Reports from the Boer War (2024)

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EDGAR WALLACE

COMPILED AND ANNOTATED BY ROY GLASHAN

First published by Roy Glashan's Library, 2012
Version Date: 2020-07-12

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The articles in this collection were originally published in the Daily Mail. The texts given here arereproduced from newspapers published in New Zealand. The scannedversions can be viewed at the"PapersPast" website, which is maintained bythe National Library of New Zealand.

In 1901 Hutchinson & Co., London, published41 of Edgar Wallace's reports from South Africa under the titleUnofficial Dispatches Of The Anglo-Boer War. The present collection contains 65 reports, including some which were published after the war.

— Roy Glashan, 12 July 2020.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

• Appendix. Contents Of Unofficial Dispatches Of The Anglo-Boer War

WITH CARRINGTON THROUGH RHODESIA

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), August 14, 1900

GOING UP BY THE MASHONALAND RAILWAY

Twelve people in a railway carriage, bound northward—acarriage constructed exactly like a London tram-car, only nothalf as comfortable, with a narrow seat running down either side,and a still narrower luggage rack above. A sleepy negro boy inlimbo and fez squatting on the platform at the end of thecarriage, and as the train turns a curve a glimpse of a dozenplumed khaki figures in an open truck ahead.

This is on the road to Marandellas, Sir Frederick Carrington'sfirst camp, and is somewhere between Bamboo Creek andMandegos.

The passengers are: three Portuguese officials, who swap lieswith many gesticulations and much noise—stories generallyof how they got the better of Somebody Else, illustrated bykilling imitations of Somebody Else's voice, manner, despair, orindignation, delivered with raucous gusto; two nondescriptindividuals who "know every inch of the country" and are walkinggazetteers of Rhodesia, but are otherwise perfectly harmless;three fever-stricken railway men stretched out on rugs spread onthe floor of the carriage—uncomplaining, haggard Englishmenon their way to the Umtali Hospital with their annual dose ofmalaria; a Buluwayo stockbroker returning from England; a Germanlady tricked up in faded finery who speaks English, French, andPortuguese with suspicious fluency; and myself.

WHERE HAVE WE MET?

Does the lady object to smoking? The lady does not, and on thestrength of that tries to open a conversation. Hadn't she met meat Beira? No; then perhaps it was in Paris—then perhaps inLondon? I emphatically deny ever having met her either in Londonor in Paris, or, in Timbuktoo—or in Port Said either; whichlast crushed her and caused her to relapse into silence for atleast ten minutes. The nondescripts open a tin of lunch tongue,and the elder and more decayed finds a bottle ofbrandy—these are their provisions for the three days'journey to Salisbury. They had also some aged crabs, which theystored beneath the seat and forgot all about. The passengersdetected these during the night and thought it was the swamp.

"You remember the Massi-Kassi raid, don't you, sir?"

This, after the third application of the three-starredreviver, and is addressed to the stockbroker.

"You talk about raids," went on nondescript senior, glaring atthe unoffending and unconscious Portuguese trio, " why, when theblooming Portygese raided our blessed territory what did wedo?"

Nobody volunteered to answer this.

"I know,"—triumphantly—"because I was with ColonelHeyman—and it was only in '90. Why; if we had our rightsthe whole of the Portygese territory would beRhodesia—though Heaven knows it is only fit for dagoes andnigg*rs."

NATURE IN ABANDON

One looks out on the country rolling past. Great stretches ofgrassy land, with here and there a clump of trees and the gleamof a distant river winding through the mangoes. Very beautifulfor the eye to see, but the grass hides a swamp reeking withmalaria, and every night brings the fever-laden miasma. Now thetrain winds through a tangled mass of jungle andundergrowth—a veritable botanical garden run wild. Hererises from the interlacing bush bamboo, and creeper, the gaunt,white, lifeless branches of a thorn tree; here, growing amidstthe bananas and wild tomatoes, is a clump of lordly palms: It isNature in abandon. A covey of partridges rises with a whirr frombeneath the very wheels of the locomotive, and a zebra crashesthrough the jungle and appears for an instant on the crest of arise, and is gone.

"There was forty of us," went on the speaker, pausing a momentto protest against the nondescript minor's appetite, "or it mighthave been forty-one. Jim Harvey was there. You remember JimHarvey, the butcher of Salisbury, don't you, 'Arry? Turned minerand blowed hisself up with a dynamite cartridge down at theGeelong—or it might have been at Shangani—anyhow,he's dead. Well, there was forty of us, and up come the Portygesearmy, and that about 900 strong, with six machine guns, while weonly had a seven-pounder."

This was interesting, for my friend the stockbroker had givenme a confirmation of these facts in an undertone.

"We was on a hill, somewhere north of Massi-Kassi—oldMassi-Kassi, I mean, not the place they call Macequecenow—go easy with that meat, Jim, we shan't get anymore thisside of Umtali—and when the colonel saw the army coming hehid the seven-pounder in a tent, and made all of us exceptseventeen lie down in the bush."

FEVER

One of the sick men on the floor groaned, and clasped his headbetween his long white hands.

Nondescript junior leant over and felt the dry, burning skinwith a touch begotten of experience.

"Hi, boy "—this to the squatting attendant on theplatform—"Manzi."*

[Manzi (Zulu)—water. ]

Then he fumbled in his pockets till he discovered the remedy,which, being put up in 5-grain tabloids, is easy to carry.

"Quinine is a useful thing," went on the elder man, "if youdon't take too much. I take whisky myself. Well, up come thePortygese Governor, and he kow-tows to the Colonel. 'Hullo!' hesays—he had left his army at the foot of the hill. 'Hullo,'he says. 'Do you know where you are?' —and all the time hewas looking round to see how many guns we had.

"'Rather fancy I do,' says the Colonel, winkin' at me. 'Ihaven't taken the sun yet, but I'm under the impression that I'msomewhere off the stormy isle of Massi-Kassi.'"

A QUESTION OF FRONTIERS

"'You'll find it pretty, stormy if you don't clear,' says theGov'nor, having reckoned up our strength on his fingers and sevenof his brass buttons. 'Don't you know you're in Portygeseterritory,' he says.

"'Can't say that I do,' says the Colonel.

"'Well, consult your map,' says the Gov'nor.

"'Don't put no faith in maps says the Colonel; 'fact is, I'min the map-making line myself. Many's the little bit if AfricaI've helped to make red,' he says.

"'Well,' says the Gov'nor, thinking of his six machine guns atthe foot of the hill and cursing hisself for not having brought awar correspondent along with him to describe his glorious victoryin the morning. 'Well,' he says, 'the top of this hill will bered enough if you ain't gone by sun-up.'

"'I'll think about it.' says the Colonel.

"'You'd better,' says the Gov'nor. 'Good afternoon.'

"'Won't you have a drink before you go,' says the chief. Sothey had a whisky-and-soda, and as they drunk each other's healtheach says to hisself, 'To-morrow morning I'll cook your goose, myboy.' What station's this?"

A HALT FOR FUEL

It isn't a station, but a fuel halt. The fuel used on theMashonaland Railway is wood. At every few miles along the linethe train passes great stacks of logs placed ready for on-loadingand now and again a little saw-mill buzzing away merrily in theforest. Timber is very plentiful in the Portuguese territory, andthis alone makes the railway workable. One strange feature of theline is that nowhere—as far as I could see—are woodand water loaded together.

We start off again with that jerk, inseparably associated withAfrican railways. It is getting towards evening, and the aspectof the country has already undergoing a change. The smooth, widegrassy plain has given place to more uneven ground from whichrise high tree-covered so many exaggerated ant-hills.

Through the valleys and creeping along the lowland a miasmasluggishly laves the base of the hills and covers the swampground till the kopjes* are Alps above the clouds, and one canalmost picture the slumbering village ten thousand feetbelow.

[Kopje (Afrikaans, literally "littlehead")—a small hill rising up from the African veldt. ]

Nondescript the elder is not poetical; he eyes the mist andshivers, and resorts once more to the cognac.

"I got caught in a mist like that one night, and had to sleepin it. It was round in the Zoutpans district in the Transvaal,and was in 1881, long before the Transvaal was worth fightingabout, and I was in the Kimberley Hospital for five months. Well,about the Portygese raid. That night there was happiness andrevelry in the dagoes' camp while we sat dark and silent with adouble allowance of whisky, just like the old Saxons and Normansat the battle of Hastings.

"Next morning before daybreak we had the 7-pounder in positionand all the men with ammunition to hand waiting for the Gov'nor'sarmy to eat us up.

FEARFUL ODDS

"Up came the army—skinny little men with yellow facesthat hadn't been shaved for a month—on they came, havingfirst tried their machine guns to see if they would go off. Iexpect the Gov'nor made a speech—'On top of the hill, mychildren, there are seventeen desperate raiders. In spite of ouroverwhelming odds we will attack them.'

"So up they came, firing wildly and charging the front of thekopje just as though they were under an English general. Well,somehow, they stopped when they was halfway up, and after waitinga little while to see if we really meant it, or if it was all byway of a joke, they went back again; leaving all their nice newmachine-guns at the bottom of the hill—we've got one inBuluwayo to this day. After that we had a little peace, althoughthe war was carried on down Beira way, where the Portygese man-o'-war fired three shots at an English ship, but gave up afterthe third shot because the shock of the gun going off broke thecaptain's looking-glass. Then the Magicienne came roundfrom Simonstown and wanted to know what all the trouble wasabout, and the Portygese skipper looked up the Magiciennein the Navy List, and finding she was a second- class cruiserwith six guns realised the horrors of war, and said he only firedfor a lark. Then a commission sat on the boundary line and gaveout that Massi-Kassi was Portuguese territory, and they'rewelcome to it, for of all the fever-stricken cribs I've ever beenin the Macequece district takes the bun."

I have taken down my fellow-traveller's narrative almost as hegave it. There are, I find on inquiry, many inaccuracies in it,but the main facts are as he gave them.

Living among the people who helped to make history in theseparts, one learns to appreciate the labours of the many Judsonsfor the English.

AT MANDEGES

The train is now rushing through the lowlands, and the white,sticky, clinging mists swirl and sway on either side. A pale moonstares wanly down; the plumed Queenslanders in the truck aheadare singing appropriately enough—for we are passing throughthe fly-belt—The Place Where The Old Horse Died andthe German lady, under the encouraging influence of Portugueseadmiration, has recovered her volubility. The train jars into asiding which may be found marked on any respectable map of theworld as "Mandeges."

THE ELAND'S RIVER GARRISON

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), September 27, 1900

MEN WHO PRAYED TO BE PUT IN A TIGHT PLACE.

To say that they were extremely annoyed would be describingtheir feelings too mildly.

They were very savage, they forgot themselves slightly, andswore with force and originality. They cursed Rhodesia, theycursed Fate, they cursed their various Governments, but mostlythey cursed their Governments—for they are a very politicalpeople these Australians, weaned on manifestoes and reared onParliamentary debates. They cursed their Governments, knowing byheart their weaknesses, and ever ready to attribute the non-success of any undertaking—be it political, social orwarlike-to the dilatory action of certain members of the diversCabinets.

"The Government ought never to have sent us up here at all"—a Queenslander spoke with great earnestness—"ifthey wanted us to see any fighting. Got to Beira inApril—now it's June, and—"

THEY WERE "OUT OF IT"

Pretoria was occupied. This was the news which had spread thewave of pessimism! over the little way-side camp on the BuluwayoRoad—a camp on the fringe of the long, white road whichwound south and dipped north.

The Sabakwe River trickled through the land, a stone's throwfrom the white tilted waggons, drawn tail-board to pole to form arough laager,* and the heavy-eyed oxen stood knee-deep inits sluggish waters.

[* laager (Afrikaans)—a militaryencampment. ]

North—or rather north-east—several nights away,was Marandellas. South of that, and far, was Beira, and it wastwo months ago since they had left. Two months, and Mafeking hadbeen relieved, Johannesburg entered, Pretoria occupied. Thereforethe Bushmen, who dreamt not of Eland's River, and to whom Zeerustwas a name in a gazetteer, grew despondent.

"Do you think there is a chance of fighting, sir?"

I could not answer the Victorian who asked, nor did I have theheart to reprove the Tasmanian who swore

CAME OUT FOR A FIGHT

"Well," remarked the Queenslander, "all I can say is, that ifwe don't see any fighting it will be a shame." He qualifiedshame. "We didn't come out here to be piffled through thiscountry." There was an adjective before country. "If I wanted toadmire scenery I'd have stayed in Queensland. If I wanted goldI'd have gone to Rockhampton. As for land! Well, if any of youfellers want land I'll sell you a run of 6000 acres of the bestland in the world!"

They are peculiar, the men who are holding Eland's River; theyare not soldiers as we in London know soldiers; they don't likeshouldering arms by numbers, and they vote squad drill "damsilly." They are poor marching men, for they have been used toriding; they ride firmly, but not gracefully. The horses theyprefer are great, rough up-standing brutes that buck themselvesinto inverted V's when they are mounted, and stand on their hindlegs to express their joy. The Bushman will rid a horse for ahundred miles without thinking it anything extraordinary, andbring it in in good condition, but he cannot go for a couple ofmiles without galloping the poor brute to death. He is verycareful how he feeds his mount, and would sooner go without foodhimself than his dumb friend should be hungry, but it takes atroop sergeant-major and three corporals to make a bushman groomhis horse.

MEN WHO PRACTICE PATIENCE

They are very patient, these men; their training makes themso. They have learnt to sit by water holes and watch sheep,dividing their time between week-old papers and day-old lambs.Politics interest them; war— ordinary, every-day war thatdoes not call for their active interference— intereststhem; but the price of wool interests them more than all thesethings. Russian famines distress them, Indian plagues alarm them,but the blue staring sky and the rain that comes not make linesaround their eyes, and puts grey into their beards.

They have got their own method of going out to fight, and thatmethod is as distinct from that of the regular Tommy, as Tommy'sis foreign, to the C.I.V.*

[* C.I.V.—City of London ImperialVolunteer. ]

WORKMANLIKE "TOMMY" AND PICTURESQUE C.I.V.

Tommy goes forth to battle in a workmanlike manner. He seldomwrites farewell letters, but grabs a hunk of biscuit, gives hiswater-bottle a shake to see how much he has got, buckles on hispouches and bayonet, and, with the instinct bred on a dozenbarrack squares, smooths the creases out of his stained khakijacket. Then he picks up his rifle and eyes it critically, jerksback the bolt and squints up the barrel—Tommy, the workman,is careful of his tools—pushes back the bolt, mechanicallysnaps the trigger, fixes his helmet firmly on his head, and stepsout to join his company.

The C.I.V., when I knew him first, was somewhat self-conscious. His rifle was clean, his bandolier was ready to puton, his coat was nicely rolled, his puttees were evenly fixed;long before the fall-in bugle sounded he was ready forparade—for he was very keen. When the bugle sounded hepicked up his rifle, not carelessly, as did his brother of theline, but reverently and with care. He adjusted his broad-brimmedhat, he patted his bayonet to see if it was there, and went outto face the pock-marked trenches with the proud consciousnessthat, at the worst, he would make a picturesque casualty.

A MATCH FOR THE BOER

The Bushman knows his rifle as the City man knows his walking-stick. He feels neither contempt nor awe for it. It is acommercial asset, a domestic property. Perhaps he keeps his wifein dresses by shooting kangaroos; perhaps he keeps himself inwhisky by tracking wallabies. His equipment is scanty. He has abandolier, perhaps a pouch, possibly a mess-tin, certainly a"billy." When the parade-call goes, he falls in with his fellowsand numbers off from the right somewhat sheepishly. On parade heis a unit and has to do as he's told, and he isn't quite used tosubmitting his will to those of others in authority.

"Fours right!"

He wheels round awkwardly. If he makes a slip he causes hishorse to buck to cover his confusion.

"Walk—march!"

He is off, and he feels easier. Then comes the splitting up ofhis squadron into little independent patrols, and he breathesfreely, for with a couple of kindred spirits on a scouting triphe is a man once more with a soul of his own. He sees most thingsand acts quickly. Before the "ping" of the sniper's bullet hasdied away he is off his horse and under cover. Then, if thesniper is an intelligent man, he won't move about much, for whena Bushman has located his quarry he can lie quite still for anhour at a stretch, his cheek touching the stock, his fingerresting lightly on the trigger.

These are the men who are holding Eland's River—men wholive on "damper"* and tea—and whose progress throughRhodesia was marked by many dead horses and much profanity.

[* Damper—A traditionalAustralian soda bread prepared by swagmen, drovers, stockmen andother travelers. ]

They wanted to fight badly. They prayed that they might getinto a tight place. Their prayer is answered.

If you knew the Eland's River garrison, you would not pitythem—you would rejoice with them.

THE REBEL AND THE PSALMIST

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand),February 23, 1901

PORT ELIZABETH, Cape Colony

I have been to church—to a church in a little dorp* onthe Port Elizabeth-Graaff Reinet line, a white-washed, square-cutkirk and ugly. A village where a handful of khaki-clad militiamenplay at guarding a bridge, and the stories of Transvaalatrocities are believed as the Gospel.

Dorp (Afrikaans)—a village, asmall town. ]

What I heard there can be heard in any Dutch Reformed churchin South Africa—in Graaff Reinet, in Uitenhage, in SomersetEast, even, it is whispered, in effect in Capetown.

The dream of a United Afrikander nation is dying hard.

The Dutch colonists are only now grasping the significance oftheir shadowy ideal and the vague, shapeless vision of a separatenational life has, in the moment of the realisation of itshopelessness, assumed a certain tangibility. Nothing is morepatent to the most casual observer than the fact that it is onlyduring the past two months that the leaders of the "New National"movement in the Cape Colony have seen the impossibility of thefulfilment of their dream.

At the beginning of the war a general rising throughout thecolony would have put altogether a different complexion uponmatters, but the malcontents were confident of the success of theRepublican forces and, at the worst, of European intervention,and so they played that waiting game which so happily fits thebackveldt indolent.

IN THE HOUSE OF THE CHOSEN

Now it is that, with all the impotent rage of strong mencaught napping, platform, pulpit, and Press thunder forthdenunciation of the conqueror. Now it is that every method thathuman ingenuity can devise, every effort that leaders andinterested organisers can put forth, every malignant liecalculated to fire the blood of the unlearned and intensify thealready existing hatred, is being employed to the undoing of theEnglish.

Curious to see for myself what manner of thing a politicalsermon is, I attended an evening service not far from here.

The church, grim and bleak, was half filled. There was nogreat display of colour, no attempt at anything startling inshape of dress. Black was the hue and home-made severity the cut.The worshippers sat bolt upright in their uncomfortable pews, andthe boot-squeak of the comer and the occasional sniff orapologetic cough were the only sounds that broke the silence.There were elderly men in irreproachable broad-cloth with sombrebanded hats. There were young men greatly daring in fancifulsuits, lacking originally in cravats. Stout Boer women inbrocaded silk, and plump Dutch girls with expressionless eyes.They came in, keeping step to the monotonous clang of the churchbell, in twos, singly, in parties, and in families, recognisingwith a glance such of their friends as were already seated.

