The Boer War

by Martin Bossenbroek

  And it rained mercilessly. ‘The world is under water.’ The advantage was that the British, with their all-important wagons and guns, made even slower progress than they did. But the sleet sliced through bone and marrow. The night of 15 September was the worst of all. Never before had Reitz suffered so badly from the cold. Around midnight the temperature fell below zero. The grain bag ‘froze solid on my body like a coat of mail’. But on they went. Had they stopped, they would have frozen to death. Men who had never uttered a word of complaint were groaning in pain. At dawn they came upon a deserted farmhouse. They staggered in, tore up everything that would burn to make a fire. They warmed themselves and dried their clothing and blankets. Fourteen of their comrades were missing and were never heard from again. Fifty or 60 horses had died. The men who survived the dreadful ordeal of that night called themselves ‘the Big Rain Men’.

  It sounded good, but they were in a hopeless predicament. Their days as a fighting force were over. They set off again. Those who still had horses led the way, then came ‘a trail of footmen’ with their saddles slung over their shoulders. The wounded men, assisted by their comrades, brought up the rear. It was a pitiful sight. Who could have imagined the amazing transformation that was to take place the following day?

  Early on the morning of 17 September, Smuts sent the Rich Section—at any rate, Reitz and the few others who were still mounted—to reconnoitre the area. A few kilometres further they came upon an Afrikaner. Hoarse with anxiety, he warned them that British cavalrymen were lying in wait a short distance away, at Modderfontein. There were about 200 men with two mountain guns and more than 300 horses and mules. Smuts was sent for; he took a snap decision. This was an opportunity they couldn’t afford to miss. Without those horses and some ammunition, they were done for. They would attack. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

  They set off without delay. Fortune was on their side. After crossing a river they took cover in a grove of trees, and from there saw 15 to 20 unsuspecting soldiers cantering straight towards them. They opened fire and killed a few, while the rest galloped away. Reitz seized the rifle and ammunition belt of one of the dead soldiers, and joined in the pursuit.

  In all the excitement they almost ended up in the British camp. Their proximity threw their adversaries into confusion, but their forward position wasn’t safe, in any event not until the main body of the commando caught up and gave them covering fire. At that point, they gained the advantage. They managed to put the field guns out of action, or at least dispose of their crew. Now it was up to the riflemen. The two sides were within metres of each other and a grim battle ensued. It was a man-to-man fight, at such close range that, once it was over, fragments of cordite had to be removed from Reitz’s face and neck. Apart from that, he was unharmed. He had fought with all his strength and shot more than his fair share of British soldiers, including a young lieutenant. After taking the bullet, the man had risen to his feet ‘still trying to level his rifle at me’. But before he could do so, another commando ‘shot him through the brain’.

  Reitz discovered who the lieutenant was only after the Boers had overwhelmed their adversary. Thirty British soldiers had been killed, 50 wounded and another 50 taken prisoner. They had wiped out an entire squadron of the 17th Lancers and lost only one killed and six wounded. After all they had been through, it was incredible. The Battle of Modderfontein—the British called it the Battle of Elands River—was a crucial victory. The Boer fighters regained their confidence and came out of it with everything they needed so desperately: horses, saddles, rifles, ammunition and, of course, clothing. They burned whatever they didn’t need and destroyed the two guns. Reitz, too, had new gear: an officer’s uniform, a Lee-Metford rifle, full bandoliers and an excellent horse, ‘a little grey Arab’. It had belonged to the lieutenant. His name was Sheridan, they said, and he was a cousin of Winston Churchill. Reitz also took ‘a good mule for long marches and a light nimble pony for use in action’. This was the perfect combination. After turning their prisoners loose, they left the burning camp. Reitz was in the best of spirits.

