London to Ladysmith via Pretoria by Winston Spencer Churchill

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LONDON TO LADYSMITH VIA PRETORIA

BY

WINSTON SPENCER CHURCHILL

AUTHOR OF
'THE STORY OF THE MALAKAND FIELD FORCE, 1897',
'THE RIVER WAR: AN HISTORICAL ACCOUNT OF THE
RECONQUEST OF THE SOUDAN',
'SAVROLA: A ROMANCE'

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1900

DEDICATION

THIS COLLECTION OF LETTERS IS INSCRIBED TO

THE STAFF OF THE
NATAL GOVERNMENT RAILWAY

WHOSE CAREFUL AND COURAGEOUS DISCHARGE OF THEIR
EVERY-DAY DUTIES
AMID THE PERILS OF WAR
HAS MADE THEM HONOURABLY CONSPICUOUS
EVEN AMONG THEIR FELLOW COLONISTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

This small book is mainly a personal record of my adventures and
impressions during the first five months of the African War. It may also
be found to give a tolerably coherent account of the operations
conducted by Sir Redvers Buller for the Relief of Ladysmith. The
correspondence of which it is mainly composed appeared in the columns of
the _Morning Post_ newspaper, and I propose, if I am not interrupted by
the accidents of war, to continue the series of letters. The stir and
tumult of a camp do not favour calm or sustained thought, and whatever
is written herein must be regarded simply as the immediate effect
produced by men powerfully moved, and scenes swiftly changing upon what
I hope is a truth-seeking mind.

The fact that a man's life depends upon my discretion compels me to omit
an essential part of the story of my escape from the Boers; but if the
book and its author survive the war, and when the British flag is firmly
planted at Bloemfontein and Pretoria, I shall hasten to fill the gap in
the narrative.

WINSTON S. CHURCHILL.
_March 10, 1900_.

CONTENTS

I. STEAMING SOUTH
R.M.S. 'Dunottar Castle,' October 26 and October 29, 1899

II. THE STATE OF THE GAME
Capetown; November 1, 1899

III. ALONG THE SOUTHERN FRONTIER
East London: November 5, 1899

IV. IN NATAL
Estcourt: November 6, 1899

V. A CRUISE IN THE ARMOURED TRAIN
Estcourt: November 9, 1899

VI. DISTANT GUNS
Estcourt: November 10, 1899

VII. THE FATE OF THE ARMOURED TRAIN
Pretoria: November 20, 1899

VIII. PRISONERS OF WAR
Pretoria: November 24, 1899

IX. THROUGH THE DUTCH CAMPS
Pretoria: November 30, 1899

X. IN AFRIKANDER BONDS
Pretoria: December 3, 1899

XI. I ESCAPE FROM THE BOERS
Lourenco Marques: December 22, 1899

XII. BACK TO THE BRITISH LINES
Frere: December 24, 1899

XIII. CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR
Frere: January 4, 1900

XIV. A MILITARY DEMONSTRATION AND SOME GOOD NEWS
Chieveley: January 8, 1900

XV. THE DASH FOR POTGIETER'S FERRY
Spearman's Hill: January 13, 1900

XVI. TRICHARDT'S DRIFT AND THE AFFAIR OF ACTON HOMES
Venter's Spruit: January 22, 1900

XVII. THE BATTLE OF SPION KOP
Venter's Spruit: January 25, 1900

XVIII. THROUGH THE FIVE DAYS' ACTION
Venter's Spruit: January 25, 1900

XIX. A FRESH-EFFORT AND AN ARMY CHAPLAIN
Spearman's Hill: February 4, 1900

XX. THE COMBAT OF VAAL KRANTZ
General Buller's Headquarters: February 9, 1900

XXI. HUSSAR HILL
General Buller's Headquarters: February 15, 1900

XXII. THE ENGAGEMENT OF MONTE CRISTO
Cingolo Neck: February 19, 1900

XXIII. THE PASSAGE OF THE TUGELA
Hospital-ship 'Maine': March 4, 1900

XXIV. THE BATTLE OF PIETERS: THE THIRD DAY
Hospital-ship 'Maine': March 5, 1900

XXV. UPON MAJUBA DAY
Commandant's Office, Durban: March 6, 1900

XXVI. THE RELIEF OF LADYSMITH
Commandant's Office, Durban: March 9, 1900

XXVII. AFTER THE SIEGE
Durban: March 10, 1900

CHAPTER I

STEAMING SOUTH

R.M.S. 'Dunottar Castle,' at sea: October 26, 1899.