The bell stopped, and a little harmonium droningly asserteditself. And then, accompanied by one of the deacons, thepredikant himself entered and ascended the pulpit. Theorgan wailed itself into sleep, and the predikant*adjusted his glasses.

Predikant (Afrikaans)—apreacher. ]

NO NAMES

There were spirit and life in the hymns, many of which weresung without as much as a glance at the book, for thecongregation had beguiled many a long evening on lonely farms andisolated homesteads, singing them over, not so much from anygreat religious zeal or piety as from that desire to kill timewhich moves the convict to master the contents of his PrayerBook.

Then there were lessons and prayers, chapters from the OldTestament of people in bondage and their delivery, prayers thatthis Trouble which is in the Land may pass, that the heart of theOppressor might be softened, that the Vengeance of the Lord mightdescend and smite the Destroyer, that Israel be delivered fromthe hands of its enemies, that the Philistines might be sweptinto the sea—yea, even as the wind sweeps the locust.

The predikant prayed with fervour, with hands claspingand unclasping, in agony of spirit. In his prayers he did notrefer by name to the Boer Republic; he simply asked for Divineintervention for the Lord's Chosen. He did not speak of England;he said Philistines and Amalekites. He did not refer directly toSir Alfred Milner nor Mr. Chamberlain, but with all the passionhe could command he called for vengeance on the false counsellorswho had initiated the persecution of the people of the land. Heprayed, and the congregation punctuated his prayers with deepsighs and amens, and I, a Philistine in the House of the Chosen,sat and wondered why this fervour, this undoubted earnestness,had hot been directed towards Paul Kruger in the days when a wordfrom the Dutch churches in South Africa would have prevented thewar.

THE PULPIT SLANDERER

Then came the sermon. No particular verse of the Scripture wastaken—the text was a Psalm in the whole. There was no"secondly" and very little "lastly." Verse by verse the Palmist'ssong was spoken to illustrate the depravity of the British. Eachinjustice to Israel had a parallel to-day. Each passionate appealof David had application to the case of Chamberlain's victims inthe North. It was the fourteenth psalm he took as a subject. Thefool had said in his heart that the cause of the burgherwas a lost cause; that the Lord was not behind His people; thatthe accursed tyranny of the oppressor should prevail.

And what of these oppressors? These people who tried to hidethemselves from ! the rifles of the burghers by arrayingtheir bodies in mud-colored cloth? The congregation murmured witha sympathetic appreciation of this sarcasm. What of these men?Truly, the Psalmist said, they were corrupt, they had doneabominable things, there was not one who had done good; no, notone. What of the wasted lands in the north? What of thedishonored homes and the blackened walls of the once prosperousfarmhouse? What of—?—again that awfulstory—that Horror, made doubly authentic by reason of theplace of delivery.

He told the story, the bald, crude tale, carrying to a whiteEnglishman its own refutation in every syllable, and thecongregation held its breath.

He told the story, so that a man seated in the next pew tomyself half rose from his seat and, like a man who tries to shoutin a dream and finds that he can but whisper, muttered: "There istime yet, there is time yet."

So that a young girl rose from her seat, tittering andwhimpering, and was led out.

"FRIENDS!"

And the sermon went on. The Lord had looked down upon theOppressor, and had visited him with affliction, with disasterupon disaster. Colenso, Stormberg, Magersfontein had come like athunderbolt upon the world. It was the Divine warning to turnfrom the path of oppression, to open the eyes of a blind nation.And how had the warning been taken? Had the nation heeded thevoice? No. It had prosecuted its unrighteous designs, its unholyobject. It had gone from worse to worst; it had becomefilthy.

Had they no knowledge, these iniquitous people, who hadbrought war and desolation to the country, whose path had beenmarked by much blood and burning? These people, who are dead toall dictates of conscience, to all honor and pity? Did they notrealise that at the eleventh hour the Lord would save His people?Or that the salvation of Israel would come out of Zion! Did hisbrethren understand what that passage meant?

The predikant paused and leant forward over the pulpit,and there was a silence. Did they understand that the people ofthe captivity looked to their own kindred for deliverance fromtheir bondage?

Another pause, and the congregation shifted uneasily in theirseats. Thus abruptly the sermon ended, and the people dispersed,some walking, some riding, some driving. Group by group theyscattered, parting with limp shakes of great hornyhands—the elder men in gloomy silence, the younger men withmutterings of threats and hints of startling things to be.

I passed down towards the little village that staggers fromthe church at one end and to the naked veldt at the other, passedby the little camp, answering the sentry's challenge. There was arattle of wheels behind me. It was the predikant drivingback with one of his flock. I stood on one side to allow them topass. As the trap neared the little roadside camp a bayonetglittered in the moonlight, and the horses were pulled upsharp.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

Back came the answer, prompt, and clear, and glib—

"Friends!"

THE BIRTH OF A CORPS
THE STORY OF KITCHENER'S FIGHTING SCOUTS

Reproduced from The Wanganui Chronicle (New Zealand),March 27, 1901

MATJESFONTEIN, January 16, 1901

You may be pardoned for the natural curiosity which promptsyou when you read, that Somebody's "Horse," newly raised, hasbeen doing good work, to inquire from the most likely informantthe history of the raising of that corps, how it was raised, why,and how it got the name that it bears. Roberts, Strathcona,Driscoll, Warren, Bethune, Paget, Thorneycroft, Cameron, Marshal,Orpen, Rimington, Brabant, Loch, Lovat, and last, not least inwar, Kitchener, have given their names to horses or scouts, whilecorps like the South African Light Horse and the Imperial LightHorse have managed very well without the backing of anillustrious patronymic. They came into being, these corps, andyou at home know nothing of the labour and travail that attendedthe birth. You did not know of swearing adjutants, sweatingremount officers, despairing C.O.s, of recruits withoutdiscipline, who had ideas to be knocked out of them, of hastilyacquired equipment, of gloomy forebodings that the war would beover before they were ready to take the field.

FIRST THE PROLOGUE

They came to you first in the list of casualties, which, beingofficial, took precedence of the Press report that came later,and while you were reading the Special's account of themad desperate rush, or the grim, bitter resistance, of the new-made soldiers, they themselves were wiping the marks of battlefrom their brand-new equipment, and thanking Heaven that theBritish army had a corps like theirs to fall back upon in thehour of danger.

In most cases these forces bear the names of the men to whomthey owe their inception—men who have given, in addition totheir names, service, fortune, and, in the case of poorMontmorency, that charming gentleman who fell with his Guides,life.

The story of Kitchener's Fighting Scouts is necessarily ashort one. Indeed, the prologue is scarcely written, but theinterest of that portion of the story deserves attention.

A few months ago the world of sport—that world that isnot satisfied with shooting over preserves, but looks towardsSomaliland and Rhodesia for the pleasures of life—wasgrieved to learn of the sudden death of Mrs. Colenbrander, asplendid sportswoman who had taken up her gun I against theMatabele impis, and had fought side by side with her husband inthe dark days of '96.

She it was who, with Mr. Colenbrander, had accompanied Mr.Rhodes in his daring indaba in the Matoppos, and her famethroughout Rhodesia was no less than that of JohannesColenbrander—that mighty hunter whose name is a passportfrom the Swaziland border to the Zambesi. Her tragic death camelike a thunderbolt upon Johannes, and finding life under the oldconditions unbearable, he resolved to sell out his everypossession in Rhodesia and find distraction in the Transvaal. Hewas not long in Johannesburg before Lord Kitchener, who knew himby repute, sent for him, and in the half-hour's conversationbetween them the corps that bears the name of the Commander-in-Chief was born.

Indaba (Zulu)—A council ormeeting of indigenous peoples of southern Africa to discuss animportant matter. ]

A HUSBAND DESOLATE

"What are you doing, and where are you going?" was Kitchener'speremptory demand.

"I am looking out for a new home, and I am going to England toattend a board meeting," was the reply.

"Better join me," advised the strong man. "They tell me youknow every inch of the Swaziland border?"

"I know Zululand and Swaziland like a book."

Kitchener thought for a while.

"Will you take command of a force to patrol the Swazilandborder?" he asked.

"I will raise a force on one condition," responded Mr.Colenbrander— "if you give , me leave to recruit."

Now at that time every irregular regiment in the field hadopened recruiting offices in all the large towns of the Colonyand Natal. There was not a hoarding in Capetown, Port Elizabeth.East London, Grahamstown, Durban, or Maritzburg that did not beara dozen invitations to the youth of the colony to step up livelyand join the Imperial Light Horse, or the South African LightHorse, or B.P.'s Police, or Marshall's, Nesbitt's, Brabant's, orother regiments of Light Horse.

The Pioneer Regiments, the local volunteers, in fact, everycorps on service, were soliciting recruits, and every dorp ortown throughout South Africa had its recruiting office.Consequently Colenbrander's offer to raise an entirely new forcewas a somewhat daring one.

"Where will you recruit?" said the General.

"Everywhere—Capetown, Durban, Port Elizabeth, andBulawayo."

Kitchener pointed out that recruiting in Bulawayo had beengoing on for some considerable time—in fact, he thoughtthat the Rhodesian supply of recruits was exhausted.

"After you have finished recruiting, said Colenbrander calmly,"I will undertake to raise 300 men from Rhodesia alone."

"Very well," said Lord Kitchener promptly, "put your ideas onpaper and bring them along to-morrow morning at 11."

As Colenbrander turned to go, he bethought him to ask whatname the corps should bear.

"What do you think?" asked the chief.

"Well, sir," was the instant, reply, "if you don't mind, Ithink 'Kitchener's Scouts' would not be a bad name.

At this Lord Kitchener demurred.

"Can't you find another name?" he asked.

"I couldn't find a better," was the quick response.

SCOUTS AND MORE

Kitchener smiled. "All, right," he said, "if you would likeit, be it so—but you are to be something more than scouts.I want you to fight."

"Then 'Kitchener's Fighting Scouts' let it be," said thenewly-appointed commanding officer, and "Kitchener's FightingScouts" it was.

The next day a rough plan for forming the corps was drawn up,and the last of Colenbrander's conditions for raising the corpswas quaint. "No Imperial officer other than Lord Kitchener shallhave control over the regiment." Lord Kitchener laughed, andagreed, and Colenbrander walked away with the embryo of aregiment in his pocket-book.

Then Johannes Colenbrander sat still, and looked around forhis officers. His second in command was easily found. MajorWilson was on Lord Kitchener's staff and he had a South Africanrecord that many generals might envy. Wilson had the eye and mindfor organisation. Colenbrander had the love and trust of hisfellows throughout South Africa. Both were brave, strong men.Between them they chose their officers.

They were men who had "shot for the pot" from their youthup—men who had wandered away from time to time from thebeaten tracks, and made paths through the unknown wilderness ofthe north.

Pioneers who had carved their names in the primeval forests,and had set their monograms down in cleared townships. They weremen who were wont to disappear at intervals from the BulawayoClub and turn up a few months later with a new stock ofreminiscences, and the fa*g end of an attack of fever.

The officer commanding one squadron was down at Massi-Kassi inthe days of the Portuguese raid, and his subaltern callsBarotseland "home."

Wilson was on the Shangani in '93—and they have all beenthrough the '96 rebellion.

And so with the men. Forty per cent of them wear the orange-and blue-barred ribbon '96. They, too, know the bad backland, andcarry tabloids of quinine in their pockets. They are here inMatjesfontein, with their two spare horses and their Cape carts,with their native scouts and pom-poms. If they by any good luckget the order to chase De Wet they will get him, for they havethe pick of the horses, and reject twice as many as they acceptfrom the remount officer.

They will not take anything that has a suspicion of "crock" inhis composition, and in consequence they will be the finestmounted force that has ever chased a Boer commando.

In the meantime Webber, who is the remount officer, is turninggrey.

THE BETTER PATH

Reproduced from The Wanganui Chronicle, April 20,1901

LOYALTY, LOOT, AND COMPENSATION.

Prince Albert road, Cape Colony, February 3, 1901

It was at the trial of an alleged rebel yesterday atMatjesfontein. He was a storekeeper charged with contraveningProclamation 1a of 1899, and he had elected to give evidence onhis own behalf.

He was being subjected to a stiff cross-examination of one ofthe ablest of staff officers, Captain G.F. Marker, of theColdstream Guards, and in answering a question pressed by theprosecutor, the prisoner put the case for the British Governmentin a nutshell.

The prisoner had a store in Sutherland, and when theperipatetic commando halted the while at the sun-bathed dorp, itscommandant had found him a very useful substitute for a supplyofficer, and his store not a bad imitation of a supply base. Theevidence showed that the prisoner was not an unwilling agent inthe matter; that he offered no resistance, handing over stores,food, forage, and clothing at the commandant's pleasure

TO DISCOUNT BOER DRAFTS

He was being commandeered, he was being "looted"--and wouldthe hateful enemy mind signing for all they took, so that theBritish Government should know all was fair and above board?

"Do you mean to say," asked the prosecuting officer, inamazement, "that you obtained a Boer commandant's signature inorder to obtain payment from the British Government?"

"Yes," was the ingenuous answer of this representative of asimple pastoral people.

A proclamation has just been issued laying down rules andrestrictions regarding payment of compensation for damagessustained by the Cape colonists; and if the above candidconfession does not justify the most stringent reservations,nothing does.

From time to time the Government of this colony issue certainstatements pertaining to the military situation, and it isseldom, if ever, that these documents do not finish up with thesmug and comfortable assurance that "the invader is gaininglittle assistance from the colony."

There is nothing more deceiving than this statement, as I havealready pointed out by cable.

It is worded so as to make the people of England believe that,so far from receiving support or assistance from the Cape Dutch,the invaders are being discouraged in every way from theirnefarious purpose.

That fewer Dutchmen are taking up arms and joining the invaderthan was anticipated is, undoubtedly, a fact. Also, so long asthere was a possibility that the arrival of a Boer commando wouldmean a considerable carrying over to the profit and loss accountin the books of the Boer storekeeper, that there was someresentment shown on the part of these worthies is also a fact.But then there arose the glorious vision of compensation. Theylearned--Heavens knows how --that the officers in charge of thecommando were willing and anxious to sign for all the stock theytook; indeed, for a few sovereigns they would give a receipt for£500 more than value received. And then came peace.

LOYAL AND LOOTED

Let the Boers come; if they looted the farm or the homesteador the store they would give receipts. With the generosity of mencontracting debts for others to pay, they would give the lootedone credit for twice the amount of goods they had taken. Therewas no need to join the enemy, no need to take up arms and sufferthe discomforts of a campaign.

Also they were happy to supply the Boers with information.Whether the nearest town was occupied by the British; how manytroops there were; whether any English soldiers had passed bythat morning; strength of patrols, locality of outposts--anylittle thing like that; any scrap of information they possessedor could acquire they were happy to give, and it was a thousandchances to one against their being detected. So the motto of theDutch in this country has been--the new year resolution, in fact--"It pays to be loyal and be looted, it hurts to be rebel and beshot."

The leniency with which we have dealt with our rebellioussubjects in this war is a subject so frequently approached thatone grows sick of the reiteration. I think it is now quiteapparent to every man and woman that the adoption of severemethods of dealing with traitors in the beginning of the warwould have saved much blood and sweat; but it is as well not tolose sight of the fact that there is still opportunity forenforcing a more vigorous regime in this matter.

The machinery now in use for dealing with the gentry who actas intelligence officers to the Boer forces is so complex thatany ordinary liar--and the backveldt population are well abovethe average--may, in the time intervening between his arrest andhis trial, hope to clear himself and even sue the Government forunlawful imprisonment.

DISLOYAL AND FORGIVEN

A civilian commits an offence which probably jeopardises thesafety of a column. The offence is such that no military courtwould hesitate in sentencing him to death. Perhaps he has riddentwenty miles to give information to the invader to the effectthat we are laying in wait for him at a convenientspruit.* The officer commanding the column learns fromsmart loyalist of the betrayal and arrests the traitor. Perhapsin being arrested the man shows fight and strikes a soldier. Heis taken to the base, and instead of being tried by court-martialhe undergoes a preliminary examination conducted by a magistrate,and probably a month after the committal of the offence he iscommitted for trial--on a charge of assaulting the captor!

Spruit (Afrikaans)--a watercourse.]

The treatment allotted to the individual traitor should beswift and severe, and that to the passive enemy within our wallssuch as will render him harmless till he recovers his senses.

It would require, however, a nice discrimination to punish arebellious people, were it not for the fact that they havedifferentiated themselves from the loyalists of the colony, andhave associated with a common object, and that, the ousting ofBritain, her interests, her language, and her influence fromSouth Africa.

The days have passed since we regarded the AfrikanderBond as a purely political association existing for theamelioration of the South African farmer's lot. We now know it isa power; a great, strong, subtle power, intensifying racialhatred, and aiming for a United South Africa under a Republicanflag.

However fine this ideal may have been--and traitorous idealsmay be fine--it was nonetheless traitorous, whether it was to berealised by constitutional methods or by a recourse to arms, andthe far-reaching efforts of the Bond's teaching has beyond doubtswollen the ranks of the Republican forces in the earlier stagesof the war, and encouraged our enemy to a still more stubborn!resistance.

Because of this, and because every Bondsman in this countrysympathises with and, when the opportunity offers, helps theenemy, without malice I say that no claim for compensation on thepart of a Bondsman should be entertained.

The Afrikander Bond has been more than a politicalassociation.

Good people at home who think of it at the worst as aferocious sort of Radical club would do better if they thought ofit rather as a dangerous type of the Clanna-Gael, with a hundredthousand armed members.

THE COMING OF DE WET

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), May 6,1901

HIS FIRST CHECK
A TRIBUTE TO VICTORIAN TROOPS

PHILIPSTOWN, February 13, 1901

There is not a hundred miles from De Aar an Intelligenceofficer.

You may never have met his like at home, because in Pall MallIntelligence officers are only ordinary people who go to officefrom ten till four, eat dinners, and see plays, just as you or Iwould, and, wearing no particular uniform other than the uniformof the regiment to which they belong, they pass unnoticed in thered-tabbed crowd on the "military side" of the War Office. MyIntelligence officer, however, is a civilian, and wears khaki anda mustard-coloured cap.

He has a large staff and spends his time opening privateletters that pass through De Aar, so that should one Boer generalwrite to another Boer general, giving him information regardinghis plans, strength or disposition—such being the methodusually adopted by Boer commandants to convey their intentions toone another—that Intelligence officer immediately knows,and, acting on the information thus acquired, puts a stop to theindiscreet correspondent's little game.

"OPENED UNDER MARTIAL LAW"

Or it may be that the letters are opened with the idea ofascertaining what Piet Faure of Paarl thinks of Christian De Wetof Dewetsdorp. At any rate, the staff, is employed in openingletters from morning to night, and the re-sealing and fasteningdown with neat red labels "Opened under martial law."

Consequently, when I wrote at midnight last Monday night thatall was quiet on the Orange River, I had no reason to doubt thatso methodical and painstaking a department could possibly bemistaken in thinking the district was quiet. But even as Iwrote—and while yet the Intelligence Office, moved by astern sense of duty, was probably poring over the clumsysentences of an amorous Dutchman, trying to read, in the crude,ill-turned sentences, some traitorous sentiment—the Boerscouts were seated on the kopjes outside Philipstown waiting fordaylight that they might enter the town.