  After that, it had been like a holiday. The weather improved, they continued south without mishap, crossed the Winterberg, passed through verdant countryside, received warm hospitality from the Dutch-speaking community and were stoically tolerated by the English farmers they encountered on their way. They also got reinforcement. A field cornet by the name of Botha joined their company, along with 25 men. They had been hiding out in the mountains. Near Bedford they stopped off at a shop and an inn, where the men enjoyed beer and spirits for the first time in many months. Crossing the railway line from Port Elizabeth to the interior was easily done. There were no blockhouses here.

  This might explain why they became over-confident. Almost by definition, a railway line meant fresh British troops, here just like anywhere else. They were being brought in again by the thousand. The Boers could see them from their hideouts. Reitz didn’t know what Smuts had in mind; a raid on Port Elizabeth, perhaps. But Smuts wasn’t in a hurry. Instead of heading east or west, he gave the order to go south, into the Suurberg mountains. These were a couple of parallel ranges separated by deep rugged kloofs. He believed the men would be safe there. But he was mistaken. The British came after them, field gun and all, driving them down the steep descent of the first chain and then up the equally precipitous slope of the second.

  That was where they had eaten the wild fruit. Reitz was intending to try some himself when he returned from the paddock. But he was bewildered by the sight that met his eyes. Men lay on the ground, writhing in agony, Van Deventer and Bouwer among them. Smuts had almost passed out. And that wasn’t all. Something else caught Reitz’s eye. The British had occupied the first chain of mountains and were making their way down the kloof. Their advance guard was already starting to climb up the other side, firing at them. Hottentot’s bread. Would they come to such a humiliating end?104

  Foray

  Suurberg, October 1901

  Smuts and Van Deventer were completely incapacitated. Bouwer, ill as he was, managed to order every man who could still handle a rifle to take positions on the crest and return the fire. It was nearing sunset. They would have to hold their attackers off. When night fell they would reconsider their position.

  They succeeded. The British turned back and after a while lights shone on the opposite side. They were probably safe until the following day. What to do now? Half the men were seriously ill—the fruit was apparently poisonous after all—and those who weren’t were famished. Should they wait for the invalids to recover? They couldn’t afford to lose any time. The British would almost certainly be back before daybreak, and this time they would come in overwhelming numbers. They had to get away from here, no matter how. Fortunately, most of the sick men began to rally during the night, at least sufficiently to take a few faltering steps. About 20 were still too ill to move. Smuts was one of them, but he had come round sufficiently to take command again. He ordered them to saddle up and go deeper into the mountains. This was their only chance. Those too weak to sit upright were to be tied to their saddles. He himself had to be held on his horse.

  And so they set off, shuffling down the slope into the ravine and then dragging themselves up the next peak. From a distance Reitz had been keeping an eye on Smuts. Around dawn he noticed that Smuts and the two men assisting him had fallen behind and had been spotted by British scouts. Reitz galloped to their rescue and distracted the scouts, enabling Smuts to be taken up the slope by a different route. The men assembled on the crest. Everyone had come out of it alive and, to their relief, the British had abandoned the pursuit. For the time being, at least, they were safe.

  Now for something to eat. They were in the depths of the mountains, far from human habitation—well, white habitation, that is. They saw smoke rising from the forest a short distance away. Perhaps it came from a kraal, where they might find food. And, indeed, they came upon a cluster of reed huts. Their occupants had fled, but left a supply o
f millet behind. The Boers had eaten it before and liked it. It was simple, but at least it wasn’t poisonous, and there was enough to still their hunger.

  Smuts remained pale and weak for a few days, but soon recovered his determination to press on. He said nothing about his plans, but from the reconnaissance missions he ordered, Reitz assumed he was still intending to raid Port Elizabeth. From the heights they could see the town in the distance. The British were apparently also expecting Smuts to head in that direction. They assembled their troops south of the Suurberg. The Boers wouldn’t be able to get through; there was only one other way out, and that was north, roughly the direction they had come from, but further to the west. It would take them into the Karoo.