The last cry of 'Any more for the shore?' had sounded, the last good-bye
had been said, the latest pressman or photographer had scrambled ashore,
and all Southampton was cheering wildly along a mile of pier and
promontory when at 6 P.M., on October 14, the Royal Mail steamer
'Dunottar Castle' left her moorings and sailed with Sir Redvers Buller
for the Cape. For a space the decks remained crowded with the passengers
who, while the sound of many voices echoed in their ears, looked back
towards the shores swiftly fading in the distance and the twilight, and
wondered whether, and if so when, they would come safe home again; then
everyone hurried to his cabin, arranged his luggage, and resigned
himself to the voyage.

What an odious affair is a modern sea journey! In ancient times there
were greater discomforts and perils; but they were recognised. A man
took ship prepared for the worst. Nowadays he expects the best as a
matter of course, and is, therefore, disappointed. Besides, how slowly
we travel! In the sixteenth century nobody minded taking five months to
get anywhere. But a fortnight is a large slice out of the nineteenth
century; and the child of civilisation, long petted by Science,
impatiently complains to his indulgent guardian of all delay in travel,
and petulantly calls on her to complete her task and finally eliminate
the factor of distance from human calculations. A fortnight is a long
time in modern life. It is also a long time in modern war--especially at
the beginning. To be without news for a fortnight at any time is
annoying. To be without news for a fortnight now is a torture. And this
voyage lasts more than a fortnight! At the very outset of our
enterprise we are compelled to practise Mr. Morley's policy of patience.

We left London amid rumours of all kinds. The Metropolis was shrouded in
a fog of credulous uncertainty, broken only by the sinister gleam of the
placarded lie or the croak of the newsman. Terrible disasters
had occurred and had been contradicted; great battles were
raging--unconfirmed; and beneath all this froth the tide of war was
really flowing, and no man could shut his eyes to grave possibilities.
Then the ship sailed, and all was silence--a heaving silence. But
Madeira was scarcely four days' journey. There we should find the
answers to many questions. At Madeira, however, we learned nothing, but
nothing, though satisfactory, is very hard to understand. Why did they
declare war if they had nothing up their sleeves? Why are they wasting
time now? Such were the questions. Then we sailed again, and again
silence shut down, this time, however, on a more even keel.

Speculation arises out of ignorance. Many and various are the
predictions as to what will be the state of the game when we shall have
come to anchor in Table Bay. Forecasts range from the capture of
Pretoria by Sir George White and the confinement of President Kruger in
the deepest level beneath the Johannesburg Exchange, on the one hand, to
the surrender of Cape Town to the Boers, the proclamation of Mr.
Schreiner as King of South Africa, and a fall of two points in Rand
Mines on the other. Between these wild extremes all shades of opinion
are represented. Only one possibility is unanimously excluded--an
inconclusive peace. There are on board officers who travelled this road
eighteen years ago with Lord Roberts, and reached Cape Town only to
return by the next boat. But no one anticipates such a result this time.