They knew—for their un-uniformed Intelligence departmentconfined their attentions to the enemy's movementsonly—that Philipstown was held by the smallest of Yeomanrypatrols, and they counted the task of taking the town an easyone.

De Wet was across the border, and he had made up his mind toaccomplish that mission he had set for Commandant Hertzog.

IGNORANCE SOMETIMES PAYS

Philipstown was the first town on the list, and occupyingPhilipstown as generally counted by the enemy as only something atrifle more fatiguing than going to a picnic.

Philipstown is disloyal beyond salvation, and its inhabitantsusually keep a holiday suit of clothes handy to don when theBoers ride through.

If disloyalty were a pestilence and sedition a plague, nohonest man could come within ten miles of Philipstown andlive.

Therefore, the invaders were perfectly justified in thinkingthat Philipstown was in their own country, and the invasionproper started south of there.

With the dawn of the 12th—yesterday—the advanceparty of a commando numbering 400 men moved towards the town, andthe Yeomanry patrol took up a position in the gaol and preparedto defend themselves.

The functions of a cavalry patrol do not seem to be clearlyunderstood. It is its duty to act as the eyes of the army, toreport suspicious movements of the enemy, and generally to keepout of sight and see as much as it can.

Under the circ*mstances the patrol would probably have donemore good had it retired from Philipstown and reported the Boermovements to the main body or. to the brigade to which itbelonged.

However, the officer commanding the patrol entered the gaol,and putting it in a state of defence made a most gallant fight,and succeeded in keeping a portion of the town clear of theenemy.

ADVANCE AUSTRALIA

A few miles from Philipstown and on the De Aar road was astrong patrol of the Victorian Imperial Regiment, about sixty menunder Captain Tivey, who had been sent from De Aar the previousday by Colonel Henniker, with instructions to patrol withinstriking distance, of Philipstown, and to him the officercommanding the goal sent a message asking for assistance.

At the same time as Captain Tivey got the message, the Boersresolved to occupy a very strong position south of the town, andcommanding the De Aar and Houtkraal roads. Unfortunately forCommandant Van der Merwe, the Victorians resolved on achievingthe same object, and immediately on both sides of the ridge,unseen by the other, were two bodies of men galloping for theirvery lives towards the natural fortress that overlooks thetown.

The Australians got there first—as the enemy discoveredlater. It was not what one would call a great battle—theenemy lost a few and we lost none—but it was a brilliantlittle fight, and it proved the Australian commander to be asresourceful as he and his men were courageous. All day long thefight continued, and in the evening, on the arrival of MajorGranville Smith with the rest of the Victorians under MajorClark, the Boers fled, leaving the Dopper* and the DutchReformed ministers to bury their dead.

{*Dopper (Afrikaans)—a member ofthe most conservative Afrikander Church, which practises a strictCalvinism. ]

Such was the battle of Philipstown—nothing very great asbattles go, but sufficient to hold De Wet's main body for atleast six hours and turn him back on the pursuing columns. It washis first check south, and it was fitting that the men from thecolonies, who at this time are coming forward so readily at thecall of the Mother Country, and the Yeomen of England should havebeen the men who gave De Wet his first check.

CAPETOWN TO-DAY
THE CITY OF REFUGE

Reproduced from The Evening Post (New Zealand), March 2, 1901

After you have left the ship and have strolled round the townyou will return again and ask the purser to let you remain as aboarder for the few days the mail boat is in dock.

You will do this in preference to camping out on the beach orcontenting yourself with the shakiest of shakedowns in thedirtiest of third-rate Capetown hotels.

There will be a room empty in a day or so perhaps, but atpresent they are full up. The guinea-a-day hostelry and the five-pounds-a-month lodging house have one story to tell—"fullup." Every week the boats from England bring fresh boarders, andevery week aimless young men in Baden-Powell hats trudge the red-hot pavements of the capital in search of accommodation.

Capetown in these days is necessarily a khaki town.

It is rather depressing, this dirty yellow uniform,particularly when you have worn it yourself, marched in it,fought in it, and slept in it for the greater part of a year. Thenovelty of the tint wore off months before these gay youths whosport it to-day in cab, café, and bar thought of doffingtheir broadcloth for the mustard-hued tunic.

WHISKERED, AND NOT ASHAMED

Also it is difficult for one who has a nodding acquaintancewith dress regulations to reconcile himself to the artistic get-up of the Capetown warrior, for the Capetown warrior is a beingbeautiful. He is an imitative exquisite, and, like the genius he'is, he has improved greatly upon the hard and fast rules thatWar Office fogies have laid down regarding the manner in whichofficers of Her Majesty's Army shall array themselves when in HerMajesty's highways.

In the field the British officer troubles very littleconcerning his personal appearance, carrying his fastidiousnessonly to the point of desiring clean shirts at frequent intervals;but in Adderley-street the British officer is a thing of beautyand a joy for the whole morning. The khaki tunic which severaldistinct regulations direct shall be fastened is carefully turneddown at the throat to show the snowiest of hunting-cravats, oreven an immaculate collar and tie! His boots of white buckskinare newly pipeclayed; and the helmet which filled the bills atMeerut and Atbara is now discarded for the soft felt "smasher,"which has the advantage of supplying, better than any otherarticle of attire, the local colour necessary for the SouthAfrican campaigner.

One sees many regiments represented in Capetown. Bushmenjostle men of the Guards, New Zealanders fraternise with ImperialYeomen. In the smoking-room of the City Club, painfully youthfulsubalterns of Militia expound ponderous theories on war and itsconduct to good-natured captains of irregular horse, men who wearweird whiskers and are unashamed.

POLICE! POLICE!

These khaki men have all been somewhere north. They have allmarched or ridden, and shot hopelessly at bushes which had, itwas alleged, hidden Boers. They have all instinctively ducked asthe wailing little messengers of death sang over their heads. Nowthe war is over—to them. They still wear their uniforms,and in a vague sort of way identify themselves with the front,which has now become a place for which the 9 o'clock train leavesnightly.

After all, the war is over. It is now a brigandage, our enemyis a moonlighter, his colonial sympathiser a boycotter. We aresending our generals home and are increasing our policeforce—which exactly explains the situation.

The Boer army has to all intents and purposes ceased to exist.It has dissolved into murdering particles. Flying columns havedwindled down to marauding bands. Night attacks have sunk to thelevel of cowardly assassinations, and the cry of South Africa isno longer a wail for flank attacks, but rather that with whichthe denizens of Suburbia have made us long familiar: "Give usmore police."

At the corner of Adderley-street, by the Standard Bank, a mansits at a table—a table littered with dusty pamphlets andcovered with nice clean newspapers. A placard pinned to the edgeof the table calls upon the passer-by to sign a petition to theQueen. It is the new reform movement. It is the new grievance ofthe new Uitlander.* Kruger has passed, and with him hiscorrupt regime. The franchise bogie has vanished into thin air.Now it is the capitalist, the demon capitalist, who is going tocrush the Uitlander—the hateful capitalist whom LordRoberts, has placed in positions of trust in the gold reefcity.

[* Uitlander(Afrikaans)—foreigner (lit. "outlander"); the name given toexpatriate migrant workers during the initial exploitation of theWitwatersrand gold fields in the Transvaal. ]

THE FOCUS OF DISLOYALTY

I rather think it is not a real danger, but the refugee isgetting short of money, and anything that appears in theslightest degree to be suggestive of further privations producesa kind of panic—the panic of desperate men hard up.

Soon the refugee will begin returning to the Rand, and thequestions which are now of life and death will resolve themselvesinto those mild phases of social and economic legislation, thediscussion of which enlivens the proceedings of towncouncils.

At present the reformers' troubles are very high politics.

There is in Capetown a class of refugee which probably willnever trouble the relief committee, and takes only the mostlanguid interest in the possibilities of a speedy opening of theRand: a class which is only moved to gleeful excitement byintelligence of a setback—however temporary—toBritish arms.

Good souls, these deported Hollander families and theirCapetown friends. The ladies are so charming, so franklydisloyal, and yet so ready to bow to the inevitable, that theofficers of the garrison who turn up in time for afternoon teavote them "no end of good sorts, don't you know!"

If I were asked what is the most dangerous centre of seditionin South Africa, I should without hesitation award thequestionable honour to Capetown. There are the same oldrebellious circles—stronger numerically than they were ofyore— babbling the same traitorous sentiments withincreased bitterness. There is the some coterie of traitorouswomen binding themselves into a thousand and one highfalutin'leagues—little rocks of discontent that serve to indicatethe hidden reefs of hate and treason.

FOOLISH AND LOYAL

Yet in spite of their unmistakable detestation of everythingthat is British, and their alleged love for theircountry—which in all cases means Pretorian socialcircles—there is nothing of the Joan of Arc about thesebellicose dames. Perhaps a Charlotte Corday might be found who,strengthened in her purpose by the knowledge of kid-glovemilitary retribution, would be willing to risk a month'simprisonment in the Mount Nelson Hotel, or some equally dreadfulpunishment devised by staff college graduates, by slaying ageneral or two, or even a correspondent.

Meanwhile the loyal refugees—the foolishones—increase in number daily. Almost day by day as theships arrive, but mostly on the big mail days, they come flockingin from England, till one feels inclined to stop the stream ofmen that straggle from the docks to the town and ask them if theycan read— if they do not understand that the Rand is stillclosed, and the Refugees Relief Funds are running low; to askthem if they do not realise that unless they have funds to lastthem for at least six months they might as well return to Englandagain by the next steamer.

And so week by week the town is hidden by the new-come swarm.It is full, it is more than full, but a titanic hand seems toshake it into compactness, and then there is room for the lastnewcomers. Room, though they overflow and some slip over the edgeinto the vague "up country." Overcrowded, but still room for all.Tightly packed and trickling into Suburbia, but stillroom—and then—well then a little blue and red flagcrawls lazily up to the flagstaff on Signal Hill, another linerhas been sighted, and the shaking up begins all over again.

OUT ON THE VELDT

Reproduced from The West Coast Times (New Zealand), April 26, 1901

THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA

Mr Edgar Wallace describes in the Daily Mail theanxious, watching on the veldt for the news of the Queen. Wequote the following:—

"TICK—TICK—TICK—PRINCE—WALES—TELEGRAPHS—LIFE—BELOVED—QUEEN—GREAT—DANGER."

An Australian patrol has come in from Damslaagte, and the menhave trotted their horses up to the door of the office.

"Say—what's the news? It isn't really true, is it?"

They are grimy, unshaven, and white with dust of the trek.They are tired men, who have ridden forty miles since "sun up",but they have forgotten their fatigue, forgotten their hardshipsof the past week, forgotten even to report that they bad beensniped at, oblivious to all things save that somewhere sixthousand miles north, in a place they did not know, somebody whomthey had never seen was passing into the shadow.

The night passes; a troublesome night, and silent save for thesough of the wind and the tick of the tape. A night in the centreof an unpeopled world, among restless shades and whimpering,whispering voices. Now and again a form appears from nowhere inparticular, and an anxious voice demands the latest news, andthen disappears unsatisfied. If the word "empire" bonds thehearts of people of the seven seas together, surely this sorrowwhich is pressing on us to-night is knitting the very souls ofmen into one. In our loneliness we experience the companionshipof kindred suffering, and to-night we are one with Brisbane as weare with Ottawa

And she has played so great a part in this war—if you athome will only realise it. Hers was the word that numbed thesting of the rebuff. Hers was the message that put hope and lifeand a new courage into the battered brigades that struggled backfrom the scene of the disaster. Her thanks and solicitudes werethe crowning triumphs of the hard-won field.

"It's the Queen's gift to me," said a hard-faced private ofthe line when I approached him at the Modder River with a view topurchasing his chocolate box; "it's the Queen's gift to me, andmoney wouldn't buy it."

She has ever been a sacred subject among the rank and file cfthe Army. They are very broad-minded, the men who served andloved her; Papist or Buddhist or Jew are one with our Protestantselves. This is the rule of the barrack room. Talk lightly ofcreeds, of faiths, or of strange gods; but there is one who mustnot be brought within the range of controversy. They require noregulations to guide them in this matter. They are governed intheir thoughts toward her person by a love which cannot becommanded.

"Tick—tick—tick." Message after message comesup.

The clerk drops the festoon of tape and listens to theinstrument. He is reading by ear, and as the chattering sounderspeaks he raises a tremulous hand to his lips to hide a tell-taleshiver.

"Her Majesty died last night."

Outside the wind had dropped, the veldt was silent andpeaceful, and the eastern sky was gold and crimson. So I left theclerk with his bowed head on his arm and went and told hismen.

KITCHENER—THE GENERAL

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand), May 14, 1901

THOROUGH, UNCONVENTIONAL, AND COOL

As you know him at home, a general is an elderly person in atightly-buttoned frock coat and a befeathered co*cked hat whowalks with solemn stride along the stiffened ranks of a regimentin review order and discusses the civil side of the War Officewith the regimental C.O. in language of a peculiar asperity. Heis, moreover, a person of whom the most irreverent cavalrysubaltern stands in awe, and his coming—of which a month'snotice is given—causes junior line officers to devotethemselves to mastering the intricacies of the sword practicewith great earnestness. When he is not in uniform he opensbazaars, attends war games, presents prizes to charity schools,and writes letters to the Times.

Abroad and in war time he is another person, and where nohouse is available ne lives in a tent over which floats a redflag.

ONE BY HIMSELF

In these days he is a power—and, strangely enough, isless a supreme unapproachable than a comrade. He has his bath inthe morning and fights steadily from sun-up to sun-down, when heknocks off to write his despatches. If he is consistentlysuccessful you at home call him familiarly by his surname, andcigarette makers use his photograph for advertising purposes. Ifhe is unsuccessful, and disastrously so, he goes home on sickleave—for he is usually very sick.

Lord Kitchener is not like other generals; and indeed, it iswell that no stereotyped officer is at the helm in South Africa,and I say this without in any way desiring to reflect upon thewisdom, capacity, or administrative abilities of any othergeneral officer—for the situation calls rather for thespecialist than the general practitioner.

A great strategist would be wasted in Africa. There is no needfor delicate adjustment of forces or elaborately preparedcounter-moves. The overthrow of the remnant of the Boer armyrequires little strategy. It is a matter for brute force andphysical endurance.

Lord Kitchener realises this, and has realised it for manymonths. He knows that if the war is to be brought to asatisfactory conclusion, that end will only be arrived at byplodding dogged perseverance, and by playing the Boers at theirown game, and damaging them in the most effective manner.

THE WORK AND THE MAN

You cannot defeat the Boer by calling him names. He runs awayand glories in it. You cannot get near enough to call him acoward, nor would that epitaph sting him to the fighting point.It is a part of Brother Boer's tactics to run, and he makes usrun after him; it is a part of the tiring-out process, and thedominating maxim of the outlying commando is:—

"Ye who fight and run away,
Live to fight with De la Rey."

Kitchener knows this, and where another general might havebeen covering sheets of foolscap with general ideas forsurrounding and capturing the flying burghers, Kitchener iscalmly and steadily removing to well-guarded centres the means offlight.

Firstly, the burghers must have food— so we are bringingthe food in. Then they must have horses, so the country from theOrange to the Crocodile is being denuded of horses.

The horses must have forage, and the forage of the country isstored or burnt.

Imagine if you can Kitchener's task. Think of the enormoustract of country over which our operations are extended, and youwill realise to some extent that in Pretoria is the only possiblegeneral for the work in hand—a work that demands bettergeneralship than would be required of the commander of an armycorps in a European war.

HEAD, MIDDLE, AND FEET

In South Africa Kitchener is the head, middle, and feet of thearmy. He runs everything and knows everything. He has divisions,brigades, and columns moving in all directions over an area notless than 300,000 square miles, and he knows the whereabouts ofevery one. He has some columns that are 250 miles from anyrailway line, and as far from telegraphic communication. Hisgrasp of detail is perfect. He knows how many Cape cartsHenniker's column has, and he is aware that there are three sickYeomen in hospital at Buluwayo.

THE MAN AND HIS MEN

His attitude towards his subordinates is peculiar, for hevalues man only as a more or less perfect machine, and the moreperfect he is the better he treats him. Kitchener has no use forfops of any sort, but he is not so prejudiced by appearance as toorder a man home because he wears an eyeglass, as some peoplewould have you believe. Indeed, some of his best officers have anaffection for the monocle.

If his manner were translated into words, it would runsomething like this:- -

"I am your superior officer; you have taken service under me,and the world will judge you according to your progress. I havegreat power entrusted: to me by the King through his Parliament,and whoever you are or whatever position you fill in the socialworld I can make or mar you. I want you to do your duty, and yourduty is to do as you are told. If you do as I bid, you shall haveall the credit for the success in obtaining which I used you asan instrument. If my plans miscarry I will take theblame—unless it miscarries through your inefficiency. Idon't care who your tailor is or how many clubs you may be amember of providing you can lead your men into action with amaximum of dash to a minimum of risk. I don't want heroes whowill lead their companies up to the cannon's mouth and reduce thestrength of their regiments accordingly, but steady men who willtake cover and shoot away obstruction from the shelter of a niceconvenient boulder."

Nor does Kitchener spare himself, as the recent chase of DeWet testifies. If he is not at Pretoria sitting at the end of atelegraph wire he is somewhere down the line seeing things forhimself, and De Wet had not been long in the Colony beforeKitchener was at De Aar, talking to the commandant of Hopetownabout the horses that had not been removed from the Hopetowndistrict. On such occasions "K of K" has a fine flow oflanguage.

WHY WE LOST DE WET
THREE GOOD REASONS

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), May 16,1901

COLESBERG TOWN, March 4, 1901

De Wet being now safely across the river, and the odds againsthis returning being about 1000 to l, Colesberg is full of troops.White, Bruce-Hamilton, Plumer, Pilcher and others I cannotremember have been in and out for the last few days, andHenniker, Crabbe, Thorneycroft, and Monro are camped about thebase of Suffolk Hill waiting for orders. De Wet has passed, hehas swum the river in flood, losing about twenty men in the act,and he is moving to Fauresmith for all he is worth.

There can be no doubt that our operations have been mostsuccessful, and I am not trying to explain away the fact that wehave lost the guerrilla chief when I say that we haveaccomplished all Lord Kitchener set us to do—namely, todrive De Wet back again to the Orange River Colony, to preventhim at all hazards penetrating south. On two occasions we mighthave caught him—or cornered his commando, for I doubt nowwhether De Wet himself will ever be taken—and on bothoccasion we failed for the same reason, viz., the total absenceof any organised system of communication between the variouscolumns.

A COMPLETE CORDON

De Wet's last few days in Cape Colony were the most fatefuldays he has ever spent, for it was touch-and.go with him whetherhe would be completely surrounded. Henniker, after leavingPetrusville with Crabbe, followed up De Wet to the Zand Drift,Thorneycroft being on Henniker's left. Hickman, moving up fromPhilipstown, came in touch with the enemy, but only with hisrearguard, unfortunately. Haig and Williams were further south,and the question now was, Where was Byng?

