Thomas Walden, attended to their trunks and chests, Churchill went off to inspect the surroundings. Estcourt was one of those small country towns where there was nothing to do. It consisted of two streets and 300 low houses made from brick and corrugated iron, nestling in a valley surrounded by green hills. What came to mind first was that it would be a hard place to defend. And behind the hills? It was only 70 kilometres to Ladysmith. Churchill was sure there must be a way to get there.19
A hail of bullets
Chieveley, 15 November 1899
An armoured train: even the name was strange. It was the epitome of nineteenth-century progress clad in medieval armour, a train that resembled a latter-day knight errant. And though it looked impressive, as Churchill had told his readers in the Morning Post a few days earlier, ‘nothing is more vulnerable and helpless’. If just one bridge were blown up, it would all be over for the train and its occupants. Unable to proceed, the steel-plated monster would be at the mercy of the enemy. And the fate of the inferior specimen in which the expedition was now leaving Estcourt would be so much the worse. There was no roof to its trucks, no shutters to its loopholes, and no weapon apart from an antiquated naval gun. The soldiers called it ‘Wilson’s death trap’.
Churchill had no idea who Wilson was, but the nickname said it all. The two reporters sharing his tent had wisely decided to stay put when he woke them at five that morning. One of them—Leo Amery of The Times, an old school friend from Harrow, who also happened to be in Estcourt—said it was raining too hard. The other, John Atkins, who had travelled with Churchill from Cape Town, put it more bluntly. He was paid to report on the war, he replied from his bunk, not risk ending up in the hands of the enemy. Churchill took his point, but set off nevertheless. The evening before, he had given his word to Captain Aylmer Haldane, another acquaintance he had run into here. Haldane had helped him secure a post in the Malakand Field Force in India, which Churchill had written about with considerable success. This was a chance to return the favour. Moreover, as a war correspondent it was his
job to gather as much news as he could. There was a third reason too, no worse than any other—‘I was eager for trouble’.
And trouble would certainly come, though it may not have seemed so at the start. All went well for the first few kilometres. At the head of the train was a truck carrying the naval gun, manned by four sailors. Behind it were two armoured carriages with Dublin Fusiliers, followed by the locomotive and the coal tender. Then came two more armoured carriages, with troops from the Durban Light Infantry and a team of mechanics, and at the rear a truck with tools and equipment. There were 120 men in total, all under Haldane’s command. Churchill stood beside his friend in the carriage with the Irish, and scanned the surroundings with his field glasses. At six thirty they pulled into Frere station, where a Natal Police patrol reported that no Boers had been spotted.
Should they continue to the next stop at Chieveley? It was higher up and would afford a better view. Haldane’s orders from Colonel Charles Long, the garrison commander in Estcourt, were to proceed as far as they could and try to reach Colenso. The green, hilly countryside looked peaceful. They decided to continue their journey.20
Reconnaissance expeditions by armoured train were a daily chore for the troops in Estcourt. The soldiers saw them as a form of discipline, the war correspondents thought them absurd, but Long stood his ground, even though a single mounted patrol could obtain more information than the lumbering, clattering colossus. He stuck to routine, as if to prove that he wasn’t going to change his ways on account of the Boers.
Churchill had already spent about ten days in Estcourt and was growing impatient. On his arrival he had been met with good news from London. His recent book, The River War, about Kitchener’s campaign in Sudan, had received good reviews, and this was a chance to consolidate his reputation. He had spread the word that he was offering a generous reward to anyone who would escort him through the Boer lines to Ladysmith. A couple of military guides had shown some interest, but nothing came of it. Their superiors thought it ridiculous for them ‘to lead a bloody war correspondent into Ladysmith’.
In the circumstances, any distraction was welcome. Churchill had been on similar missions before, once on horseback with the entire garrison and once in the same armoured train. On that occasion they had gone all the way to Colenso, edging their way at a snail’s pace on the last stretch of the journey. Five hundred metres from the town the commanding officer—not Haldane this time—had disembarked with a sergeant to inspect the area on foot. And of course Churchill had joined them. They found Colenso deserted. It was even smaller than Estcourt and had apparently been ‘ransacked and plundered by the Boers and the Kaffirs’. The streets were littered with people’s possessions and several houses had been burned down. A dead horse lay in the middle of the road, its stiff legs extended in the air. A straggler at the end of the street waved a white rag on a stick. ‘But no Dutchmen were to be seen.’ The rails had been torn up and broken telegraph wires trailed over the ground. The damage could be repaired, however, and the bridge over the Tugela was still intact. The Boers had apparently been meaning to use it themselves, Churchill concluded. The men spent only a short time in Colenso and returned at full speed, trying to identify what they saw on the way: ‘Black dots on the horizon?’ ‘Perhaps, but definitely not Boers. They’re still too far away.’
But that had been a week earlier. On Wednesday 15 November they knew there were Boers in the area. The question was, where? The train was approaching Chieveley, when Churchill spotted them. A hundred men on horseback were galloping towards them. They were now about a kilometre and a half from the tracks. At the station, Haldane had sent a telegram to Estcourt, saying they had arrived in Chieveley safely and that there were Boers in the vicinity. Long’s instructions came at once. They were to return to Frere and follow developments from there.
