The Boer War

by Martin Bossenbroek

  Things were very different when he had left for Natal eight months before. He was 17, filled with romantic notions and eager to fight. They were going to drive the British into the sea. And he had been given permission to accompany them, taking his own Mauser, even though he had to plead for it. But the experience had shattered his illusions. There was the interminable siege of Ladysmith, which had ultimately achieved nothing; the battle at Spion Kop, where he had witnessed the full horror of war: ‘the valiant dead . . . with blow flies in their mouths and nostrils’, human remains that looked as if they had been ‘through a meat grinder’, ‘mutilated faces . . . swelling up in the sun’.

  These grim images continued to haunt him for a long time to come, but after their withdrawal from Natal he had nevertheless returned to enlist for duty at the front. This time he went to the Orange Free State, his birthplace, which held memories of a happy childhood, although it was hardly a front at all. The campaign had ended in a humiliating defeat. The widely dispersed Boer units hadn’t stood a chance against Roberts’s superior force. He himself had hardly fought at all. The British had driven them off. Even Koos de la Rey had been powerless to do anything. The same had happened in the Transvaal. The British had wiped them out. Most of the Boer fighters were disillusioned and many had abandoned the struggle. Johannesburg had already fallen and they had no idea what they would find in Pretoria.

  It was late, around ten o’clock, when they arrived. They had ridden through the dark streets to their home in the suburb of Sunnyside, only to be bitterly disappointed. The grounds were deserted, the house was empty. They went round to their neighbours, but no one answered their knock. A few houses further on, someone finally appeared at the door. A few brief words—the president and the state secretary had fled; Pretoria would be surrendered to the British the following day—then the door was slammed shut.

  They couldn’t believe that Kruger and their father had fled, but it was too late to make further enquiries. The brothers forced their way into their home, stabled their weary horses and found some food in the pantry. And after all those bitterly cold nights they had spent in the open they could sleep in their own beds again at last, but it was a dismal homecoming nevertheless. One brother missing, another ill and still making his way home, their house deserted. Their father and stepmother, their younger half-siblings were all gone. No one knew where.

  The following morning Hjalmar and Deneys ventured out to see what had happened in their absence. The town was in chaos. There was gunfire, shops and supply depots had been plundered, and disturbing rumours were circulating. The British were evidently heading in their direction. They returned home and were packing their belongings when, to their delight, Joubert suddenly turned up, unharmed. His horse had been killed at Koppie Alleen, but he had escaped on foot and later completed the journey by train. There was no time to celebrate their reunion. The three brothers decided to leave as quickly as possible and head east while they still had a chance. Outside one of the ransacked shops they found a horse, which they requisitioned for Joubert. Charley had to remain behind. ‘The poor fellow piteously entreated us to keep him, but we had to harden our hearts.’ They could no longer afford the luxury of a servant. Horses and food were hard to come by; the animals they possessed were needed to carry their supplies. Charley was to take blankets and all he wanted from the house. Then their ways parted.

  By evening the brothers were about 15 kilometres from Pretoria. They spent the night in the vicinity of the First Factory brandy distillery and at sunrise they discovered that hundreds of other Boer fighters had also sought refuge in the area. But there was no sign of their own military unit, the Afrikander Cavalry Corps. Who they did run into, however, was the state attorney, Jan Smuts, who told them where Kruger and their father had gone. Of course they hadn’t fled. They were in Machadodorp, about 250 kilometres further east along the railway line, where they had set up a new capital. From there they would continue to lead the struggle. Louis Botha was already raising a fresh army and Smuts himself was making his way to the western Transvaal to help Koos de la Rey organise the resistance.