Byng, as far as the columns knew, should be exactly in front,and this would have completed the cordon, Haig and Williamsmaking a break south an impossibility. Byng had left Colesbergand, unknown to us, had struck De Wet's foreguard at a farmcalled Goodehoepe. He then sent a message to De Aar informingGeneral Lyttelton, who commanded, and who seventy miles away wasdirecting operations, and received either from that officer orfrom Pretoria direct an order to retire south to prevent De Wetmoving in that direction. De Wet then moved over the ground whichhad been vacated, and reaching Lilliefontein crossed theriver.

This in brief is what happened, and the question is, whatwould have prevented it and made De Wet's capture possible? I aminformed that for two or three days Hickman, desirous ofconveying and receiving information, had tried in vain to attractthe attention of the officer commanding at Colesburg byheliograph. Coleskop, famous by reason of the guns French mountedthereon, is a landmark, and from, certain aspects can been seenfor forty or fifty miles. Who, then, can blame Colonel Hickmanfor imagining that on this eminence, which is in a garrison town,there should be a staff of signallers?

THE SIGNAL THAT FAILED

There can be no doubt at all that had a signaller beenstationed on Coleskop De Wet would have been caught. From such aneminence—using Coleskop as the exchangingmedium—columns would have been able to communicate one withthe other, instead of being forced to resort to the laborious,dangerous, and time-wasting method of sending messages through bydespatch riders. To locate De Wet is simple enough, to place acordon round him—that is, to put a force of men east, west,south and north of him—is not so very difficult. Toinstruct these men or columns to leave camp at a certain date andmove in a given direction is the easiest thing in the world, butonce let these columns get thirty miles from their startingpoints without means of rapid communication one with the other,and you have set a dozen blindfolded mutes from the four sides ofa square to catch a wide-awake man in the centre.

WANTED CO-OPERATION

The telegraph line is unreliable, if, indeed, not impossible,in a district through which a hostile force is marching, and itis to the little circular mirror on the tripod that we must lookfor help.

There is no reason why a complete heliograph service shouldnot be inaugurated throughout South Africa at least from De Aarnorthward. Each heliograph post could be held by reason of itsposition on the mountain by a company of infantry, and LordKitchener would be independent of the wire.

There are hundreds of mountains suitable for the purpose. Ihave already mentioned Coleskop, from which by two stages one isable to communicate with Thaba N'chu, in the east of Orange RiverColony. The failure to capture De Wet may be traced to threesources.

The first, and most important, is the absolute failure ofcommunication between columns and headquarters.

The second, the impossibility of a general conductingoperations from a distance varying from thirty to seventy milesunder such conditions.

The third, the temptation among column commanders to make thecampaign against De Wet a competition rather than, a cooperatedmovement.

A NICE WAR

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), May 24,1901

STRAINING THE QUALITY OF MERCY

MIDDELBURG (Cape Colony), March 13, 1901

In the years that are to be, you, my friends, may pat oneanother on the back and remark:

"Whatever may be said of the Anglo-Boer war of 1899-1902, itmust be confessed that never was war waged where so much humanitywas displayed on both sides as in that war; we never needlesslylook life; we were very careful about hurting the feelings of ourenemy; if we killed him we erected a monument over his grave; ifwe took him a prisoner we were careful to feed him on the verybest—even though our own troops were on quarter rations;and when we temporarily exiled him we sent him off to theloveliest spot in the world in a ship warranted not to roll!"

Perhaps, too, in those days the doctrines of humanity willhave become such a factor in our daily lives that we shall regardhim as a perfect judge whose sentences are the lightest, and weshall reserve our Chief justiceship for the judge who weeps andforgives tie repentant burglar and converts the Hooligan throughthe medium of afternoon teas and jam tarts. If you are anxious tobe in a position to say the words that I have put into yourmouth, you may very easily. You have only to prosecute, the warto an amiable finish, and at the back end of 1902 or 1903, or,perhaps, 1904, you will be in that happy state of mind. If Bothasurrenders—and I doubt whether he will, except in themanner Cronje surrendered—the war will be ended. Notvirtually ended, not as good as ended, nor nearly ended, but justended.

NICENESS AND NICENESS

Botha is the recognised Commander-in-Chief, and with him isSchalk Burger, the recognised president of the late Republic, andthe surrender of these two men will signify that as Governmentsthe Transvaal and Orange Free-State have laid down their arms andare prepared to sue for peace.

Consequently, the war, which was declared by the sometimeSouth African Republic, and to which the Orange Free State was aparty so long as the Transvaal Government was engaged inhostilities with Great Britain, will be ended, and the De Wetsand De la Reys and Hertzogs and Brands and Kruitzingers will bein very truth banditti—train-wreckers, looters, marauders,whom any honest man may very rightly shoot on sight. If Bothadoes surrender and this thing comes about, humanity of the faint-at-blood type may demand that the wealth of England shall besquandered for yet another year, or even two, sooner than weshould depart from our policy of fatuous Niceness, a policy whichhas swelled our casualty lists considerably.

There is niceness and niceness, and the act of mercy need notbe confounded with the act of folly. Two weeks ago—the daybefore De Wet crossed the Orange River on his returnhome—Captain Dallimore, of the Victorian Imperial Regiment,while scouting with a patrol of fifteen men, got on the track ofa party of Beers twice as strong numerically as his own smallparty. With that skill which only the Australians seem to possesshe followed the enemy without letting his own party exposethemselves, and night found him with his little band posted alonga ridge overlooking the Boer camp, which was in the angle of theSea Cow and Orange Rivers.

CONTRASTED VARIETIES

All night long in the drizzling rain the Victorians waited,and at last dawn broke and showed, the sleeping forms of theenemy slumbering quite oblivious of the presence of our men. Hadhe been so willed, Captain Dallimore might have shot everysleeper as he lay, but he did a thing for which every man withthe instincts of an Englishman will praise him—he ordered avolley to be fired over their heads, so that they might wake andhave a fight for their lives. That was mercy—and, goodsportsmen, it was The Game.

Take another case. At one of the big fights in the earlierdays of the war an officer commanding a battery of artillery wasordered to shell the spur of a range of hills which constitutedthe enemy's right. From the base of the hill stretched out, for adozen miles, a plain as level as Green Park. Suddenly a whiteflag was hoisted on the enemy's left, and firing ceased all alongthe Boer lines. Then, when the flag had been hoisted for a fewminutes, the Boer main body, taking advantage of the cessation ofthe firing, was seen streaming away across the plain to theirright, making good their retreat. The artillery officer's dutywas very obvious: it was to open fire upon the fugitives, whowere splendidly within range. This, however, he would not do,remarking to his amazed juniors that he could not shell aretreating foe.

This was not mercy, it was folly—nay, it was criminal,for every burgher who escaped death or capture through hisneglect was an instrument, willing and eager to bring about thedestruction of that officer's comrades.

THE KIND GENERAL

Some time ago, operating in the north-west of the Transvaal,was a nice general. He was a good tactician, a clever leader ofmen, and a charming old gentleman.

He was very nice indeed, and his sympathies were wide, and hebelieved most of the things that neutral Boer farmers told him,from the depredations of the soldiery to the innocence of thefarm in the matter of secreted rifles and ammunition. As he movedthrough the country he granted to the farmers, left and right,passed to remain on their farms, being assured by their vows thatthe proximity of roving commandoes would have no weakening effecton their allegiance—stalwarts that they were.

A day's march behind the nice general, and moving in the famedirection, was another British column, commanded by a great,gruff, hairy-chested colonial, who swore at his officers andnursed his horses. He was not a nice man: he had been a policeofficer in Bechuanaland before the war, and in dealing with theenemy he started off with one unshakeable principle, whichwas— "All Dutchmen are liars."

Had he been an Imperial officer he might have been overawed bythe general's signature, which appeared on every pass, but hissense of reverence for British administration having diedyoung—he was with Evelyn Wood in 1881— he collectedall the passes, arrested, all the farmers, and, overtaking thenice general after a few days, handed them over without any otherexplanation than that they were a source of danger to thecountry.

HIS MEN PAID

The general was furious, for, like many other folk, he wasonly polite to people outside of his family, and immediatelyordered back the prisoners to their farms, apologising for theinconvenience they had suffered in the days of theircaptivity.

So they returned to their, farms, with the airs of martyrs,and the next time the nice general passed through that districthe finished his report to headquarters in this wise:—"Iregret to report the following casualties—":and the farmerswho had dug up their rifles had gone, for the convenient commandohas passed through.

It Botha's surrender is at hand, then the end of the war isalso at hand, and whosoever fights after the war is ended does soat the risk of being treated as the Germans treated the franc-tireurs. The surrender of Botha would bring, about quite adifferent condition of things to what now exists. To recogniseevery moving band of fifty marauders as a Boer army, and to treatthem accordingly, would be folly of the maddest kind. To takeevery third man of the party and stick him up against a wallwould not—well, it would not be "nice"! Neither is it"nice" to hang murderers, flog garroters, imprison thieves, orbirch the youthful Hooligan.

Somehow I think niceness is just as much out of place inwarfare.

PROFIT AND LOSS

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), May 28,1901

THE INVASION ACCOUNT

NAAUWPOORT, March 17, 1901

De Wet has gone, Brand has gone, Hertzog has gone, and onlyKruitzinger, with his mischievous lieutenants, is left to troublethe minds of us who at the first regarded the advent of theinvading commandoes with apprehension—and Kruitzinger isgoing.

It is now over three months since De Wet instructedKruitzinger and Brand to co-operate with him in entering thecolony, and it would be well if we who chafe over the escape ofthe Boer leader would stop a while and consider carefully theadvantages our friend the enemy has acquired by his exertions inour midst.

Also to count our own losses and balance—good commercialpeople that we are—the profit and loss of the invasion.

DISMAL FAILURE

To do this thoroughly, do not lose sight of the primal objectof the Boer movement. A correspondent at Pretoria tells us thatit was to obtain munitions of war which were, so to speak, "lefttill called for" at St Helen's Bay; but if this were so, it doesnot speak too highly for our system of naval patrolling that aship should remain in a pretty well frequented harbourage for thethree months intervening between the first and second attempts ofthe Boer leader, and until the statement is officially confirmedI, for one, shall doubt its authenticity.

To my mind, there can be no doubt as to the object of theraid, which was, as I have already said—and that threemonths ago—to tap the rebel districts of the Cape Colonyand raise sufficient fighting men to fill up the gaps in the Boerranks, and to enable De Wet to continue the struggle—whichin these days is mainly a struggle to keep comfortably ahead ofpursuing columns. Knowing this to be the main object of the raid,and all others being of secondary importance, the intelligentBriton will see at a glance how dismal a failure in every sensethe Cape invasion has been. Neither men nor munitions haveresulted, and such of the invaders as are now on the way toCeylon have returned, or are returning, to the Orange RiverColony in a far worse plight than when they arrived.

To better realise tie failure, analyse the work of the variouscommandoes—looking at their work from an English point ofview, and imagining that De Wet, Hertzog, and Kruitzinger wereEnglish generals set to do certain work, and being severelycritical accordingly.

CHEERS—AND NOTHING MORE

First in importance comes Hertzog, for he accomplished moreand penetrated further west than any other of the Boer leaders,and he it was who came within a hundred miles of the capital, sothat Capetown rose in indignation and put a little short of10,000 men in the field, and girt itself about with emplacementsand forts and barbed wire entanglements.

Marching west, Hertzog and Brand, occupied in turn all thetowns of note in the North-Western Province. Philipstown,Britstown, Carnarvon, Williston, Sutherland and Calvinia "fell"to the investors. The procedure in every case was the same. Apatrol clattering through the tree-shaded street; a crowd ofdoppers in their best clothes gathered near the publicoffices, curious and admiring; the singing of theVolkslied; a looted store; cheers for theinvader—but no recruits.

After comes the dusty advance guard of the British column, andthe holiday-makers disperse to their several homes, sullen andsilent, and the guns of the pursuing column rattle through asilent and deserted street.

Hertzog may, perhaps, count the splendid remounts he picked upon his way to Calvinia as equivalent in some degree to success;but the horses he got on his way in he wore to death on his wayout. It was not for horses alone that Hertzog moved through theworst rebel districts of Cape Colony, and the thirty recruits heobtained could not have fulfilled his most gloomy anticipations.Nor can the paucity of recruits be regarded in any way asindicative of the loyalty of the Dutch in these districts, somuch as a result of the proclamation and vigorous application ofmartial law, and Lord Kitchener's excellent precautionarywarnings.

"MY EYE IS ON YOU!"

The material most suitable for your active rebel (activity inthis case having reference to the joining with the King's enemiesin the open field rather than to trans-Channel Saturday-to-Mondaytrips for the purpose of consulting with Krugerite emissaries,and the taking up of a rifle rather than the faking-up of aletter) is not the wealthy landowner who has some sort of aneducation—and has much to lose. It is the bywoner,the ignorant, unlettered, dog-foolish bywoner,* who makesthe best or worst rebel, and so long as he knows or thinks thathe is not being watched, and so long as be is not warned of theconsequence of his rebellious acts, he is ready and willing totake the invader's rifle and use his stolen hores for thedestruction of the rooinek.†

[* Bywoner (Afrikaans)—A poortenant farmer who labours for the owner and does some farming ofhis own.
†Rooinek (Afrikaans, derogatory;literally "red-neck")—An Englishman. ]

Consequently, the proclamation of martial law and the warninghe received were to him a personal message from Lord Kitchener tothis effect: "I have got my eye on you. Piet Marais, or JanFaure, or Petrus van Heerden!" and he remained loyalaccordingly.

Hertzog is back in the Orange River Colony, having achievednothing. He has lost in killed and wounded half as many again aswe, and man for man he is a considerable loser. Kruitzinger ismaking for the Orange River Colony with as unfortunate a record.And what of De Wet? His record is worse than unfortunate; it isdisastrous.

DE WET'S DISASTERS

De Wet was the hope of the family: he was to have retrievedthe shattered fortunes of Boerdom, and Paarl looked towards DeWet and to his coming for a new era. De Wet was to come, joinforces with the other wandering commandoes, and marching throughCape Colony was to sit at the gates of Cape Town and dictateterms of the British. This is no flight of imagination: this wasthe belief of the Western Province Dutch, as I have personallyascertained.

Somehow these good souls fancied De Wet would manage the wholebusiness off his own bat. In a vague sort of way they knew thathe would require some outside help, but each man looked to hisneighbour for such active patriotism. De Wet would come: he hadbeen baulked once by the rains—which was an indubitablesign from the heavens that the time was not then ripe for theventure, but he would come, and lo! the news flashed along thewire to Paarl, to Stellenbosch, Malmsbury, Worcester, Robertson,Swellendam, Ceres and Capetown, De Wet had crossed the Orange andhad entered the colony—so they waited with patience.

But De Wet's reception was not a pleasant one. Paarl wouldhave been kinder. Worcester would have been less severe, but thedeputation which, headed by Plumer, met him on his arrival, washardly less severe than the committee which Henniker sent to givehim a send-off. De Wet came to the colony with a convoy, which heleft behind. He brought three guns, which he did not take back,and three hundred of his men have exchanged the laager forthe prison camp. He lost two score killed, while we did not losea single man. Altogether, the invasion has been a frost, afizzle, a—let me use a Tommy phrase—a wash-out!

TRAGEDY—A SOUTH AFRICAN SKETCH

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), June 1,1901

DE AAR

Evening at De Aar. An awed hush has fallen upon a place ofgreat unquiet, for there is stern, grim work afoot, and thebreathlessness of impending tragedy has brought a sombrouspeacefulness.

There is no clanking crash of shunting trucks, no whistle ofengine, no clatter of detraining troops. De Aar stands, still andis silent in the face of the quick of the one minute; who shallbe the dead of the next? The hills about are mellowing in thegolden haze of eventide, and night will come very quickly.

But the men who are falling in quietly before De Aar's manytents are not preparing for night picket, and as they marchsilently off to the east of the camp you can see they number toomany for the ordinary routine duties. Silently they march, nobadinage from file to file, no lightly-given jest, but each manmarching with grave face and that set look that comes to thesoldier when man's work is required of him. As silently they forminto hollow square and wait. They form three aides only, and onthe fourth are three chairs placed at intervals, and before eachchair is an ominous slit in the earth.

Where the even, sullen, kopjes are most gloomy, and thegaunt rands* with boulder-bristling backs are mostforeboding, is Taaibosch. De Aar, and even the hills that mark DeAar, are out of view, and Taaibosch stands solitary, a dejected,eerie little siding amidst great vastness. North of Taaiboschsiding, towards De Aar, the line threads along for a hundredyards between gaping ballast holes. It is a weird, wild country,although the driver of the goods train that left Taaibosch sidinga month ago could see little more than a dozen yards before hisengine.

rand (Afrikaans)—a rock-strewnarea of land. ]

THE CRIME

It was night; the rainy, gusty night when the driving wheelsslip on the greasy metals and the snorting engine emits steamyroars protestingly.

If it was uncomfortable for the driver and his mate, it wasworse for the few soldiers crouching under tarpaulin, orsheltering themselves as well as they could beneath the Capecarts and waggons on the open trucks behind. Worse for them; forthe fine, searching rain insinuated itself through crack andcrevice, rent and tear. But the streaming road led to De Aar, andbeyond De Aar was Cape Town, and beyond was England, for theywere invalided soldiers homeward bound.

On a farm near the ballast holes were six men unconsciouslyenjoying all the privileges incidental and peculiar to registeredvoters of his Majesty's Colony of the Cape of Good Hope. Theywere Dutch, and naturally they were—well, they sympathisedwith the erstwhile republics. Commandoes had passed through thedistrict, but they had not joined, perhaps because they wareafraid of disfranchisem*nt, possibly because they could notafford to pay the £10 they would be fined for shootingsoldiers. Now, they were resolved upon a great deed, somethingheroic—and safe.

They would wreck a train.

So they chose a goods train, which, would be more or lessunattended, and was considerably less dangerous to tackle than atroop- or armoured train—the passengers of which have anunpleasant habit of searching the darkness around by means oflow-aimed volleys.

The driver of the goods train knew nothing of theirintentions, nor his mate, nor the crouching soldiers beneath thewaggons.

And so there was murder.

An overturned engine, with a dying fireman lying betweentender and boiler; a wrecked train with brave men pinnedhelplessly and dying like beetles on a pin. A roaring, scalding,tumbled wreck, with dropping shots from the gallant wreckers. Aslaughtering of defenceless natives, an emptying of dead men'spurses, and a great stealing of money. This happened amonth—ago, and Taalbosch as beyond the hills crimsoningsouthward.

PAYMENT

The murderers are coming up from the gaol on an ambulance, andthe firing parties marshal before the chairs.

Death will come sudden, but it will be painless. For them noentanglement in shot-bored wreckage. No lingering on, hopingagainst hope for timely succour. No impotent struggling for lifein the awful darkness.