Monotony is the characteristic of a modern voyage, and who shall
describe it? The lover of realism might suggest that writing the same
paragraph over and over again would enable the reader to experience its
weariness, if he were truly desirous of so doing. But I hesitate to
take such a course, and trust that some of these lines even once
repeated may convey some inkling of the dulness of the days. Monotony of
view--for we live at the centre of a complete circle of sea and sky;
monotony of food--for all things taste the same on board ship; monotony
of existence--for each day is but a barren repetition of the last; all
fall to the lot of the passenger on great waters. It were malevolent to
try to bring the realisation home to others. Yet all earthly evils have
their compensations, and even monotony is not without its secret joy.
For a time we drop out of the larger world, with its interests and its
obligations, and become the independent citizens of a tiny State:--a
Utopian State where few toil and none go hungry--bounded on all sides by
the sea and vassal only to the winds and waves. Here during a period
which is too long while it lasts, too short when it is over, we may
placidly reflect on the busy world that lies behind and the tumult that
is before us. The journalists read books about South Africa; the
politician--were the affair still in the domain of words--might examine
the justice of the quarrel. The Headquarter Staff pore over maps or
calculate the sizes of camps and entrenchments; and in the meantime the
great ship lurches steadily forward on her course, carrying to the south
at seventeen miles an hour schemes and intentions of war.

But let me record the incidents rather than their absence. One day the
first shoal of flying fish is seen--a flight of glittering birds that,
flushed by the sudden approach of the vessel, skim away over the waters
and turn in the cover of a white-topped wave. On another we crossed the
Equator. Neptune and his consort boarded us near the forecastle and
paraded round the ship in state. Never have I seen such a draggle-tailed
divinity. An important feature in the ritual which he prescribes is the
shaving and ducking of all who have not passed the line before. But our
attitude was strictly Erastian, and the demigod retired discomfited to
the second class, where from the sounds which arose he seemed to find
more punctilious votaries. On the 23rd we sighted a sail--or rather the
smoke of another steamer. As the comparatively speedy 'Dunottar Castle'
overtook the stranger everybody's interest was aroused. Under the
scrutiny of many brand-new telescopes and field glasses--for all want to
see as much of a war as possible--she developed into the 'Nineveh,'
hired transport carrying the Australian Lancers to the Cape. Signals
were exchanged. The vessels drew together, and after an hour's steaming
we passed her almost within speaking distance. The General went up to
the bridge. The Lancers crowded the bulwarks and rigging of the
'Nineveh' and one of them waggled a flag violently. An officer on our
ship replied with a pocket-handkerchief. The Australians asked
questions: 'Is Sir Redvers Buller on board?' The answer 'Yes' was
signalled back, and immediately the Lancers gave three tremendous
cheers, waving their broad-brimmed hats and gesticulating with energy
while the steam siren emitted a frantic whoop of salutation. Then the
speed of the larger vessel told, and we drew ahead of the transport
until her continued cheers died away. She signalled again: 'What won the
Cesarewitch?' But the distance was now too great for us to learn whether
the answer gave satisfaction or not.

We have a party of cinematographers on board, and when they found that
we were going to speak the 'Nineveh' they bustled about preparing their
apparatus. But the cumbrous appliances took too long to set up, and, to
the bitter disappointment of the artists, the chance of making a moving
picture was lost for ever; and indeed it was a great pity, because the
long green transport, pitching in the sea, now burying her bows in foam,
now showing the red paint of her bottom, her decks crowded with the
active brown figures of the soldiers, her halyards bright with signal
flags, was a scene well worth recording even if it had not been the
greeting given in mid-ocean to the commander of the army by the warlike
contingent which the need or convenience of the Empire had drawn from
the Antipodes.

South of the line the weather cools rapidly, and various theories are
advanced to explain the swift change. According to some, it is due to
the masses of ice at the Antarctic Pole; others contend that it is
because we are further from the land. But whatever the cause may be, the
fall in temperature produces a rise in spirits, and under greyer skies
everyone develops activity. The consequence of this is the organisation
of athletic sports. A committee is appointed. Sir Redvers Buller becomes
President. A two days' meeting is arranged, and on successive afternoons
the more energetic passengers race violently to and fro on the decks,
belabour each other with bolsters, or tumble into unforeseen troughs of
water to their huge contentment and the diversion of the rest.