  They left the Suurberg before daybreak on 5 October 1901. When it grew light, Smuts called his men together. He told them they had reached a turning point in the expedition. From here on, they would start heading west and make for the Atlantic Ocean. There was still a considerable distance to cover, and to be on the safe side he would divide the force in two. Half the men would go with Van Deventer, the others with him. Reitz was pleased to be assigned to Smuts’s party. That afternoon they parted from Van Deventer and his men, and continued on their way.105

  It was a daunting list. Articles 4, 5 and 7, articles 14, 15, 16, article 23 paragraphs c, d, e, f, g, article 25, and so on, plus 11 more, all of them provisions of the Laws and Customs of War on Land, which had been drawn up at the Hague Peace Conference and signed on 29 July 1899 by 26 states, including Great Britain. In the words of Willem Leyds, the Laws and Customs were ‘formally sanctioned rules of war between civilised nations’, and the British had violated them, one by one: mistreatment of prisoners of war, abuse of the white flag, coercive measures and systematic violence against the civilian population; the list went on and on. Leyds hadn’t compiled it himself. The list—in fact, the entire text in which it appeared—had been drafted by Asser, who had helped out as a legal ghostwriter once before.106

  This was another letter, signed by Leyds and the three members of the delegation, Fischer, Wessels and Wolmarans, now addressed not to Lord Salisbury, but to the Permanent Court of Arbitration. Like the Convention, the new court stemmed from the Peace Conference held in The Hague two years earlier. It had also been constituted there, in April 1901. Leyds seized the opportunity to make use of it. In early May he had contacted De Beaufort, president of the administrative council of the Permanent Court of Arbitration and Dutch minister of foreign affairs, requesting advice as to how the Transvaal should go about bringing an arbitration action. He received no reply. In September he tried again. By then the political landscape had changed. On 1 August Pierson’s Liberal government had been succeeded by a conservative Protestant administration under Abraham Kuyper. The new foreign affairs minister, and therefore also the new president of the administrative council, was Robert Melvil, Baron van Lynden. He was an amiable man and, in his brief term of office as secretary-general of the newly established court, an authority on the subject. Perhaps an official letter might help.

  On 10 September 1901 Leyds and the other three envoys, acting on behalf of the governments of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State, asked the court to hand down an ‘arbitrational ruling’ on ‘the war being waged in South Africa’. The main questions were ‘whether grounds exist for Britain’s claim that the two Republics [had] acted in a manner aimed at the oppression or expulsion of British nationals in South Africa’, and whether the Transvaal and the Orange Free State had committed ‘any other act’ which ‘by international principles, would give Britain cause to deprive them of their autonomy’.

  They also urgently drew the court’s attention to Britain’s ‘persistent violations of the rules of war’. These had started at the beginning of the war and had continued ever since. A recent example was Kitchener’s proclamation of 7 August threatening the Boer leaders with lifelong exile, in flagrant violation of article 20: ‘After the conclusion of peace, the repatriation of prisoners of war shall take place as speedily as possible.’ There were other provisions as well that had been violated. The governments of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State would gladly submit evidence in support of their claims.

  If Britain refused to cooperate, one would have to conclude ‘that it was reluctant to submit to the scrutiny of a scrupulous, competent and impartial court’. In that event, Britain would be responsible for ‘the continuation of the terrible and unnecessary war’. Such refusal would also amount to an implicit acknowledgement that Britain’s ‘conduct of the war is contrary to the principles of humanity and civilisation which it had ratified’.

  This was strong language, but would it achieve anything? Even Leyds had his doubts. The new court would be getting itself into hot water. It wouldn’t be wise to antagonise mighty Britain right at the start. The court would probably find grounds to declare itself incompetent to hear the case. As a contingency Asser had added to the request for ‘your mediation’ the phrase ‘or that of the Governments you represent’. Leyds made a point of mentioning this to several people he knew in the diplomatic corps. At the opening of parliament in The Hague on 17 September, for example, he spoke to the Austro-Hungarian representative on the administrative council, Alexander Okolicsányi d’Okolicsna. He seemed to be interested.107

  A chill ran through his body. It was stupid of him, but Deneys Reitz hadn’t given it a thought. For weeks he’d been strutting around in a British cavalry uniform, as pleased as a dog with two tails. The shiny buttons, the close-cut riding breeches, the skull-and-crossbone insignia of the formidable 17th Lancers. It had belonged to Lieutenant George Crespigny Brabazon, 4th Baron Vivian of Glynn and of Truro, which made it all the more special.