They have had a trial, where they stood white and anxious, orsullen and lowering, between two Guardsmen who fixed bayonets.They had seen their comrade who had turned King's evidence slipin and out the door—a little, pasty-faced man with a fringeof whisker—a man who kept has eyes averted from the facesof the men he had destroyed, and mouthed hideous grimaces in hisnervousness. They had waited for the decision of the Court, andit had come: death for three, penal servitude for two, freedomfor the informer.

They had made a mistake, and they were to suffer. They hadthought it was a part of the game of war.

War was to them as the suspension of order. Murder was war,theft was war, train-wrecking was war. War gave them license toslay and burn and steal. They saw, with many hundreds of theirfellows in the Cape Colony, an opportunity for doing somethingwith impunity for which, in peace time, the penalty would bedeath.

"Murder, high treason, robbery!"

In clear tones the commandant reads out the crimes for whichthey are to suffer.

I do not like to think of the Yeoman pinned down with a boltthrough his side and dying slowly and consciously and alone, andit is not Christian-like to let it rise in one's mind as thethree men, alighting from the ambulance, are blindfolded and ledto the chairs.

The sun drops behind the hill, and one last ray gleams alongthe barrels of the levelled trifles and bathes the murderers in aflood of golden light.

THAT VICTORIAN!—A SOUTH AFRICAN SKETCH

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), June 3,1901

KALKFONTEIN, North of Steynsburg, March 22,1901

The S.M.O.—which in plain English means Senior MedicalOfficer—drew aside the curtains of the tent and interruptedmy shaving operations.

We are late risers this morning, for we are waiting forinstructions from somebody, and only that a persistent individualhad been amusing himself by intermittently banging a piece ofgalvanised iron on a neighbouring kopje to the banishment of allsleep, I should have yet been dozing.

The S.M.O. is a genial Coldstreamer who, having served histerm in India, is privileged to swear in Hindustani, and hespoke.

"Come along, Roz-Roz, if you want to see a littlefight." Roz-Roz is an abbreviation of Roz-Roz dak,which is the nearest equivalent for Daily Mail that thebat* will provide. Outside the camp kettles are steamingand breakfast is ready—but Atkins is gathered in littlegroups, eyeing a distant ridge curiously—and the centre ofeach little group is a pile of arms.

[* Bat (Hindi)—language, speech.]

"Clik-clok, clik-clok, clik-clok!" No doubt about that, isthere, C.I.V.?

You know the old "clik-clok," and the whine of the bulletoverhead. You heard it that time Diamond Hill was the subject ofyour weekly letter home.

You heard it just before something gave you a smack in theside, and your knees went weak and the darkness came.

And you heard the R.A.M.C. orderly using violent languageconcerning it, as you woke to consciousness and a stretcher.

So it wasn't somebody banging galvanised iron after all, and Ihurried forth in time to see that Victorian come.

WHAT FOLLOWS HIM

That Victorian came, unshaven and unkempt, his horse's flanksaheave, and his short story was about a man who belonged to apatrol which sighted the Boers.

And the Boers were very many in number, but as they were onlysix times the strength of the patrol, of course the patrol feltit couldn't creditably retire, and so it was sitting tight at thefoot of a kopje, waiting for Colonel Henniker to sally out, whenit had no doubt that everything would end more or less unhappilyfor the Boers.

It was one of the true little stories that the nursing Scoutstell the restless column to beep it quiet. And so we moved out:Henniker, burly and alert, Powell, the gunner, cheerful andunconcerned, the Victorian gleeful and profane, and all the timefrom the ridge ahead the spasmodic clap of the Mauser sounded,"Clik-clok, clik-clok!"

We are forming a lane, which is a variation of the cordon.

When you put half-a-dozen columns round De Wet at a distanceof a score of miles one from the other, except at one point wherethe gap is forty miles in width, you call it a cordon, and thebig gap you refer to as the line of least resistance.

When you take a long stretch of country and line two sides ofat with columns, you call it a lane, and if the enemy doesn'tadvance straight up the centre of that lane, and give everybody achance of falling on him and devouring him, it is because he hasno conception of his duty as a sportsman.

We are on the left side of the lane; Codrington is atVenterstadt, Crabbie is at Vlakfontein, and Henniker is furthersouth and in line.

A REARGUARD ACTION

The burghers we have struck are not trying to breakthrough— not a bit. They, are simply coming up behind us,almost on the same road; we are in their way, and they are tryingto push us off—hence the disturbance.

"Clik-clok-clok-clok-clok!"

A fusillade; the Yeomanry and Victorians that moved from campin solid chunks are stretching themselves into long skinnyskirmishing lines, and are galloping for protecting ridges,swerving and wheeling slightly leftward, for the Boers' positionlies diagonally commanding the road. Powell's guns have halted,and the foremost Victorians are firing steadily from behind thewalls of a heaven-sent Kraal.

The gunners have not stopped to admire the scenery, and atiny, white woolly ball catching on to the shoulder of the kopjewhich shelters the enemy proclaims the proximity of percussionshrapnel.

We know it is a rear-guard action; that the main body of theBoers is miles away; we know that, probably by the time our gunsget into action the ridge does not shelter more than twentyBoers.

If the mountain was not there, if the country leading up tothe mountain was not a succession of ridges each commanding theother, if there were no other kopjes for the Boers to retireon—in fact, if it were not South Africa we were fightingin, but Salisbury Plain, we should send out a corporal's picketand arrest "the enemy." As it is, we shell them till the snipingceases—and that Victorian comes and tells us that thecommando had broken clear. That Victorian always comes.

THE WAY HE COMES AND GOES

From the flanks, or the front, or from the rear he arrives,and he has always got a story worth telling, and doubly worthhearing. As the column chases along at the breakneck speed ofthree-and-a-half miles an hour, he drops down from the top of akopje and bumps into the advance guard.

And he tells the officer commanding that force many things;there are Boers on the farm three miles ahead!, or a Boer convoyis five miles to the left front.

Sometimes he is flicked across the firm line of the horizonand slides down to the main body with news, and suspicions andopinions.

You can call him "The Scout," but he is a sort of nurse thathas the infant column in his charge, and he feels hisresponsibility.

For days he will ride—a mote on the sky-line, and thenhe will come tearing down to the trailing troops, and jerking uphis horse will gaze approvingly on us as we pass him. He willride miles and miles away from the road and never lose himselfonce, that Victorian, and he sees lots and lots that the columnnever sees or dreams of.

Out he goes to the dark unknown, with a lighted pipe betweenhis teeth and his sooty billy clattering at his saddle, and whenhe comes back he will know more about the farms within a ten-mileradius, their values, their possibilities as forage providers,and the loyalty of their owners than the smartest IntelligenceOfficer that ever wore a khaki yachting cap, and he willcertainly have a better idea of the topography of the countrythan the Government surveyor who prepares the maps we march by.Sometimes he stays out all night—the gay dog!—andturns up in the morning after a night's debauch on rain-soddenbiscuit and doubtful bully beef. Sometimes he doesn't turn up atall, and then Crooke-Lawless sends an ambulance out forhim—and under the driver's seat is a spade.

MRS. RESERVIST

Reproduced from The Evening Post (New Zealand), June 29, 1901

WITH THE LIMELIGHT OFF

BETHULIE, April 12, 1901

And what of Mrs. Reservist Atkins all this time? In the firstact—or was it the prologue—she figured prominentlyenough, but to-day she is the "voice without," sans glitter, sanslimelight, and uninteresting. Mrs. Atkins "on the strength" isanother person. She is separated from her husband truly, but sois her sister in the officers' quarters. Her husband is possiblyin great danger, from shot and disease, but so are the husband'ssweethearts, brothers, or sons of a million.

It is Mrs. Reservist Atkins who is suffering to-day, and hercase seems well-nigh desperate. The wife of the soldier marriedon the strength of the regiment is parted from him, but she is incomfortable Government quarters, or is drawing allowances forsuch. She is bereft of his presence, but she draws one-half ofhis pay, and bread and meat and fuel and lighting.

WIVES WHO SUFFER

Because of these advantages she possesses I would not for amoment attempt to belittle the unselfish devotion and self-sacrifice of the soldier's wife, nor would I suggest that theshilling a day she receives together with the tree quarters andrations, places her in a position of affluence, but I do wish todifferentiate between the two wives.

I must confess that I gave little thought to the subject untilvery recently. The deep-rooted satisfaction engendered by theaction of this journal at the beginning of the war and otherprivate enterprises on the soldiers' behalf had not disappeared.If one's thoughts reverted at all to the "little things leftbehind" it was with a feeling of thankfulness that they were notbeing left to the cold-blooded mercy of the Commissioners of thePatriotic Fund, but were cared for by warm-hearted business menwho would not hesitate to give a sovereign to a starving womanwithout demanding her birth certificate, her marriage lines, andparticulars of her baby's teething.

The other day I jokingly asked my soldier servant whether hehad not saved a small fortune during the war.

"Yes," he answered grimly, "so small that I could put it in myeye and see through it! Fortune! Why, for the last six monthsI've had all my work cut out to prevent my wife starving and mykids from going into the workhouse."

A SHILLING A WEEK

For some time I could not believe but that Atkins was speakingfiguratively. However, I soon discovered that what he had told mewas not only too true, but that his case was one of thousandssimilar.

He had been employed in a very good situation, and at the timehe was called up to join his corps was in receipt of 36s a week.His employers, with the generosity which consistently markedtheir behaviour towards their men at the beginning of the war,guaranteed to keep his billet open for him during the time he wasaway on active service, which they estimated would be six months,and promised to give his wife half-pay during that period. Sixmonths passed, and the end of the war was not in sight, and theemployers cheerfully extended the period for another threemonths, and at the end of that time a still further term.

At the end of that time; however, the situation was filled,and the firm was reluctantly compelled to stop the half-pay. Atthis stage of the proceedings the situation became alarming forthe Reservist's wife.

The meagre savings of her husband were soon absorbed, and the8s a week he was able to send her did little more than pay I therent of the two rooms she occupied. So she applied for relief tothe commissioners of a fund which I will call the Society forProviding Aged Colonels with Charitable Employment. After she hadmade several applications, and had instructed many decrepitsenior officers with particulars regarding her past, her views onTransubstantiation and her Religious Convictions, and hadlistened to divers lectures on the Improvidence of EarlyMarriages, she was gravely informed that the society hadconsidered her case favourably and was prepared to endow her withthe munificent sum of 2s per week, paid weekly—and signhere!

EVERYWHERE THE SAME STORY

She fell ill, however, and was unable to appear in person todraw the "allowance," which was accordingly reduced to 1s.

"And she wrote out to me," said Atkins, wrathfully, "asking mewhat she should do with the shilling, an' I wrote "back and toldher to tell 'em to——"

Well, Atkins's message to his wife was one which I am sure nowife, however obedient, would repeat to such charitablegentlemen.

After hearing this I never lost an opportunity of learningfrom the men of the Reserve who had wives how matters stood athome.

From all I have heard the same story. Some—a veryfew—were still drawing half-pay; some swore by the"Absentminded Beggar" Fund; but were all agreed that no oneprivate enterprise could hope to cope with the ever-increasingsum of distress among Reservists' wives. If I am to believe thestories I have heard from the men themselves—and I dobelieve them—stories told in despairing notes with gesturesof hopelessness, of poverty and starvation in homes which beforethe war were models of comfort and plenty; if my opinion is to beinfluenced by the husky apology of the soldier for the tear whichwill come—then I should say to you stalwarts of Empire, whowould give your last cents for the maintenance of its dominion,to you ultrasensitive pro-Boers who wax hysteric over a charge ofdynamite deftly inserted into the corner of a rebel'sfarm—here is a recipient for your wealth, here is a subjectfor your pity.

THE NATIONAL DUTY

Now what are you going to do about it? I have said before thatno one enterprise can hope to relieve the distress. It is clearlya matter which the Government should take in hand, not for now,but for always. In his reorganisation of the Army, Mr. Brodickwill do well to take into account, and make provision for thewife that the British soldier, released from the restrictions ofmilitary life takes unto himself.

A sum weekly should be guaranteed to the wife of a Reservistwho is called away from his position of breadwinner, and it wouldbe ridiculous to pretend that the Government could not afford theextra outlay. A Government that can pay the irregular troops atthe Cape 5s a day could surely afford to guarantee two or threeshillings extra per diem to the wives of men who risktheir lives for a half-penny an hour! I am sure that such aprovision will have to be made if we ever contemplate mobilisingthe Army Reserve on any future occasion.

A man who runs away and leaves his wife chargeable to theparish is a scoundrel. A soldier who is drawn from his civilianavocation to fight his country's battles and leaves his wifedestitute is willy-nilly a patriot, and the Reservist of thefuture may question whether the price of patriotism is not toohigh. In the meantime, the Government has a million to spare. No?Wasn't there some talk of devoting a million towards making HappyHomes for Weary Burghers?

A BIRD'S EYE VIEW OF THE WAR

Reproduced from The Bush Advocate (New Zealand), July 9, 1901

SOLID PROGRESS IN MANY QUARTERS

JOHANNESBURG, May 11, 1901

The situation is more encouraging, although the aspect ofaffairs throughout the two colonies cannot truthfully be termedcompletely satisfactory.

North of Pretoria communication with Pietersburg remainsuninterrupted, but a considerable number of the enemy arescattered throughout the Zoutspanberg bush veldt. Of the columnssent to clear the Eastern Transvaal only one or two met withresistance, which was very slight, the Boers making off ordoubling round.

In the Western Transvaal the country between Pretoria andMafeking is still regarded as dangerous for convoys unless theyare strongly guarded. Lord Methuen's splendid doggedness,however, is bearing fruit, and a number of surrenders in thatdistrict show that the Boers are being worn down by hispersistence. Da la Rey's burghers hang round Johannesburg whilehe himself is in the neighbourhood of Wolmaranstadt.

In Orange River Colony the Boer forces have been divided intosmall parties, each having a section of the railway line toharass. Their mode is to sleep twenty miles away from theirsections, and ride at night, either to make an attack on a smallbridge guard or attempt to blow up the line. De Wet latelysuperintended a commando thus engaged, which recently captured asmall railside garrison.

The new blockhouses which are being built all over bothcolonies will enable much smaller garrisons than already existfor the purpose of guarding bridges, culverts, and roads to holdany amount of Boers in check.

There is a probability that Hertzog and Brand, who appear tobe in the south of Orange River Colony, will attempt again toenter Cape Colony shortly, and there is a possibility that DeWet, who is relieved to be moving towards the Orange, willaccompany them, but in a subordinate position.

The activity of the officers in charge of the sections of therailway between Bloemfontein and Viljoen's Drift renders the workof railside raiders almost impossible, so that the train-wreckingwill soon be a thing of the past. It is significant, however,that while a year ago trains ran regularly from Capetown toBloemfontein they are now detained during the night at Nauuwpoortand Springfontein.

Regarding the insistent rumors about the condition of thetroops in the field, it cannot be too emphatically repeated thatthe men are physically fit and perfectly willing to do anything.By the withdrawal from South Africa of time-expired yeomen,militiamen, and volunteers, and the replacement of these with newdrafts, much cause for discontent and dissatisfaction has beenremoved, since those men who were detained over the specifiedtime grumbled. The only discontent now is among the Reservists,many of whose wives are in distressed circ*mstances, and whosecivil situations are now filled up. An assurance from theGovernment that provision would be made to assist these women anda promise of aid to obtain employment, would restore the men'sequanimity.

There appears to be a suspicion at Home that the dragging onof the war is caused by the staleness of the troops, but I wouldpoint out the fact that for the most part new yeomen and freshcolonial drafts are being utilised for active movements, whileinfantry are used forming garrisons.

The Government should make every attempt to induce theAustralians, yeomen and Canadians who served previously to returnto service. These men are thoroughly recuperated, and theirrenewed interest and practical knowledge of the country and itsconditions would be invaluable.

The best indication of the feeling here is the localrecruiting returns, which show an unfailing supply in response tothe military demand. The army cannot be stale while it isreceiving such a splendid leaven from the colonies.

Generally speaking, the aspect of affairs is encouraging. I aminformed that Lord Kitchener is satisfied with the progress ofhis operations. Those, people at Home who expect a dramaticfinish to the war by some decisive action will bedisappointed.

The end can only come by the constant wearing down of the Boerforces. The winter, which promises to be severe, is a greatfactor. The steady return of the refugees to the Rand willnecessarily discourage the Boers, and illustrate the futility ofresistance. Colonials agree that while England should maintain anunshakable attitude on the essential points of the settlement,sentimental concession might advantageously be made, forinstance, regarding the bitter objection of the Boers Io beingplaced on the legislative level of the Kaffirs.

"KITCHENER'S THE BLOKE"

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), July 12,1901

MR ATKINS DISCUSSES DE WET

SPRINGFONTEIN (Orange River Colony), May 4,1901

Such a night as can only be experienced in SouthAfrica—the stars great, liquid, white points of fire in theblue-black dome, and just enough moon to show where sky ends andveldt begins.

Since this be the enemy's country, where treason is unknownand only oath-breaking is heinous, we may not proceed other thanin the light of day, lest the cunning mind of the small commandodevise destruction in the form of a gun-barrel choked withnitroglycerine, with wires and caps and artful clockworkarrangements designed to operate with suddenness, bringingdisorder, wrack, death, mutilation, and great beastliness to poordevils travelling first-class on Press tickets.

Therefore the train is drawn up by Springfontein platform, anddinner having been served at 5.30 instead of 7.30 owing to therefreshment-room keeper having in engagement at the latter hour,I have nothing, to do but to sit and listen to Atkins discussingquestions of the day—for Atkins is gathered outside theshuttered window of my saloon, and he holds views.

THE BIG QUESTIONS

The agenda of the Platform Debating Society was prolific insubjects, and contained, among others: Should soldiers receive5s. a day in war time? Shall we ever catch De Wet? Are theYeomanry good soldiers? Does a single eyeglass assist theeyesight? Will the Militia ever go home? When will the war end?and, Is Kitchener a great general? Some of the subjectsdovetailed into others, thus:—

Voice from Without: 'E's the man to finish the war. No'arf larks about 'im. Can't stand no eyeglasses, 'e can't; no'umbug an' no old buck. Buller goes up to 'im an' says, "I'mgeneral 'ere," 'e says.

Another Voice (superiorly): Where was this?

First Voice (vaguely): Up in Natal somewhere.

Superior Voice: Kitchener wasn't never in Natal.

First Voice (sternly): Never mind where he was. Bullercomes up to 'im an' says, "Look 'ere, I'm general 'ere," 'e says,"and I'll thank you to get orf the battlefield whilst I'm a-conductin' my operations." "Oh!" says Kitchener, "p'raps youdon't know that I'm a Lord, while you're only a Sir," 'esays.

Superior Voice: That don't make no difference.

First Voice: Wot don't?

Superior Voice (scathingly): Sirs an' Lords ain't norank, fat 'ead, else you'd 'ave the Dook o' WestminsterCommander-in-Chief.

Third Voice (huskily): My opinion you're torkin' out ofthe back of your 'ead.

Smithy (bitterly): P'raps you're tellin' this yarn, an'p'raps I ain't; any'ow, whether it makes no difference aboutbein' a Lord or Sir or not, that's wot Kitchener toldBuller—'t any rate. Kitchener's the bloke to end thiswar.