  This was the best news the brothers had heard in a long time. Joubert decided to head directly for Botha’s camp. Hjalmar and Deneys wanted to speak to their father first and hear what he thought of it all. He might also have news of Arend. They set off for Machadodorp.2

  Lord Roberts wasted no time. As far as he was concerned, the capture of Pretoria on 5 June 1900 had brought the war to an end. This was the harsh reality and the Boers would have to resign themselves to it. He moved into Melrose House, one of the ostentatious new mansions in town, and got down to business. Until then, he had relied on tough military action and proclamations to intimidate his adversaries. Now it was time to introduce penalties to enforce those ‘paper bombs’. If the Boer leaders had any sense, they would accept his invitation to sit down and talk. If not, they would have to face the consequences.

  He had more or less written off the leaders of the resistance in the Orange Free State, or the Orange River Colony, as it had been renamed on 24 May. There was nothing to be done with them. That much was clear from Steyn’s counter-proclamations and Christiaan de Wet’s acts of sabotage. On 31 May Roberts acquired additional powers by imposing martial law. A day later, he issued a proclamation with a firm deadline. Anyone who failed to hand in their arms within 14 days, by 15 June, would be deemed—and treated as—a rebel, with all the consequences for their person and property.3

  At first Roberts still hoped that something would come of his edict, as far as the Transvaal authorities were concerned. At the beginning of June Louis Botha, for one, seemed to be open to reason. Intermediaries, including his wife, Annie, were sent to talk to him. Louis de Souza, the War Department secretary with whom Churchill had become acquainted during his time in prison, went a step further. He sent Botha a letter, purportedly from Roberts, which amounted to nothing less than an outright attempt at bribery. He offered Botha—and De la Rey—exemption from exile, if they surrendered. They would be allowed to remain in South Africa on trust, with an annual stipend of £10,000 each. No one was sure who was behind the offer. Botha couldn’t believe that Roberts would stoop so low, but found any attempt to approach him, directly or indirectly, insulting. It strengthened his resolve not to negotiate without a prior guarantee that the South African Republic would retain its independence. Otherwise, the Transvalers, like the Freestaters, would continue to fight. The Battle of Diamond Hill on 11 and 12 June proved they were still capable of doing so.

  Roberts was losing patience. He decided to tighten the screws, on everyone. On 16 June 1900 he issued a proclamation for both territories—the fifth proclamation by this time—to deal with the ‘small parties of raiders’ who were continuing to destroy railway bridges and telegraph lines. They wouldn’t be able to do this, he reasoned, without the knowledge and consent of other inhabitants and ‘the principal civil residents’ in the vicinity. And those in question would be deemed guilty of complicity with immediate effect. Any destruction of public property would be punished by burning down homesteads in the area and imprisoning prominent citizens in the district.

  Three days later, Roberts introduced further measures. Proclamation 6 of 19 June added to the existing sanctions a penalty of collective financial liability. The local community would be held to account for any costs resulting from damage to property. In addition, the director of the now militarised railway system was authorised to carry prominent civilians on the trains as hostages.

  Roberts decided to set an example right away to show that he meant business. The man who had conducted the most daring raids and caused the greatest damage to the British railway and telegraph lines was, without a doubt, Christiaan de Wet. On 7 June he had carried out a spectacular raid on Roodewal station, not far from his own farm, Roodepoort. There was also the fact that the two-week amnesty Roberts had granted for all Boers under arms in the Orange River Colony on 1 June was about to expire. The next step wa
s obvious. On 15 June Roberts informed his staff officers of his decision. He declared De Wet a rebel and ordered that he be treated accordingly. Proclamation 5 was issued the following day. Roberts demanded that the sanctions announced in it—including the burning down of farmsteads—were seen to be enforced. ‘A few examples only will be necessary and let us begin with De Wet’s farm.’ Lord Methuen was responsible for executing the sentence. On 16 June Roodepoort was reduced to ashes.4