Occasionally there are light gusts of controversy. It is Sunday. The
parson proposes to read the service. The captain objects. He insists on
the maintenance of naval supremacy. On board ship, 'or at any rate on
board this ship,' no one but the captain reads the service. The
minister, a worthy Irishman, abandons the dispute--not without regret.
'Any other clergyman of the Church of England,' he observes with warmth,
'would have told the captain to go to Hell.'

Then there is to be a fancy dress ball. Opinions are divided. On the one
part it is urged that fancy dress balls are healthy and amusing. On the
other, that they are exceedingly tiresome. The discussion is prolonged.
In the end the objectors are overruled--still objecting. Such are the
politics of the State.

Inoculation against enteric fever proceeds daily. The doctors lecture in
the saloon. One injection of serum protects; a second secures the
subject against attacks. Wonderful statistics are quoted in support of
the experiment. Nearly everyone is convinced. The operations take place
forthwith, and the next day sees haggard forms crawling about the deck
in extreme discomfort and high fever. The day after, however, all have
recovered and rise gloriously immune. Others, like myself, remembering
that we still stand only on the threshold of pathology, remain
unconvinced, resolved to trust to 'health and the laws of health.' But
if they will, invent a system of inoculation against bullet wounds I
will hasten to submit myself.

Yesterday we passed a homeward-bound liner, who made great efforts to
signal to us, but as she was a Union boat the captain refused to go near
enough to read the flags, and we still remain ignorant of the state of
the war. If the great lines of steamships to the Cape were to compete
against each other, as do those of the Atlantic, by increasing their
speeds, by lowering their rates, by improving the food and
accommodation, no one would complain, but it is difficult to see how the
public can be the gainers by the silly antagonism I have described.
However, the end is drawing very near, and since we have had a safe and
prosperous journey criticism may well waive the opportunity. Yet there
are few among the travellers who will not experience a keen feeling of
relief in exchanging the pettiness, the monotony, and the isolation of
the voyage for the activity of great enterprise and the interest of real
affairs: a relief which may, perhaps, be shared by the reader of these
letters. Yet if he has found the account of a dull voyage dull, he
should not complain; for is not that successful realism?

October 29.

News at last! This morning we sighted a sail--a large homeward-bound
steamer, spreading her canvas to catch the trades, and with who should
say what tidings on board. We crowded the decks, and from every point of
view telescopes, field glasses, and cameras were directed towards the
stranger. She passed us at scarcely two hundred yards, and as she did so
her crew and company, giving three hearty cheers, displayed a long black
board, on which was written in white paint: 'Boers defeated; three
battles; Penn Symons killed.' There was a little gasp of excitement.
Everyone stepped back from the bulwarks. Those who had not seen ran
eagerly up to ask what had happened. A dozen groups were formed, a hum
of conversation arose, and meanwhile the vessels separated--for the pace
of each was swift--and in a few moments the homeward bound lay far in
our wake.

What does it mean--this scrap of intelligence which tells so much and
leaves so much untold? To-morrow night we shall know all. This at least
is certain: there has been fierce fighting in Natal, and, under Heaven,
we have held our own: perhaps more. 'Boers defeated.' Let us thank God
for that. The brave garrisons have repelled the invaders. The luck has
turned at last. The crisis is over, and the army now on the seas may
move with measured strides to effect a final settlement that is both
wise and just. In that short message eighteen years of heartburnings are
healed. The abandoned colonist, the shamed soldier, the 'cowardly
Englishman,' the white flag, the 'How about Majuba?'--all gone for ever.
At last--'the Boers defeated.' Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