"WHY DOES'NT HE CATCH DE WIT?"

Several voices, hitherto silent, rise to acclaim thissentiment.

Smithy (waxing enthusiastic at his support): Why e'sgot more sense in 'is little fingerthan—than—(lamely) twenty Botha's, and he'd nomore think twice about shootin' you or me than I would aboutkillin' a fly.

The Greek chorus asserts itself.

Youthful Voice (well modulated): Why doesn't he catchDe Wet, then?

Three Voices (mockingly and scornfully): Why doesn't 'ecatch De Wet?

Smithy (finely sarcastic): Why don't 'e catch De Wet?Look 'ere, you're a Yeoman, ain't you?

Modulated Voice (nervously): Yes.

Smithy (indignantly): And just come out, take my oath.Thought you was. Why don't 'e catch De Wet, my lad? Why, because'e can't trust the Yeomanry with anyone else.

Roars of laughter and a mild voice asking for a fullerexplanation.

Smithy: Well, 'ow does a soldier learn to be asoldier—by experience, ain't that it? And no Yeoman ain't areal Yeoman till 'e's been captured twice—ain't that so?An' where will you find a commandant as'll treat a Yeoman so nicean' kind an' gentle as De Wet? Why don't 'e catch De Wet? Why, DeWet's a bloomin' field trainin' an' Aldershot manoeuvres to aYeoman!

ON EYEGLASSES

After a pause, during which the mild young Yeoman presumablyretires, somebody asks why Kitchener objects to the monocle, butrelied on conveying the sense of his question by referring to itas "a pane of glass."

Smithy: Cos 'e's a soldier an' likes to see everything reg'laran' well balanced. If 'e 'ad 'is way, sergeants would 'avestripes on each arm an' soldiers 'ave medals on both breasts.Wot's a single eyeglass but unreg'lar? One side of the face isall glass, an' the other side's all—all face. If they'dwear spectacles it'd be all right but the young officers won'twear spectacles for fear of being mistaken for colonels anddrafted to the Army Pay Corps.

Husky Voice (suspiciously): Wot are you gettin'at—wot's the Army Pay Corps got to do with it?

Smithy (pleasantly): Oh, it's only a bit of a joke ofmine—sarcasm.

Here follow several earnest appeals to Smithy not to dislocatehis jaw using long words.

By easy stages the debate became theological, with many andweird premises, with divers curious and unprintabledeductions.

Dear old Atkins!

Here were a dozen men who had probably seen more battles inone year than most generals see in a lifetime, and yet their talkwas not of war, or bloodshed, or great daring, but just thesubjects, the self-same subjects, they would argue out in timesof peace over common beer at the bar of the "Green Man."

It seemed more than incongruous at times to hear—here inthe loneliness of the rolling veldt, with the black peaks of thedistant hills, sooty bulks against the velvet-black sky-line,with death lurking in the darkness about, and over all the solemnhush of even—it seems strange, not to say unnatural, whenTommies, who, in keeping with the scene, should by rights bespeaking in awed whispers of golden deeds and glorioussacrifices, are arguing in strident co*ckney on the legitimacy ofthe birth of Moses.

"Found 'im in the bulrushes—yuss, that's wot shesaid."

VELDT ALDERSHOT
A PICTURE OF BLOEMFONTEIN

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), July 20,1901

THE TWO CONTRASTED

What is there about Bloemfontein that suggests Aldershot sovividly?

There is something—a something that grows on you as youwalk through the streets of the town or saunter about thesuburbs. Perhaps it is only the military element to be found to-day here; or perhaps it is the architecture, the solidutilitiarianism of the public buildings, the many blood-redblocks—ah! that is it! It is the redness of Bloemfonteinthat suggests Aldershot.

The private houses, the flamboyant public offices, the ruddy-faced bureau—that is Aldershot. "ImagineAldershot—the Aldershot that starts north of the cavalrybarracks and runs to the Farnborough Road. Imagine it unkempt anduntidy, with a sprinkling of the old huts still standing, and youhave, Bloemfontein. Rather a far-fetched resemblance, you willtell me; but I am dealing only in impressions, and that is howBloemfontein impresses me.

CAMP BUSTLE

Leave the architecture alone, and the resemblance is moreimpressive. A military policeman stands at every corner, there isa ceaseless procession of orderlies and staff officers movingthrough the streets, and an intermittent tramp, tramp of armedparties coming and going across the Market Square.

Guards returning from Naval Hill Redoubt; guards going out tothe Boer refugee camp; reliefs tramping off to No.9 generalhospital; pickets returning from the outlying lines—but alittle stretch of the imagination, and they are musketry partieswith Ash Ranges behind them.

There is a lazy feeling in the air; let us idle. Let us dawdlealong the shop fronts and see what commercial Bloemfontein temptsus with. A grocer's: Preserved rations, tinned meat, chocolatefood, portable kitcheners (you can carry them in your pocket).Here is a tailors; Khaki serge in all shades and qualities,collar tabs a specialty, badges of rank, field service caps,staff caps, and military gloves. H'in. Here is a shoemaker's:Field boots and Stohwasser puttee leggings. A watchmaker andjeweller's: Zeiss glasses and compasses in one window, and C.I.V.scarf-pins in the other. A stationer's: Army forms and passes inaccordance with King's Regulations. A photographer's show case:Military groups and cabinets of staff officers. Bloemfontein ismilitary.

THE VANISHED ENEMY

We are in the heart of the enemy's country, really and trulythe enemy's country. Not the country of the enemy's friend, butin the heart of his very own country, in the very town where warwas made, and on the deep-fronted desk from which Steyn launchedhis thunders en R.A.M.C. man has set up a patent filter as a signof our presence. And yet it is very unreal; it does not seem likeBloemfontein, and it does seem like Aldershot. A kopje overlooksthe town, and the zig-zag streak of red gouged in the face of itis a road leading up to a 4.7 gun—but the guns on DoberPier are as interesting. Over there beyond the outlying belt ofcamps with which we are girt about, the veldt is still red wherethe retreating burghers tramped off the green as they rushed forDriefontein—but Caesar made the Old Kent Road. It seems solong ago, this time of Bloemfontein's martial importance, solong, indeed, that you would not feel surprised to turn up thestory of the occupation in a musty tome and read that—"MyLord Robertf fent in a meffenger to demand the furrender of thetown."

That is just the feeling you get in Bloemfontein— asense of unfitness of things; you know you are in the midst of itall, and yet you feel out of it; you are like a blind man at aballet. The good folk of Bloemfontein seem to know nothing aboutthe war; all the news they get comes from England, and appears inthe Post four days late, for the Post—our oldacquaintance The Friend under another title—iscursed with a censorship. So they have got used to feeling atpeace. When they hear that the Boers have wrecked a hospitaltrain, they say, "Dear me! How very dreadful!" and intelligenceof a little bloodshed causes them to peer over their spectaclesand exclaim, "What are we coming to? Where's the police?" Butperhaps this, too, is an impression.

POLICE WAITING FOR PEACE

On the hill, under the shadow of the great overtowering fort,are the green- and orange-striped sentry boxes of the SouthAfrican Constabulary—B.-P.'s Own. I am told that, soconfident is Pretoria that the war is going to end soon, thatthis force is held in hourly readiness to go out and scour thecountry—since a proclamation of peace, attendant upon thesurrender of Botha, will be regarded, and rightly so, as placingall roving bands—gallant hospital-train-wrecking, food-poisoning souls!—as without the pale.

South of here the country is quiet; that is to say, it is asquiet as the midland districts of Cape Colony. There are smallscattered parties of Boers about, hanging round Thaba N'chu,keeping in touch with the railway line, but generally out of alltouch with our troops. We have meagre garrisons strung outbetween this place and Norval's Pont, and one or two rovingcolumns hustling round such bodies of Boers, concentrated ofsufficient strength to justify the movement of a large force ofour troops. Though weak, the railside garrisons are each littlefortresses. Every piece of rising ground is capped by earthworks,every kopje of any commanding eminence adjacent to the line ismanned and gunned, and by the bridges, grim, granite-faced blockhouses, loop-holed and cunning of interior, are rising daily.

NOT TO BE COUNTED ON

In spite of the comparative calm which now prevails it willnot be many days, I take it, before the south of the Orange RiverColony will be again agitated, for the advent of Kruitzinger withhis lieutenants will of course bring about a recrudescence ofthat activity which De Wet in his palmiest days inspired.Kruitzinger's retirement from the Cape Colony will set free anumber of columns, Scobell's, Grenfell's, Haigh's, Henniker's,Crewe's and De Lisle's, and these would have a better chance ofdealing with the marauder here, in this country denuded alike ofhorses and food, than in the well-stocked, traitor-infesteddistricts south of the Orange River. This is all by the way, andis told with the object of justifying myself should, by the timethis letter is in print, the Orange River Colony be in such astate of uproar as to render my remarks on its pacific condition,ridiculous in the sight of man and me a fool before my kind.

There is one place about Bloemfontein which suggests war, andmust always be remembered as something strangely and terriblynew, and that because it is linked with disaster. For the memoryof disasters always lives; so that Majuba must stand beforeBoomplaats, Magersfontein be remembered when Modder River will beforgotten, and Pieter's Hill and its gallant dead be for everovershadowed by Spion Kop and its ghastly blunders.

East of Bloemfontein and north the rolling plain humps itselfinto an irregular hill—on the other side of that isSannah's Post. It was at the base of the hill that Britishcommanders threshed out a question of military etiquette; it wason the other side that we lost our guns. Without the glamour ofromance that Sannah's Post sheds; military Bloemfontein iscommonplace, cheap, and tawdry.

Why, in the drapers' shops you can buy Baden-Powell hats andkhaki neckties!

THAT TIRED FEELING!

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), July 27,1901

HOW TOMMY FEELS—NOT STALE BUT "FED-UP"

KLERKSDORP, May 11, 1901

It would be ridiculous on my part if I asked you whether youwere tired of the war, if you were sick to death of its crawlingprogress, if you were bored to extinction with its monotony. Ofcourse you are.

You may not have been fighting yourself. Your acquaintancewith the dangers and hardships and pathos of campaigning may bestrictly biographic, so that your cognisance of bloodshed wasconfined to a 4.7 gun in action— sandwiched between theTexas Fire Brigade and a falling smoke-stack. Whether you viewedthe progress of events in South Africa from a stall at thePalace, or from the back of an ungroomed Cape pony, it comes toabout the same thing—you are weary of it.

Your whole soul cries aloud in its satisfaction: "For heaven'ssake give us famine or a great fire in the city, or a fall inYankee Rails, or an outsider's Derby—anything but war!"

BUT NOT STALE

You seem a very inconsistent people, for you have only toweaken a little, only show by public meeting and demonstrationthat you are tired, really tired of the war, and the strongestMinistry that ever answered questions would be obliged to put anend to your weariness and bring the war to a finish. You haveonly got to give unmistakable evidence of your determination toget peace at almost any price, and you may purchase foryourselves a halcyon calm which will last three or four months,if, indeed, not for a whole year.

Yet I know, and the Army knows, that you would not purchasepeace in this way; that when you are asked to vote another tenmillions, or twenty millions, or forty millions, you will putyour hands in your pockets and pay. That is because you have lostyour temper, but have not lost your spirit. You have lostinterest in the minor incidents of the struggle, but have notlost any of the vigour which inspires you in your determinationto see the thing through to the bitter end.

In fact and in fine, your attitude aptly illustrates thedifference between Tiredness and Staleness, so long as yourealise the difference between these qualities. The stories ofTommy Atkins's "tiredness," which seem to have been enjoyingquite a vogue at Home just now, need not alarm you.

Tommy is tired, but he is not stale. He is "fed up" with thewar, with the constant marching and counter-marching, theoccasional short rations and the frequent rains, the blankmonotony of life on the veldt. He chafes at the dragging on ofthe war, and views with dismay its prolongation. He is morepatient than you, however, and when they dump him down by theside of the railway line and tell him to keep his eye on anadjacent bridge he settles himself down to the prospect of sixmonths' duty by the ugly girdered span in the midst of afeatureless plain with more fortitude than most men will displaywho have to wait five minutes for an unpunctual train.

MONOTONY OF BRIDGE GUARD

He clears a space by the side of the line and traces out thename of his company and regiment in little white stones, for theinformation of the daily mail train, the passengers of whichchuck him out week-old newspapers. In a month he knows all thegirders of the bridge as if they were old friends. You see nodifference in any part of the plain. He is acquainted with everystone visible. He has counted every rivet the bridge has, andknows there are three more on one side than on the other. Hewonders why this is so, and he and his tent-fellows argue thequestion out nightly.

Sometimes, while he is counting for the thousandth time themortar lines in the stone pier, and while he is multiplying theseby the number of sleepers and dividing the result by the numberof rails on his beat, a girder rings musically, and he looksround to see how much paint the sniper's bullet takes off. Thisis the sort of life he lives. For weeks together his is acolourless, dreary, dull existence; there are interestingintervals, when the Boer tries to murder him at two thousandyards; there are gay nights, when he lies out in the open for thesniper in a patiently murderous mood; but these days do not comevery often.

Supposing instead of doing bridge guard he is with a columnchasing De la Ray, or hustling Botha, or pursuing De Wet. In thefirst place, as a rule he doesn't know why he is ordered toparade at daybreak with three days' rations. He is not told whyhe is marched out. He has no idea of the distance he is to bemarched the first day or how long he will remain at his firstcamping place. He speculates more or less idly on the object ofthe march, But so many times previously has he been taken out inthe self-same manner that he does not care whether he is to roundin cattle, burn a farm, capture a laager, or occupy atown.

His company or squadron officer is a good sort, and will tellhim as much as is good for him to know, but the chances are thatthe officer will know less than the man of the general'sintentions, and, being blessed with a higher order ofintelligence than his humble comrade, his speculations will beeven wilder and more original than Tommy's.

THEN MR. ATKINS GETS CROSS

Perhaps after the column starts, a rumour runs from horsemanto horseman that the trek is to be ten miles, and Tommyaccordingly forms plans for washing shirts and sewing on buttons.Ten miles are covered, and more, and no sign or indication of thecommander's intention to halt. Tommy gets restless. A few milesmore and he is irritable, and is inwardly damning the war intolittle heaps. He is now in the mood when an unsophisticatedjournalist of pro-Boer proclivities could find in hisconversation ample material for an article on "Is Our ArmyMutinous?" A few more miles and the news goes round that theday's trek is to be twenty-five miles, and Tommy abandons allhope of washing his shirt and remarks with conviction that its awarmth of pity that the corpuscled general hasn't got a qualifiedmind of his own.

Twenty-five miles are covered, and a dogged, tired, bad-tempered Tommy does not even raise his eyebrows when he isinformed that thirty-five miles is to be the sum of his daysexertion Suddenly the long skirmishing, line which has beenscreening the column's advance buckles and squirms, anddisappears to cover. Then comes the melancholy thump, thump,thump of a pom pom—and Tommy is a new man. He may haveheard the sound a thousand times before, he may have been an oldsoldier in the Ladysmith days, but as the enemy's one-poundshells cough through the air he is another man.

Tired he is—tired as a man can be of the unbrokenmonotony of things, but not stale. Not stale, do you hear? Seethe hands that fidget excitedly with the lock of the rifle thatrests on his thigh; they are the same hands that a few minutesbefore swung listlessly by his sides. See the lowered brow andthe eager eyes, and the compressed lips. It is the same face thatfrowned, the same eyes that dozed, the same lips that hinteddarkly of chucking the Army and joining a "bally" circus.

Tired, but not stale. Fitter now than ever, and as willing. Hecan march further than he could in the first days of the war. Washe stale then? He is just as willing to risk death and mutilationto-day as he was when he took Pieter's Hill or lay out all thosefiery, thirsty hours when Modder River lay between us and ourbivouac. Was he stale then?

OFFICER'S DIMINISHED ZEAL

Whether his officer is as keen now as then is another matter;but there is no lack of zeal among the men of the lower ranks. Itis quits the thing nowadays to collect all the odium which wefeel the Army merits and stick it on to the officer. If an attackgoes wrong we blame the officer. We call him an Uneducated Fool,an Empty-headed Fashion- plate; and if we write stories about thewar we delicately refer to him as Captain Glasseye.

If by chance he is a Staff College man, educated in warfare,we say: "Pooh! What's the good of a Military Pundit? Give me anuneducated colonial who doesn't know a re-entrant from abastion."

I do not wish, with all due respect to you, to be pricked innumber with the fashionable, since it is the fashion to lay allblame on the officer; but I will say that the curse of thecampaign is the one or two men who are to be found in mostregiments who want to get home in time for the shooting, orhunting, or racing. One such man, by constantly harping on thesubject, will make a whole regiment discontented.

Perhaps he manages to get home, and then, to justify hispresence in England, he says that he is not the only one whowanted to get home—"The whole bally Army's stale,sir—stale as ditch-water, sir; everybody's sick of it,everybody's anxious to get home, I assure you. Otherwise I shouldnot be here."

A SUNDAY MORNING CITY
INTO JOHANNESBURG BY THE STAGE DOOR

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), August 6,1901

A mine to the left, then a few miles run over a rolling,grassy down, and a mine to the right. This and the occasionalespial of a smoke stack on the horizon are the hints thetraveller receives of approaching Johannesburg.

Then the permanent way broadens, and the one line of railsbecomes two, the two become four, and the mines become thicker,and galvanised-iron houses and shanties slouch about thelandscape. Then the four lines widen into a labyrinth of pointsand sidings, and fussy puffing little engines, local to the spot,snort approvingly to the dust-covered main-line brother, who,greatly daring, has penetrated safely from the outerwilderness.

ELANDSFONTEIN JUNCTION

By rights this should be Johannesburg, for everything suggeststhe bustle and the untidy hurry of a miners' town. The delver'spresence is manifest. On either side and all about, the evidenceof his craft blocks out the circling horizon, and stands in thegreat white tailing heaps, and the trolley lines that feed them;in the overpowering ugliness of hauling gear, in the bleak,unbeautiful batteries. This is Elandsfontein, the Transvaal DeAar. You change here for Pretoria or Johannesburg or Ladysmith.From Elandsfontein the line curves westward to Johannesburg.

The names of the little wayside stations seem familiar. Thefirst one you have heard before, but where on earth was it? Hasit a connection with a battle, or a disaster, or a speech, or apolicy? The second puts your mind at rest—it is a familiarname, and you have seen it in the "latest closing prices.""Simmer and Jack " station it is, and like its fellows on theline is a broad-platformed, red-roofed, tidy little modelstation, and an Atkins in khaki wags a white flag, andmanipulates the foreign-looking signals. It was almost darkwhen

I set out from Elandsfontein. Chimneys and battery-houses, andthe weblike entanglement of hauling gear stood silhouetted black- against the strip of orange sky; here and there, like greatearth-stars, or as though the crust of the earth had beenpunctured and all the glory of high-day was struggling throughthe pinholes, white arc lights spangled the distant Rand. Some ofthe chimneys belched black smoke that trailed across the sky, butthey were few.