  This was too close for comfort. By the time it was safe enough for Christiaan de Wet to return to his property, the embers had died, but the sight of it, even from a distance, was heartbreaking. They had destroyed the work of a lifetime. De Wet asked his generals Stoffel Froneman and Piet Fourie to rein in their horses, and proceeded alone. This was the price he had paid. His three eldest sons, Kotie, Izak and Christiaan, were on commando with him; his wife, Cornelia, and their nine other children had been roaming the countryside for months, taking refuge in a laager somewhere along the Vaal. And now his farm and everything he possessed had been razed to the ground. They had used dynamite, as he saw at once, and they had done the job thoroughly. He dismounted, knelt at the grave of his infant daughter, and prayed. Then he rode back to his companions, his face pale and drawn. ‘Let’s go. There’s work to be done.’5

  Roberts’s aim to create a deterrent succeeded, at least partially. The Boers were shaken by the attack on Roodepoort. For those who were still uncommitted, the reprisal against the Free State’s commandantgeneral was a turning point. If even De Wet’s farm could go up in flames, nothing was safe; their own homes were also in danger. There was nothing to do but accept the enemy’s terms. Thousands of Boer fighters had done so after the British army’s double breakthrough on 27 February 1900 and now thousands more followed suit. Between March and July of that year 12,000 to 14,000 Boers—between a fifth and a quarter of the original 60,000 conscripts in the two republics—abandoned the struggle. The impact was huge and, to compound the problem, many of them were wealthy burghers and senior government officials. These were people who had something to lose. Among them were men like General Hendrik Schoeman, a member of the Transvaal Executive Council, and General Andries Cronjé, the younger brother of Piet ‘Paardeberg’ Cronjé.6

  But the Roodepoort incident was counterproductive as well. Many Boers were defiant and more determined to fight on. De Wet’s example counted for more than Roberts’s deterrent. He had sacrificed all for the sake of a free and independent country. More resolute than ever, ‘Chrisjan’ was going to fight on, to the bitter end if necessary. His attitude enhanced his moral authority and strengthened the resolve of many who had not yet taken the plunge.

  Roodepoort became a double-edged symbol. For the defectors, or ‘hands-uppers’ (hensoppers), it exemplified the futility of resistance; for the hardliners, the ‘bitter-enders’ (bittereinders), it confirmed the noble purpose of their cause. But the upshot was that Roberts’s draconian measures sowed discord among the Boers, who were compelled to choose sides for or against him. The choice was between returning to their peaceful, rustic way of life, as loyal subjects of the British regime, or being hunted down as rebels. This was the war Roberts declared on every Boer personally. It was a war waged not on the battlefield but in village communities and families, between neighbours, brothers, fathers and sons. A war of conscience.

  Pressure from their leaders left them virtually no choice at all. President Steyn’s first counter-proclamation, issued on 19 March, made that clear to the burghers of the Orange Free State. His government was, and would continue to be, the only legitimate authority. Evading military service was deemed an act of treason. Roberts’s subsequent proclamations of 24 May and 1 June changed nothing as far as he was concerned. On 11 June Steyn hit back with a new counter-proclamation. Roberts’s demands, he said, were in violation of international law, ‘as the Government of the Orange Free State is still fully functional’ and burghers must comply with its orders alone.7

  After their initial ambivalence, the Transvaal authorities took an equally firm stand. From Machadodorp, on 8 June, President Kruger issued his own counter-proclamation against Roberts’s first and second ‘Transvaal’ proclamations. In substance it was similar to Steyn’s. He rejected the validity of the British demands and urged burghers not to be misled ‘by their promises and threats’. Swearing an ‘oath of loyalty’ to the British regime was considered treason. And doing so, he warned them, was no guarantee against being banished to St Helena.

  That wasn’t the end of it. Reports came in from Botha and other commandants about demoralised burghers. Kruger responded with a series of telegrams, some encouraging, some reproachful, and some an inimitable combination of the two. On 20 June, for instance, he addressed himself directly to those who were still undecided. ‘Brothers, brothers, I implore you not to give up hope. Be steadfast and fight in the name of the Lord. Look into your hearts: if you are cowardly and flee, it is because you have ceased to believe in a God in Heaven and have forsaken the Almighty.’ But, he assured Sarel Oosthuizen—the ‘dark horseman’ who had captured Churchill and who now held the rank of general—there was still hope, even if there were only a few left who were prepared to fight. ‘I believe it will be the same as in the case of Gideon and his three hundred men: a small band of stalwarts will take it upon themselves to fight the whole battle and the Lord will say unto the beast, so far and no further.’