The engine driver was pleased, and the train set off in the direction from which it had come. The truck carrying Churchill, Haldane and the naval gun was now at the rear. Churchill climbed onto a box to gain a better vantage point. A few kilometres on, as they rounded a bend, they realised they had run into trouble. The Boers were waiting for them on a craggy ridge, 500 metres away. Out of the blue ‘three wheeled things’ appeared on the crest of the hill. A few blinding flashes, an eerie silence, and then all hell broke loose. A cloud of white smoke erupted overhead. Churchill leapt for cover. Hailstones hammered the metal plating. He had come under fire before, in Cuba. He had stood face to face with men wielding sabres at Tirah and Omdurman. But this was completely different. They were being pounded by rapid fire and shrapnel from hundreds of Mausers, a Maxim machine gun and two field guns. They had no option but to carry on. The driver gave steam.21
The Dublin Fusiliers had faced the Boers’ firepower before. They had achieved a hard-fought victory at Talana Hill, only to suffer a humiliating defeat on Mournful Monday. At Modderspruit on 30 October they had endured shellfire for hours, before retreating in disarray to Ladysmith. The Gordon Highlanders and the English regiments had fared no better, but that did little to soothe the Irish Fusiliers’ injured pride. The only consolation for the common soldiers was that the blame for the debacle would be borne by their bungling officers.
Lieutenant-General Sir George White was the main culprit. From the start his actions in northern Natal had been erratic. He kept vacillating between two extremes. First, there had been his reckless decision to ambush the Boers north of the Tugela and, later, after his first minor victories at Talana Hill and Elandslaagte, the fretful dithering and overhasty withdrawal of his troops to Ladysmith. There, he had recovered his composure and decided to stage a decisive confrontation. That’s what the textbooks said and that’s what he was intending to do.
For days he had been sending out reconnaissance patrols, even using an observation balloon, so he knew exactly where the Boer positions were. They were dispersed over a broad front on the hills north-east of Ladysmith, roughly in the form of a horseshoe. The main force, led by Joubert, was in the centre, on Pepworth Hill, and that was where White intended to concentrate his attack. The old advance-and-assault routine would be carried out by the infantry brigade, which had been successful under Ian Hamilton at Elandslaagte, with support from the artillery and cavalry. And this time, White himself would be in command. On the right flank Colonel Geoffrey Grimwood would lead a second brigade similar in kind. They would circle around Long Hill, drive out the Boers and attack Pepworth Hill from the south-east. And if the Boers tried to flee from the two-pronged attack, they could expect a nasty surprise. In the meantime, the Royal Irish Fusiliers and the Gloucestershire Regiment, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel F.R.C. Carleton, would be at Nicholson’s Nek to intercept the fleeing Boers.
The plan was insane, as most of his staff officers agreed. The Boers were still some distance away, they argued, hiding out in the hills. Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait until they were closer to Ladysmith? But White was determined to deliver a knock-down blow. He had more men than Joubert—12,000 compared with his 7500—and three times as many guns—60 to Joubert’s 20. He was also keen on the idea of an ambush at Nicholson’s Nek, which one of his staff officers, Major W. Adye, had proposed. White took the final decision on Sunday 29 October, after the last reconnaissance. Monday was the moment of truth. On Sunday night the troops moved into position. At eleven o’clock Carleton led his column north, in the direction of Nicholson’s Nek. The two brigades set off shortly afterwards. Grimwood headed for Long Hill in the east, White and Hamilton made for Pepworth Hill in the north-east.
The Boers had no idea what was coming, but Joubert, cautious as ever, had had second thoughts about their forward position on Long Hill. On Sunday evening, after the British reconnaissance balloon had completed its mission, he ordered the Lydenburg Commando under General Schalk Burger to clear the hill and take positions on the opposite bank of the Modderspruit. At the same time, he was informed that 400 officers of the South African Mounted Police, known as Zarps, had arrived from Jo
hannesburg. Joubert sent them to Nicholson’s Nek to reinforce the western flank of his ‘horseshoe’. A third stroke of luck was the arrival of the Long Tom, the heaviest-calibre gun in the Boers’ arsenal. It took 22 mules and hundreds of men to haul it up Pepworth Hill. But there it stood at last, installed on the base that Lieutenant-Colonel S.P.E. Trichardt of the State Artillery had prepared for it.
The advantages of these three circumstances became apparent on Monday morning. By daylight, around five o’clock, Grimwood discovered that his march through the night had brought him to an abandoned position. His men did come under fire, but not from Long Hill. It was the Long Tom bombarding them from Pepworth Hill. At the same time, they were being battered by heavy artillery and gunfire from the east and had to direct their efforts in that direction. Their strategy was in shreds. Instead of supporting the assault on Pepworth Hill, Grimwood himself needed assistance. White and Hamilton came to the rescue, but as a result both British brigades found themselves in different positions from those they had expected. Their carefully coordinated combat plan for artillery, infantry and cavalry had come apart at the seams. Each unit was left to improvise and fend for itself, and in this respect the British—both officers and men—were no match for their adversaries. At half past eleven White gave his men the order to retreat. They fled in disarray under pitiless fire from the advancing Boers. The battle at Modderspruit, the first major encounter between the two sides, ended in a crushing defeat for the British.
The Boer War Page 22