SURPRISES AT JOHANNESBURG

Suddenly, and without, the long-drawn screech with which themail train usually heralds its coming, we drew alongside aplatform.

"Johannesburg Park!" Surely this cannot be Johannesburg? Thisis not the greatest terminus in South Africa? This is a place oftall, overshadowing trees, of red country roads, of placidruralness, or ordered quiet. It is the pretty station ofSomewhere-on-Sea—there are clamouring fly-men at thestation gate to heighten the illusion.

It is Johannesburg right enough, and as you drive through itsdarkening streets you get a glimpse of its size and a hint of itsprobabilities. In the white, strong light of morning the town,lies bare to your criticism: sordidness and grandeur, loftyfineness and sickening meanness are its characteristics. Manyturreted emporia rub shoulders with clumsily-built tin stores,gaping at every angle, unpainted and neglected. The dignity ofthe newly-erected pile, splendid in plate-glass and polishedstone and electric light, is balanced by the tumble-downcraziness of the fit-up one-storied eating house it jostles outof sight. Pritchard Street, Commissioner Street, and MarketStreet hold a succession of architectural parvenus, strivingfrantically to atone for the down-at-heels condition of poorrelations. It is a city cf shocking contrasts: of princely villasand squalid slums; of air, which is to London air as a diamond isto a hunk cf coal; of dust-storms that are a revelation to theModder River campaigner.

THE HANDFUL BACK ON THE RAND

In these times Johannesburg is a deserted city. Not thedeserted city that the "occasional correspondent" led me toexpect—the dead city, grass growing in the streets and thefootfall of the solitary pedestrian reverberating strangelythrough untrodden ways. Not that exactly, but the air of semi-desolation that is peculiar to the City of London on Sundaymorning. Just a few people to be met with here and there; just acab trundling slowly through the uneven streets, and another cabtrundling more slowly in the distance. A few shops open, with ameagre display of stock; much evidence of limited supply to meetan uncertain demand.

The population of the Rand is yet a military one. Even thecivilians play at soldiers. Mine managers, miners, compoundmanagers, and engineers have become Mine Guards, and Rand Rifles,and Mounted Rifles. "Misters" are majors, "Bills" are privates.This is the price they pay—this military service—forthe privilege of coming into Johannesburg by the Early Door. Notquite the early door either, but rather the Stage Door; sincethey have been admitted to assist the Management, while thethousands and tens of thousands who desire admittance in theordinary way are waiting, by turns good-humouredly and by turnspetulantly, at the thrice-barriered entrance at Cape Town, PortElizabeth, East London, and Durban. Who are back on the Rand? Asprinkling of mine managers, a few businessmen, few clerksconnected with the banks and insurance offices, a few heads ofDepartments— that is all.

EXCESS OF CAUTION

For my part I think the Government is losing opportunities indelaying the return of the refugees to Johannesburg, for nothingis calculated to discourage the Boers so much as the knowledgethat the land is again settling down to work... To them it wouldbe an outward and visible sign of our confidence in the certaintyof the issue. So long as Johannesburg is untenanted they knowthat it is because we do not consider our position issufficiently assured in the Transvaal to allow of the return of alarge commercial population.

We may drop one or two stamps, set one or two batteries atwork, but we do it with the air of the small boy who knocks atthe door of a reputed haunted house. We start a mine going, thenlook around with a scared face, ready to apologise or acclaim ourown boldness—according to the results of our intrepidity.This is the time for resolute action. The resumption; of work onthe Rand will be fifty times more significant to the Boer thanits occupation. Look at the case from Brer Boer's point of view,and you will see which is the more discouraging, the meremilitary occupation of a depopulated town, or the rehabilitationof its industries.

There can be no question of a prolonged siege of Johannesburg,no fear of a starving, beleaguered town with a hundred thousandhungry civilian mouths to be fed with military rations. With thepresent proportion cf Britons and Boers in the field, with theloss of the enemy's heavy guns, a siege would be impossible, andfed as it is from three seaports by three separate lines ofrailways, the possibilities of a failure of food-stuffs arealmost as remote.

WHEN WILL IT BE TIME?

Supposing' we do not let the bulk of theJohannesburger—many of them are subsisting on the charityof the coast-port colonials—return to the Rand until thewar is really ended and the country has quietened down, how longdo you think they will have to wait? Will you think I am analarmist if I say two years? Perhaps that is an extreme view, butat any rate I should say it will be well into 1903 before thecountry is quite settled. In the meantime you have this enormouspopulation either diverted from its proper avocation, or, as Isay, living on the mercy of charitable folks.

And do not forget, good friends, that these people are engagedin the industry which is to contribute towards the costs of thewar—not the gold industry only, but the hundred and onesubsidiary industries—and the British taxpayer has theright to demand that any machinery that can be put in motion tolighten his burden, should so be.

Let the mines re-open, let the Johannesburgers return, andevery stamp that falls will do something more than discourage theBoers: it will help to knock off that extra tuppence!

IN DEATH'S EYE

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand),August 6, 1901

VILJOEN'S DRIFT, May 25, 1901

A NIGHTS ADVENTURES

Of Atkins "doing nothing" I have told you: the patient, rain-sodden, wind-chilled, cheerful Atkins, tramping desperately inthe grey rain, sleeping peacefully through the black downpour.And I have sketched Atkins tired: the, listless, bored soldiermarching impatiently to an unknown destination, or counting flieson a jam-pot by his lonely railside post.

There is no end of variety in Tommy.

Come with me, you people who have a hint of a suspicion thatAtkins is subject to funks. Have you ever faced Death? Not on asickbed, when your mind is clouded and dazed, and you have lostthe Grip of Things; not in the stupor of your crisis, when allpower of realisation of your danger had slipped fromyou—but Death that comes to you in the broad light of day;Death that comes at lunch-time, and it is a toss-up whether itwill be afternoon tea for yon or a funeral. Face Death that way,stand on the very brink and look down—down—down; swayand reel on the brink of Eternity and recover your footing on theedge of Life with a gasp—that is what I mean by facingDeath. Do this not once in your life, but daily, and yon willtaste the real flavor of it.

ON THE GANGER'S TROLLEY

It is early morning, and bitterly cold. Only thestars—frozen spangles of light—in the heavens; only awhite rime of frost on the ground, and between frost and stars anempty silence, save that, from the engine of the mail train thathas been held up all night at the little veldt siding comes thehiss and roar peculiar to its kind. A feather of steam shakesimpatiently at its safety valve, for the wakeful engine and thesleepy passenger coaches behind are ready as soon as light shallcome to resume the interrupted journey to Pretoria.

But much may have happened in the night. Brother Boer may havecrept down in the darkness and shifted a rail, or worse, left apacket of some unpleasant mess artfully hidden between rail andballast with the object of reducing the rolling stock of theImperial Military Railways. So we are going down the line on theganger's trolley to nose out these modest destroyers that hidecoyly behind sleepers and retire unobtrusively to the shelter offishplates.

Before Heaven and a critical public, I declare I am no hero,although the men who were with me were. They knew the risk theyran—I did not. Perhaps if I had known the risks I was aboutto take I should not have gone; certain it is I will never goagain.

Three full privates, one corporal of Engineers, one warcorrespondent of the Daily Mail— that was thetrolley's passenger list; and, as the night thought of her sinsand paled eastward, two of the Tommies gave the machine a shove,and we were off on our ten miles' voyage of discovery. The "road"was downhill and easy going for a mile, and the enemy's countrydid not begin until we reached the foot of the slope. There wepassed the advanced post of the siding guard— a solitaryTommy hidden somewhere in the semi-darkness, who challenged andwas silent.

WITH FACES TO THE GROUND

Then he march commenced. On the outer edges of the trolley thecorporal and a man stretched themselves full-length along awooden platform, their beads just over-reaching the fore end ofthe trolley, their faces about 20 inches above the rail. Theother two men trundled the car along, now running alongsidepushing heavily, now sitting on the back of the platformpropelling the little track forward with an occasional kick atthe ground. I was seated amidships, facing forward, and the coldair came to my mouth and nose for all the world like a dry icespray—if such a thing could be. There was now just enoughlight for the two watchers to see pretty clearly twenty yardsahead, and the uncanniness of the experience was passing. Atkinswho pushed on the right had a fine taste for gruesome anecdote,more particularly in the matter of exploded mines, and hisconversation was not cheerful. His repertory included the storiesof the Injudicious Corporal, the Inquisitive Loyalist, theUnfortunate Goat, and the Circ*mspect Boer.

The story of the Inquisitive Loyalist was about a Boer wholived on a farm. And when the English came along this 'ere Boerdiscovered that he had never been in favor of the war from thevery first, so was allowed to live on his farm provided he gaveup his arms. So this 'ere somethinged Boer handed in the Towermusket with which he had been plugging Tommies at 2,000 yards andupwards, and flint- lock, which was, so to speak, his secondbarrel, and was allowed to live peacefully in sight of thecamp.

And as every day passed, his love for the British increased,so that the amiable camp commandant allowed him to visit the campand sell the brutal soldiery milk and vegetables. But the amiablecommandant was not the fool his eyeglass and his drawl led you tobelieve, and he had a notion that the new convert to Imperialismwas in the habit—and a disgusting habit it is—ofcommunicating with outside pals. And once a culvert wasmysteriously blown up, and nobody saw the Boers who did it. Sothe commandant took that "— —" (I won't attempt totone down the adjectives) Boer into his confidence. The culvertsouth of the siding had been blown up, he said, but had beenrepaired; he was now having it carefully guarded. He did notintend having the other culvert, which was north of the siding,watched, as he did not think the Boers would experiment on that,and, besides, he couldn't spare the men. And the Boer was touchedby the confidence the guileless Philistine reposed in him, andwept.

That night the commandant sent for the farmer and held him inconversation for two hours on agricultural prospects, what timetwo engineers laid down a devilish contrivance near the northernculvert.

And this is the way it was made. They dug a hole and placedtherein a camp kettle. Within that camp kettle was fifteen poundsof dynamite. Inserted in that camp kettle was the muzzle of aloaded Martini carbine, and attached to the trigger of thatcarbine were wires that the foot of the most careful walker wouldnot fail to catch. Well, that night—

"STOP!"

The story stops suddenly, two pairs of hands grip the right-hand brake, and the trolley jars to a standstill.

SOMETHING NEW

We are off in a second, and the corporal is gingerly scrapingaway the earth piled round a thing that looks like a bottle withthe neck protruding. It is placed by the side of the rail, thebottle raised to the rail's level, and had the truck gone anotherdozen feet it would have smashed the neck.

"This," said the corporal, speaking with great niceness, andpicking his words as though some discordant phrase would besufficient to agitate the contents, "is a new fake. I'm not goin'to take this along with me. Here, What's-your-name, take thisbottle out about three hundred yards, and stick it on a rock,where we can see it."

What's-his-name tucked the bottle under his arm with as muchunconcern as if it were a bottle of beer, and strolled to therequired distance. I fancy it was half that distance, for thebottle was quite distinct in the broadening light. When What's-his-name had got back the four men took up their rifles from thetrolley floor, and, taking steady aim, opened fire. The thirdshot took effect. The little black object, just visible, becameinstantly a broad white fan of angry flaming light. Only for asecond, and then smoke was where flame had been, and the earthshook with the roar of the explosion.

"One," said the corporal laconically, and the journey wasresumed. Back to the charge came the anecdotal Tommy.

Well, this blank blank Boer was found in a dozen differentplaces the next morning, he having profited by the commandant'sconfidence to walk round the unguarded culvert in the earlymorning with a dynamite cartridge and a wicked smile. Tommylapsed into fiction at this point to sketch the Boer's glee as hewalked to his work of destruction.

LITTLE STICKS OF DYNAMITE

Now we are at the top of the "bank," and there is a clear rundown to the next siding. Day is here now, and as we rattle downthe steep grade we disturb the thousand tiny creatures of the sunthat are waking to activity.

"Steady with that. Put the. brake on, you silly fool!"

This from the corporal, for we are moving at a great rate, andthe watchers stretched at full length put their hands up to turnthe wind from their eyes.

The brake falls on the wheel, but we have gained too great amomentum, and the pace is not perceptibly slackened. The corporallooks eagerly forward; the growing light has increased his rangeof vision, but the speed of the trolley has lessened itsusefulness. Suddenly—

"Brake! Brake For God's sake!"

He has seen something on the line—something snugglingclose to the rail—an ominous, shapeless something that hasno right to be there. In a moment you see there is not time tojump for it; you can hardly rise to your feet in the time. Then aswift hand snatches up a rifle, the rifle is poised for a momentbefore the whirring wheels of the trolley, then dropped crosswiseon to the metals. There is a jump, a bone-racking thud, thud,thud as the wheels kick up against the sleepers; the next minutethere is an overturned trolley with wheels still running, andfive human beings sprawling unhurt upon the veldt; but the fivelittle sticks of dynamite with the upturned percussion cap areuntouched.

Only a broken rifle a few feet from them shows where thetrolley left the line.

AMERICA'S BID FOR THE RAND

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), August 12,1901

JOHANNESBURG, May 28, 1901

Trade follows the flag.

This phrase—accepted as an axiom by some, and as amischievous solecism by a dour few—has hitherto suggestedto us one type of campaign And the peculiarity of that type ofcampaign is that it has been a sort of three-months-to-the-dayaffair, and its incidents have had a peculiar sameness. First aninterior, miles, away from the coast. Then an irreligiouspotentate who warmly declined to be converted, or to exchange thesimple devil he knew for the subtle devil he did not know,preferring wooden-faced Mumbo-Jumbo to the unclean serpent. Thenfollow in rapid succession the inevitable consequences—amurdered missionary, an Exchange cable, and a hastily organisedpunitive expedition. Long marches and much fever, and a funeralof two by the wayside. A little bush-fighting, an early morningrush at a bristling stockade, a scramble over, a practicaldemonstration of the utility of the short lunge, a littleburying, a little hanging, up with the bunting and "God Save theKing!"— with, a Bombay Lancer hauling at the lanyards, anda Sudanese policeman holding the Marine C.O.'s horse. That is theadvent of the flag.

WHEN THE FLAG FOLLOWS TRADE

After come a Parsee, a Jew and a Scotch storekeeper, and tradesits on the conqueror's grave and rooks the guileless conquered,for bad whisky and a new code of ethics are trade's outward andvisible signs.

Sometimes trade gets ahead the flag; the Union Jack goes tothe front in a box of Birmingham gewgaws, but in that case itdoes not go alone, and the allied forces are well represented,and the supremacy of any one nationality is in ratio to thegaudiness of its export. When the official flag comes along,which it will do with the usual escort of "red" marines and theportable Hotchkiss, there will arise certain complications, forin the Hinterland the rights of kingship are less divine thanthose of the Belgian trader.

This is by the way; and is suggested by a walk I have taken,round Johannesburg's stores. I have been trying to discover towhat extent English trade will benefit by our new acquisition,and, if the truth be told, the prospect is by no means anencouraging one. That the mines will be ours—or rather thatthe country in which the goldfields are situated will be underBritish rule—may be taken for granted. That these largecorporations will for many years contribute a fair share towardsdefraying the cost of the war is also within reason, but beyondthe direct income from this source it is difficult to see in whatmanner England is to benefit commercially, if the existingbusiness modes obtain in the future, and if the schemes that arenow on foot in America and elsewhere go through.

UNCLE SAM TAKES HIS COAT OFF

For, be it known, commercial America is making a big bid forthe Rand, and commercial America is being aided and abetted inits plans by a pathetic, worn-out, vitiated commercial England.Nor is this trade-grabbing the most serious aspect of America'sattempt to secure by hustle and dollar that which we have earnedwith bullet and fever.

"America," said a well-known Johannesburg stockbroker to methe other evening, "is going to have a considerable say in thedevelopment of the Rand. As it is, very few people are aware ofthe enormous interests the States have in Johannesburg. Yes, Iknow it has been denied, and that very few of the leading WallStreet speculators have large holdings of Kaffir scrip, but thereare many very wealthy houses in America that never, or, at anyrate, seldom ever gamble, who are steadily buying up shareswhenever the opportunity offers. Of course, it isn't their gameto come in with a rush and send up the prices, but the buyinggoes on nonetheless."

As it is, most of the machinery used on the Rand hails fromthe other side, and the reason for this is not far to seek.

If you consult a list of the mines on the Rand, and, for thatmatter, throughout South Africa, you will find that in almostevery instance the chief engineer is an American, and asAmericans of all classes, be they chief engineers or trolley-men,have an unshakeable belief in the supremacy of home manufacturersover all foreign trash, it would be unreasonable to expect themto favour any other than those from the land of Old Glory.

This favouritism has already been so marked as to attractattention, and with the added, incentive of sympatheticdirectors, and the concordant votes of shareholders, the Americanengineer will have it pretty well all his own way, to thedetriment of the unfortunate English manufacturer.

PROSPECTS OF A MINING TRUST

"Another thing," said my stockbroking friend, "that isalarming is the prospect of consolidation. I had a 1etter from aman in New York only last week, telling me that there is amovement on foot to capture all the poorer mines and the deepsand pool them—yes, a trust (a trust is the Yankee's idea ofcommercial perfection). It wouldn't be a very big thing in theway of trusts, but it would open up tremendous possibilities. Theamalgamation of the diamond mines of Kimberley had as much anappearance of impossibility as a big gold combine here."

Desirous of discovering whether America's pushfulness wasbeing directed solely towards the mining industry I strolledround the town, visiting several of the big business houses. Thefirst firm was that of the Peter Robinson class, and the managerwas emphatic.

"Where do we get our goods from? America, France, Germany andEngland, but France and Germany run her very close. America isn'table to compete with English manufacturers in that line, but in ayear or two I've no doubt she will. As to hardware, that mostlyall comes from America. Why? Well, it is cheaper in the firstplace— both the initial cost and the shipment. Then, again,the stuff is good, the orders are promptly complied with andaccurately carried out."

HIDEBOUND JOHN BULL

Another manager fold the same story:

"American shippers are prompt, courteous and obliging. Theyare ending up boots now that compare very favourably with thebest Leicester or Vienna ever exported."

And again:

"English houses are so unobliging, they make certain things ina certain way, whether the requirements of the customer aresuited or not. A traveller representing a well-known English firmcalled with some samples. There was a dressing-bag that took myfancy, but in place of the brass fittings I wanted. nickel. Doyou think he would take my order? Not a bit. He was very sorry,but that was the class of goods his firm supplied. I could takeit or leave it. After he had left along came an American drummerrepresenting a firm that supplied many things, but certainly notdressing-bags. I told him of my difficulty with the Englishman;and do you know that that Yank took my order for dressing-bagswith nickel fittings, although his firm bad never made such athing before; and, what is more, I got 'em."

The hardware merchants of the Rand were unanimous. America wasthe only possible market for tools and furniture. "I indented,"said one, "for thirty ploughs from England and a like number fromAmerica. I verily believe that the American ploughs were worn outbefore the English articles arrived." Also, we were unanimousupon one point: the English article was the best.