  Along with biblical aphorisms, the telegrams from Machadodorp also contained warnings of earthly retribution. Burghers who abandoned their posts would be ‘guilty of murder’. And in districts where the Boers were still in control, those who shirked military service were to be arrested and court-martialled. In addition, their property was to be confiscated, the president added on 24 June. Anyone who took the oath of neutrality was to be prosecuted. In the words of the state secretary, F.W. Reitz, the oath was ‘a betrayal of country and nation’.8

  Long rows of railway carriages constituted the new headquarters of the Transvaal government and its entourage of civil servants who had come from Pretoria. Deneys and Hjalmar Reitz had been travelling for three days, first on horseback as far as Middelburg, where they managed to get a lift on a goods train. They reached the new capital, Machadodorp, early in the morning and found their father in one of the train carriages. They were relieved to see each other again, safe and sound after all those months. And he knew where Arend was: in a Russian field hospital in Waterval Onder, 20 kilometres down the line. Their stepmother and the younger children had gone to Lourenço Marques, and from there sailed to Holland to stay with relatives. The war was far from over, their father continued. The new strategy was working better for the Boers than largescale confrontations. Look at George Washington! He too had fought for a seemingly lost cause, but triumphed in the end.

  Deneys was cheered by his optimism. Still, he couldn’t stop worrying about all those burghers who were giving up the fight. But first he wanted to see Arend. From the edge of the escarpment the train clawed its way down the precipitous slope from Waterval Boven to Waterval Onder. It was far warmer in the valley. Arend was in good hands. The Russian nurses said he was improving. His fever had subsided, though the danger hadn’t yet passed. Near the hospital they caught a glimpse of Kruger. They knew from their father that he had fled from the bitter cold of the heights. He was sitting in a saloon carriage, ‘a lonely, tired man’, lost in thought, with a large Bible lying open on the table before him. They didn’t presume to approach him.

  Back in Machadodorp they took leave of their father and set off to find a commando unit they could join. After collecting their horses in Middelburg, they met up with a contingent of German volunteers, about 60 strong, led by an Austrian, Baron von Goldeck. They were on reconnaissance for Louis Botha, a task that appealed to Deneys and Hjalmar. Botha was assembling a new army and was pleased with the results. Thousands of weaker men had disappeared, but those who remained were ‘good fighting men’.

  One evening Deneys’s o
ld unit turned up. It was the Pretoria commando he had fought with in Natal—or, at least, what was left of it, no more than half, 150 men at most. They had a new field cornet, Max Theunissen, a youngster of 25. Although Deneys had got on well with the Germans, he felt closer to his old comrades and decided to rejoin them. Hjalmar remained with Von Goldeck. Deneys took his roan and the Basuto pony to carry his supplies. Botha had given Theunissen instructions to destroy the railway line between Pretoria and Johannesburg. They were back on familiar territory.

  But the fates were against them. The British were guarding the railway and they were unable to get anywhere near it. They nevertheless remained in the area for a while, hoping an opportunity would present itself. A few days later Reitz was told that the Afrikander Cavalry Corps in which he had served in the Orange Free State was also operating in the region. He decided to look up his ‘old companions’ and have a word with Commandant Malan.

  The happy reunion ended in tragedy. While Reitz was talking to his friends, a British column bombarded them with lyddite grenades. The first shells were wide of the mark, but the British artillerymen soon had them in their sights. Malan ordered his men to take cover. Reitz found safety behind a garden wall, while several others sought shelter behind a willow tree. It was a poor position. A shell hit the trunk and exploded on impact. The seven unfortunate men standing there were ‘blown to pieces which strewed the ground for thirty yards beyond’. When the British gun stopped firing, ‘their remains had to be collected with a shovel, a most sickening spectacle.’