So Sir Penn Symons is killed! Well, no one would have laid down his life
more gladly in such a cause. Twenty years ago the merest chance saved
him from the massacre at Isandhlwana, and Death promoted him in an
afternoon from subaltern to senior captain. Thenceforward his rise was
rapid. He commanded the First Division of the Tirah Expeditionary Force
among the mountains with prudent skill. His brigades had no misfortunes:
his rearguards came safely into camp. In the spring of 1898, when the
army lay around Fort Jumrood, looking forward to a fresh campaign, I
used often to meet him. Everyone talked of Symons, of his energy, of his
jokes, of his enthusiasm. It was Symons who had built a racecourse on
the stony plain; who had organised the Jumrood Spring Meeting; who won
the principal event himself, to the delight of the private soldiers,
with whom he was intensely popular; who, moreover, was to be first and
foremost if the war with the tribes broke out again; and who was
entrusted with much of the negotiations with their _jirgas_. Dinner with
Symons in the mud tower of Jumrood Fort was an experience. The memory
of many tales of sport and war remains. At the end the General would
drink the old Peninsular toasts: 'Our Men,' 'Our Women,' 'Our Religion,'
'Our Swords,' 'Ourselves,' 'Sweethearts and Wives,' and 'Absent
Friends'--one for every night in the week. The night when I dined the
toast was 'Our Men.' May the State in her necessities find others like
him!

CHAPTER II

THE STATE OF THE GAME

Cape Town: November 1, 1899.

The long-drawn voyage came to an end at last. On the afternoon of
October 30 we sighted land, and looking westward I perceived what looked
like a dark wave of water breaking the smooth rim of the horizon. A
short time developed the wave into the rocks and slopes of Robben
Island--a barren spot inhabited by lepers, poisonous serpents, and dogs
undergoing quarantine. Then with the darkness we entered Table Bay, and,
steaming slowly, reached the anchorage at ten o'clock. Another hour of
waiting followed until the tugboat obeyed the signal; but at last she
ran alongside, and there stepped on board a Man Who Knew. Others with
despatches pushed roughly through the crowd of soldiers, officers,
passengers, and war correspondents to the General's cabin. We caught the
Man Who Knew, however, and, setting him half way up the ladder to the
hurricane deck, required him forthwith to tell us of the war. Doubtless
you have been well informed of all, or at any rate of much, that has
passed. The man told his story quickly, with an odd quiver of excitement
in his voice, and the audience--perhaps we were 300--listened
breathless. Then for the first time we heard of Elandslaagte, of
Glencoe, of Rietfontein, a tale of stubborn, well-fought fights with
honour for both sides, triumph for neither. 'Tell us about the
losses--who are killed and wounded?' we asked this wonderful man. I
think he was a passage agent or something like that.

So he told us--and among the group of officers gathered above him on the
hurricane deck I saw now one, now another, turn away, and hurry out of
the throng. A gentleman I had met on the voyage--Captain Weldonasked
questions. 'Do you know any names of killed in the Leicesters?' The man
reflected. He could not be sure: he thought there was an officer named
Weldon killed--oh, yes! he remembered there were two Weldons--one
killed, one wounded, but he did not know which was in the Leicesters.
'Tell us about Mafeking,' said someone else. Then we heard about
Mafeking--the armoured trains, the bombardment, the sorties, the
dynamite wagons--all, in fact, that is yet known of what may become an
historic defence. 'And how many Boers are killed?' cried a private
soldier from the back. The man hesitated, but the desire to please was
strong within him. 'More than two thousand,' he said, and a fierce shout
of joy answered him. The crowd of brown uniforms under the electric
clusters broke up into loud-voiced groups; some hastened to search for
newspapers, some to repeat what they had heard to others; only a few
leaned against the bulwarks and looked long and silently towards the
land, where the lights of Cape Town, its streets, its quays, and its
houses gleamed from the night like diamonds on black velvet.

It is along casualty list of officers--of the best officers in the
world. The brave and accomplished General of Glencoe; Colonel Chisholme,
who brought the 9th Lancers out of action in Afghanistan; Sherston, who
managed the Indian Polo Association; Haldane, Sir William Lockhart's
brilliant aide-de-camp; Barnes, adjutant of the 4th Hussars, who played
back of our team and went with me to Cuba; Brooke, who had tempted
fortune more often than anyone else in the last four years--Chitral,
Matabeleland, Samana, Tira, Atbara, and Omdurman--and fifty others who
are only names to me, but are dear and precious to many, all lying under
the stony soil or filling the hospitals at Pietermaritzburg and Durban.
Two thousand Boers killed! I wish I could believe there were.