  But suddenly there was an alarming piece of news. They had come to a large farm late in the evening. As soon as they arrived, the farmer, a man called Le Roux, told them what had happened. Earlier that day the British had captured a Boer fighter and executed him on the spot, for no reason other than that he was wearing a British uniform. It was Reitz’s friend Jack Baxter. At the end of September Kitchener had proclaimed—Le Roux produced a newspaper to show him—that ‘all Boers wearing khaki uniform are to be shot after trial by a drumhead court martial’.

  He could so easily have suffered the same fate. Reitz thought about how the uniform had saved him, twice, in the past week. On both occasions British patrols had taken him for a compatriot. There was also the incident of the two Boers in khaki who ran into a party of British soldiers. On the spur of the moment, they had called out, ‘Don’t fire, we’re 17th Lancers,’ and subsequently proceeded to open fire themselves, killing two men, including Captain Watson, and wounding a third. Smuts was furious. That fateful incident may have been what prompted Kitchener’s proclamation.

  Whatever the case, he couldn’t walk around like this anymore. Not that he felt remorse—he hadn’t intended to deceive anyone. It was just that his own clothes were worn to shreds. In the end he’d been reduced to wearing a grain sack. He had worn the British uniform out of sheer necessity. Anyway, now he knew it was dangerous. Le Roux, fortunately, was comfortably off and generously provided Reitz and his companions with civilian clothes.108

  They set off the following day. There were eight of them. Delayed by their meanderings through the Karoo—to avoid British units—they had been unable to rejoin Smuts’s commando. Le Roux believed Smuts was heading for the Swartberg, about 70 kilometres south. They would have to follow his tracks. Hordes of British troops were pursuing him, so they would have to be vigilant. A party as small as theirs was vulnerable.

  But they were resourceful as well and managed to forage for food on the way. At one farm they were offered a meal of fried ostrich egg; at others they took what they needed. They were often not the first to arrive. Once, in the middle of the night, in a valley in the Suurberg, they had presented themselves at the home of an Englishman. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘First come the Boers this morning and slaughter my sheep; then come the
British, who kill more sheep instead of catching the Boers, and now I am hauled out of bed at this time of night by more Boers!’ From which they understood that Smuts wasn’t far ahead. They would soon catch up with him.

  And they would have done, had it not been for the mistake they made the following day. Thinking that the British were only preoccupied with their pursuit of Smuts, they had let their guard down. They stopped for a meal in a spot from which they had no view of their surroundings. And there, Reitz had made a second mistake. Tired after a sleepless night, he had gone to rest in the shade of a thornbush, without telling his companions.

  He was suddenly woken by the sound of rifle fire close by. Still dazed, he peered through the bushes just in time to see British soldiers, standing beside their horses, blazing away at his comrades. They were galloping down the valley as fast as they could. He was the only one left. The soldiers hadn’t spotted him, but they certainly would. His only chance was to head in the opposite direction. He had been too tired to unsaddle his pony, which was now a blessing in disguise. He edged forward, leapt in the saddle and galloped off. He didn’t get far. The British caught sight of him and, before he knew it, he was flying through the air. His pony was riddled with bullets and he himself crashed to the ground. A sharp pain shot through his hand.

  With his good hand he grabbed his rifle and took to his heels. A small grove of trees on the right offered some cover. The soldiers were still firing at him and were joined by others heading in his direction. He felt something rip his boot. At a dry watercourse he hesitated for a moment while deciding whether to descend or climb higher up the slope. He glanced back to make sure his pursuers were watching him, then he sprang into the gully. Instead of turning left or right, as the soldiers would assume, he made a dash for the opposite side. He threw himself to the ground and hid among the bushes.