Next morning Sir Redvers Buller landed in state. Sir F. Forestier-Walker
and his staff came to meet him. The ship was decked out in bunting from
end to end. A guard of honour of the Duke of Edinburgh's Volunteers
lined the quay; a mounted escort attended the carriage; an enormous
crowd gathered outside the docks. At nine o'clock precisely the General
stepped on to the gangway. The crew and stokers of the 'Dunottar Castle'
gave three hearty cheers; the cinematograph buzzed loudly; forty cameras
clicked; the guard presented arms, and the harbour batteries thundered
the salute. Then the carriage drove briskly off into the town through
streets bright with waving flags and black with cheering people. So Sir
Redvers Buller came back again to South Africa, the land where his first
military reputation was made, where he won his Victoria Cross, the land
which--let us pray--he will leave having successfully discharged the
heavy task confided to him by the Imperial Government.

Now, what is the situation which confronts the General and the army? I
will adventure an explanation, though the picture of war moves very
swiftly. In their dealing with the military republics which had become
so formidable a power throughout the Cape, the Ministers who were
responsible for the security of our South African possessions were
compelled to reckon with two volumes of public opinion--British and
colonial. The colonial opinion was at its best (from our point of view)
about three months ago. But the British opinion was still unformed. The
delays and diplomatic disputes which have gradually roused the nation to
a sense of its responsibilities and perils, and which were absolutely
necessary if we were to embark on the struggle united, have had an
opposite effect out here. The attempts to satisfy the conscientious
public by giving the republics every possible opportunity to accept our
terms and the delays in the despatch of troops which were an expensive
tribute to the argument 'Do not seek peace with a sword,' have been
misinterpreted in South Africa. The situation in the Cape Colony has
become much graver. We have always been told of the wonderful loyalty of
the Dutch. It is possible that had war broken out three months ago that
loyalty would have been demonstrated for all time. War after three
months of hesitation--for such it was considered--has proved too severe
a test, and it is no exaggeration to say that a considerable part of the
Colony trembles on the verge of rebellion. On such a state of public
opinion the effect of any important military reverse would be
lamentable.

Nor is the military position such as to exclude anxiety. The swift flame
of war ran in a few days around the whole circle of the republican
frontiers. Far away to the north there was a skirmish at Tuli. On the
west Khama's territories are threatened with invasion. Mafeking is
surrounded, isolated, and manfully defending itself against continual
attack. Vryburg has been treacherously surrendered by its rebel
inhabitants to the enemy. Kimberley offers a serene front to a
hesitating attack, and even retaliates with armoured trains and other
enterprises. The southern frontier is armed, and menaced, and the
expectation of collision is strong. But it is on the eastern side that
the Boers have concentrated their greatest energies. They have gone Nap
on Natal. The configuration of the country favours an invader. The
reader has scarcely to look at the map, with which he is already
familiar, to realise how strategically powerful the Boer position was
and is. The long tongue of plain running up into the mountains could be
entered from both sides. The communications of the advanced garrisons
would be assailed: their retreat imperilled. The Boers seemed bound to
clear northern Natal of the troops. If, on the other hand, they were, or
should now be, suddenly driven back on their own country, they have only
to retire up the tongue of plain, with their exposed front narrowing
every mile between the mountains, and await their pursuers on the almost
inexpugnable position of Laing's Nek. Appreciating all this, their
leaders have wisely resolved to put forth their main strength against
the force in Natal, and by crushing it to rouse their sympathisers
within the Cape Colony. Should they succeed either on this front or on
any other to a serious extent, though the disaffection would not take a
very violent form, for all the bravoes have already joined the enemy,
the general insecurity would demand the employment of an army corps in
addition to that already on the seas.

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