What is to blame for our commercial failure in South Africa?Old, conservative, dogmatic methods, and an inability toappreciate the present day necessities of the buyer. Not thebuyer, at any rate, for he is justified in going to the cheapestand most expeditious, marketer. It is too much to expect that theRand merchant will wait six months for a plough when he can get aplow in two.

SOPS TO SENTIMENT—SETTLEMENT PROBLEMS

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), August 15,1901

PRETORIA, May 31, 1901

"...Mr Van Nieuenhoys, the Netherlands Consul, left here lastSaturday, for the purpose of interviewing General Botha, thatgeneral having expresssd a desire to cable to President Krugerwith reference to a general surrender. Last night there was apersistent rumour in town that Botha had asked for a three days'armistice, which had been granted. The feeling here is distinctlyoptimistic."

But the censor shook his head when I showed him themessage.

"Nothing about peace proposals can go through," he said, andso I have wired you the last sentence of my message in the hopethat you may read into the somewhat bald and reiterated statementof Pretoria's cheerfulness the fact that, for the hundredth timesince the war started, the End and Peace are in sight. Thispossibly suggests once more the terms of settlement, about whichso much has been written—we had cut and dried proposalsready for the battle of Glencoe!—that one feels theimpossibility of presenting the issues in any fresh light.

ACCEPTABLE TO LOYAL SOUTH AFRICA?

First and foremost, the opinions of loyal South Africa must berespected, for the loyal South African is the man who is to livehere, making his home among the people who are now in the fieldfighting against us. No policy and no terms, however pleasing tothe millions who are living six thousand miles from the landwhich will see and feel the policy in operation, and will beinfluenced in its future every-day life by the direction of thesettlement, can be possible unless they gain the approval of thepeople who will be mostly affected. And, the person who will bemostly affected—next to the Boer himself—will be theloyal South African, who in thousands of instances has fought forhis political liberty with the best of the soldiers, and who inall cases must make his home and raise his family side by sidewith the people whose exact national status for all time must bedefinitely settled before the war is really over.

Perhaps the most difficult thing to discover is, What areloyal South Africa's demands? For there ore two classes ofloyalists in the country, and each is distinct from the other.There is the practical and the sentimental; one who, with an eyeto the future, calls for a modus vivendi, and the otherwho cries Revanche! and demands retaliatory measures,having in his mind the injustice of the Krugerian regime, andbeing for the time oblivious of the copy-book maxim which pointsout the futility of attempting to obtain any shade of whitenessby a combination of two or more uncompromising blacks.

WITH JEALOUS EYE

These people, who, smarting under their past wrongs, willnaturally take the most extreme views, will be, beyond doubt, bethe more difficult to please when, the actual settlement comes.Profiting by past experience of Great Britain's pusillanimity incolonial administration; remembering—and they cannot wellforget—how often they have been left to work out their ownsalvation by Governments who regarded the colonies as inferiorIrelands, they will read into every piece of statesmanship whichconcedes in the slightest degree to the Boer prejudice anunexplainable attempt on the part of his Majesty's Government toconciliate the Dutch at the expense of the British.

The practical section, however, dominates, and will be able todiscriminate between weakness and far-seeingconcession—always providing you do not call it"magnanimity," which is a word that stinks in the nostrils ofevery South African.

"I decline to discuss the question of independence," said LordKitchener, and the fact that independence cannot be discussed inthe terms of settlement is very patent to the most ignorantbywoner. They do not expect independence: Botha even toldone of the captured commandants that the hope of the two Statesrecovering their old position was outside the range ofpossibility—and this in spite of his periodical appeals tothe burghers to fight to the death in defence of their belovedindependence. They know, Botha and Boer, that England cannotwithdraw from the position she has taken up in South Africa, andstill remain a nation, so that their parrot-like cry forindependence is becoming almost as meaningless as the heroics ofthe schoolboy orator who ends his peroration with thatmagnificent Americanism, "As for me, give me liberty or give medeath!"

Recognising the futility of resistance, why then prolong whatis beyond doubt for them a painful campaign?

The life of the Boer on commando is more than hard. Ill-fed,ill-clad, with scarcely any transport and very littleclothing—so little indeed that some of the commandoes areforced to save the skins of the sheep they kill to protect themfrom the ravages of winter—bootless most of them, living alife compared with which the lot of the humble herd-boy isluxurious, surely there is something more vital than thisequivocal independence—this hopeless intangibility?

REAL QUESTIONS OF SENTIMENT

As it is with the loyalists, so it is with the Boers. There isa large and predominating section of sentimentalists. Thequestions whether their language shall be stamped out and whetherthey shall be placed on the same electoral footing as the rawKaffir are very high politics to a majority of the men in thefield.

Only the other day one of the commandants addressed the men ofhis commando: "If we surrender to the British, what will becomeof onze taal?* It will be swept from the land, and youwill be obliged to talk to your mother in English; if wesurrender we shall have to say to our Kaffirs: 'Als u belieft,Jan!' (Please, John) and 'Danke, Jan' (Thanks, John),and we shall ask our boys if we may vote!"

[* onze taal (Afrikaans)—ourlanguage. ]

This native equality rankles in the Boer mind. For years thenative has been his good servant, and he had sufficient knowledgeof the working of the aboriginal mind to know how bad a masterthe native will become if he is allowed to take any prominentplace the politics of the country. The native question is onewhich will require the careful consideration of those entrustedwith the construction of the final settlement, for not only theimmediate pacification of the country will be involved in therigid niceness of the adjustment of the clauses dealingtherewith, but the future tranquillity of the whole of SouthAfrica, from the Mediterranean southwards, may be bound up in thefuture status of the Transvaal native, for the tranquillity ofthe native will depend on the attitude of the Dutch, and theattitude of the Dutch will depend on the position of the nativepolitically.

TAAL MUST COME TO AN END

Whatever opinions one may have on the question of thelanguages, one point seems to be of paramount importance, andmost people I have spoken with are agreed, whether they have beenBritish or Dutch, that English must be the official language inthe Transvaal, although there seems to be no very convincingreason why Dutch should not be spoken in the LegislativeAssemblies of the two conquered provinces. It seems to me that werecognised the right of two communities of almost equal size, butdiffering in nationality, each to use its native tongue, when wesuggested, shortly before the war, that English should he allowedto be used in debates in the Raadzaal,* and that theTransvaal Government refused to sanction this is no reason why weshould deny to the Boer what we deemed due to the Briton.

[* Raadzaal(Afrikaans)—TheTransvaal Parliament building.

The taal will die a natural death. Possessing notraditions and no literature, its grammar conforming strictly tothe taste of the user, it needs just leaving alone. To attempt tosuppress it would be to endow it with new life. Let it be used asin the Cape Colony, only don't encourage it as they do there, forthe taal is a compulsory subject for all matriculation,examinations, and the spectacle of English students being set thetask of translating High Dutch into the taal is notedifying. The taal is hideous and slovenly. It is socoarse and vulgar that the British and Foreign Bible Society havenot printed a single Bible in the "language." It is a sort ofBillingsgate Dutch, with all the Billingsgate left in—andthe Boer wants to retain it, to read his Volkstem* in it,to hear his sermons in it. Let him. His grandson will be aneducated man, and will speak English out of very decency. Don'tbe afraid that Holland Dutch will become the language of theland—the Boer prefers English.

[* De Volkstem (Afrikaans)—"TheVoice Of The People", a Transvaal newspaper. ]

These are two points which will loom largely in thesettlement. A concession in either case would be as beneficial tothe English as to the enemy—don't forget that we are not asyet in a position to dictate terms—and are such that we canafford to give. They are sops thrown to sentiment: we can becheaply gracious.

THE VLAKFONTEIN HORROR
ENEMY MURDER OUR WOUNDED

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand),August 22, 1901

A British army censor deleted the account of thisBoer atrocity from a report which Edgar Wallace cabled to theDaily Mail in June 1901. The uncensored version of thereport eventually reached the newspaper by post. The PovertyBay Herald printed Wallace's account with the followingintroductory material:

OFFICIAL CONFIRMATIONOF THE STORY

The allegations against the Boers of murderingthe British wounded at Vlakfontein in the fight of May 29 formedthe subject of a special statement in the House of Commons by MrBrodrick, the War Minister, on July 11.

In view of the War Office's denial of the statement in thetelegrams from South Africa that a British officer and a non-commissioned officer were shot in cold blood because they refusedto show the Boers how to work the guns which they had temporarilycaptured, and having regard also to the numerous letters whichthe newspapers had published from time to time from soldiers whoactually took part in the fight, great public interest has beenmanifested in the subject.

There has, indeed, been, great anxiety to arriveat the truth of this matter. And from, the statement which MrBrodrick made, there appears to be no manner of doubt that theBoers were guilty of the atrocities ascribed to them in soldiers'letters from the front. For it now turns out, after inquiry, thatLord Kitchener telegraphed his denial on insufficientinformation—that, so far, seven men have come forward andtestified that the Boers murdered British wounded. The Commander-in-Chief has forwarded the statements of these eye-witnesses onby mail, and further evidence on oath is to be taken. Here is thetext of Edgar Wallace's report:

ENEMY MURDER OUR WOUNDED

In the country round Wolmaranstadt and Hartebeestefontein, andbetween Klerkdorp and the Bechuanaland border, the whole districtswarms with Boers, and it is here that Methuen goes when he feelsinclined to have a fight, which is, so swear the Bushmen, whoworship him—(did you know that?)—about seven days aweek.

General Dixon's column is one of the many that zig-zag aboutthe country establishing posts, building and garrisoningblockhouses, burning and punishing, protecting and relieving asoccasion demands or justice dictates.

The country is of that deceptive kind where long grassyundulations hide dongas* and waterways. On the day of thefight, Dixon's force had been out farm-burning in the morning,and was returning to camp at about 1.30 in the afternoon. Toguard as far as possible from surprise, the force was split upinto two wings, moving simultaneously in the same direction, buta considerable distance apart. When the columns reached a pointwhich was presumably as far from the camp as each wing was fromthe other, the two parties converged on to the point representedby the camp, so that the lines of direction may be roughlyfollowed by placing a V sideways, the force moving down the upperroad consisting of two squadrons Imperial Yeomanry, two guns, 200Derbys, and a few Scottish Horse. The pom-pom had also been withthis party, but was withdrawn before the fight, and was with themain body, which was moving up the lower road.

[* Donga (Afrikaans from Zulu)—aditch formed by the erosion of soil. The word means "bank, sideof a gully" in Zulu. Wikipedia. ]

As the column advanced leisurely along the top road, thescouts skirting the grass fire, some shadowy forms were seen tobe moving about. Through the smoke they were indistinguishable,but they were challenged, and replied satisfactorily enough, "Allright; we are Scottish Horse," and as they seemed to be dressedin khaki, and wore the regulation co*cks' feathers in their hats,very little notice was taken until a heavy gust of wind rent fora moment the veil of smoke—and there was the Boer army!With a yell the whole Boer force dashed forward, gallopingthrough the low, hanging smoke, the hoofs of a thousand horsestramping down the fire. Firing from their saddles, the Boers cameon with a rush, and as the little English force fell back inconfusion the gunner officer, seeing that the fate of his gunswas settled, pistolled the horses.

KILLING THE WOUNDED

The confusion was only for a moment, for, rallied by fineofficers, the raw Yeomen, who two months ago had never fired arifle, took cover and held the Boers in play, while the good oldDerbys, grown wise in warfare, prepared to make an attempt to re-take the guns. In the meantime the jubilant Boers had reached thespot where the guns stood, the dying horses lying in the tracesand the victims of the first volley lying around, and demanded ofan officer who had not time to get away an immediate lesson ingunnery. He refused to turn the guns on to his owncomrades—that goes without saying—and was shot forhis refusal. A sergeant-major of the battery met with the samefate.

What happened then may be described in the words of myinformant.

"A couple of Boers armed with Martinis walked round the formsof the dead and dying men who were stretched in every conceivableattitude on the ground. Some they turned over to see if they weredead. If they weren't, one or the other of the two Boers shotthem, just slipping a cartridge into the breach of the Martiniand shooting them as you'd shoot an ox. I saw four men killed inthis way. The Boers went up to Lieutenant —— of the—— and turned him over. Then, thinking that he wasdead, they took off his spurs. One officer was lying wounded, anda sergeant who was slightly wounded went across to him with somewater; a third Boer shot them both dead deliberately. Oneyoungster—I think he was a Yeoman—pleaded for hislife. I heard him say, '0 Christ—don't!' and then the bangof the rifle." That is what happened.

Then came the other wing with their howitzer, and the Boersmanaged to work the newly-captured guns, and got in half a dozenshots.

By this time the Derbys were ready. Bayonets rattled on tobarrels, and with that jog-jog step that knows but one pace andstops only at one objective, they came on with a rush. They saythat raw Yeomen and seasoned Tommies mingled together in thefinal rush, but whoever else was there, the Derby Tommy was init, and the Boers, who for the moment had been the victors,inflicting on us something which looked suspiciously like adisaster, turned and fled, leaving their bayoneted dead to beburied.

THE CENSORSHIP

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), August 23,1901

WHY MESSAGES ARE MUTILATED AND FALSIFIED

PRETORIA, Wednesday, June 12, 1901

In speaking last week of the Vlakfontein fight, I did sobelieving that the description I had sent by cable had gonethrough without mutilation.

The restrictions imposed on Press correspondents at thebeginning of the war were, under Lord Roberts's regime,considerably relaxed, and I suppose I had fallen into a sense offalse security when I despatched to you on form A.K. of theTelegraafdienst, Z.A. Republiek*, the story of the Boeratrocities at Vlakfontein.

[* Telegraafdienst, Z.A. Republiek(Afrikaans)—Telegraph Service of the South AfricanRepublic. ]

At any rate, I must confess to having received a rude shock onSaturday, when, on paying a flying visit to Pretoria, Idiscovered that that portion referring to the shooting of thewounded Yeomen by Kemp's burghers had been struck out of mymessage.

I do not rail against the censors, since most of those men whohave been appointed to the more important centres are educated,courteous gentlemen, who do not mutilate news out of verywantonness, but rather act either in conformity with aninscrutable law, evidently based on the spasmodic whimsies ofsome exalted military genius, whose claim to distinction isapparently a total ignorance of public feeling and a lack ofacquaintance with the first principles of Logical Deduction, orelse are the dictation of Downing Street wire-pullers, who have apolitical object in suppressing facts.

There are, of course—or rather have been—censorswho were neither educated, courteous nor gentlemanly; censors ofa day, so to speak, who have played the fool with the Englishpublic as their caprices or their malice dictated.

TWO EXPERIENCES

Armed with a little brief authority, and accepting LordWolseley's hasty definition! of the war correspondent—("Thecurse of modern armies")—as an axiom; and Lord Kitchener'salleged aversion to the Press as a sound backing, they havebullied and threatened, and hacked and slashed, just as theirspite or stupidity inspired them.

There is a Colonel of an Irish Line Regiment, an immaculate,eye-glassed individual, who spent one half of his time in writingto Lord Kitchener to tell him the precautions he had taken toensure the safety of the camp, and the other half bullyinginoffensive railway passengers. This officer threatened to put mein the guard-room for submitting a wire which was absolutelytrue, but which he, as Intelligence officer, should have knownbefore me.

A couple of months ago, when I was with Henniker on the trailof the wily De Wet, there was a censor attached to GeneralLyttelton's staff who carefully eliminated from a wire whichdescribed the taking of De Wet's guns every reference to theYeomen, the Australians, and the irregular corps, and inserted intheir stead a statement which, not to put too fine a point on it,was an absolute falsehood. What his object was in doing this,Heaven only knows. But to me, taking an ordinary matter-of-factview of the case, it seemed very much like an exhibition ofjealousy, and an attempt to boycott corps which, in the pipingtimes of peace, do not figure in the Army List.

HOW THEY GET THERE

In dealing with censors and their methods in this letter I donot wish to take into account those freaks of a day, thoseirresponsible mutilators with whom impaired digestion takes theplace of literary ability, for they very often are men placed intheir positions on the fool-of-the-family principle.

"What shall we do with Captain Friendatcourt?" asks the staffofficer of his brigadier.

"Friendatcourt?" queries the General, "Who the devil'she?"

"The man who came from Park Lane with a Letter ofIntroduction," is the response.

"Oh!" says the chief, "make him Provost-Marshal."

"Not enough backbone, sir," answers the staff officer.

"Put him in charge of the transport," is the order.

The staff officer snigg*rs. "And be starved?" he inquires.

"Well," ponders the brigadier, "he can't signal, he can't"write, he doesn't know even enough to be IntelligenceOfficer—make him Press Censor!" And so he gets hisbillet.

Now I do not intend dealing with this class of censor, sincehis ways are governed by no earthly laws, but rather with the menwho fill these posts at places like Cape Town, Johannesburg,Pretoria, Bloemfontein, and Kimberley. They are the people whomust be discussed, for from their ruling there is little or noappeal, since they represent Lord Kitchener, and hold the sealedpatterns of his policy.

KITCHENER AS A STATESMAN

I am now dealing with Kitchener the Administrator, and thepolicy of Kitchener the Administrator is the reflected policy ofhis Majesty's Government. Read between the lines of a censoredmessage and you see Downing Street. A blue line drawn across adozen words—and a question in the House avoided. A sentenceerased—and a responsibility shirked. It seems to me thatthe censorship which was originally constituted for purelymilitary purposes is being used for political ends, and that somerestrictions are placed on messages for this and for no otherreason. These, I might say, are not laid down in any written orprinted regulation to which the war correspondent has access, andone only discover them by the mark of the censor's pencil. Thecabled message suffers, and the reason for the restrictionsimposed can only be adduced to one cause.

The English Government is weakening on the issues in SouthAfrica. You have but to see the items of news in the censor'sindex expurgatorius to realise it. Members of the Cabinetmay make after-dinner speeches. They may put their hands to theplough and never turn back three tames a week. They may addresstheir constituents wad reconstruct the Army with equal self-assurance—but the policy which we understood to be purgedof abortive conciliation, which we understood would carry throughthis war until we were in a position to dictate terms to theenemy, has been replaced by a fearful desire to bring the war toa finish without giving offence to the Boer and his friends.

WHY? WHY? WHY?

Why must not the correspondent say by telegraph that we haveburnt a farm from which a patrol was sniped? Why must he not tellyou that British columns are making the Eastern Transvaaluninhabitable? Are you so falsely sensitive that you give yoursanction to a war of which you cannot countenance the terribleincidents; or is it that the strongest Government of Other Timeslives in the fear of an Irish opposition?

Why must you not be told that our wounded soldiers werebrutally murdered? Is it because you would rather think of themas having fallen in action—a wish to spare your feelings?Or is it that your knowledge of the Boer character would blockthe way of pet conciliation schemes that are ready to plaster upthe ragged ends of am unfinished war?

Why are the comings and goings of conciliating consuls, theprivate meetings of Boer commandants and mutual friends keptsecret?

Because the Government knows you are sick to death of thesewordy engagements that end nowhere, that you want to fight to afinish. You have opined that the soldiers on the field are stale;you are mistaken; it is the Government that has grown stale, thatfearful, timorous, speech-making Government, so dear to theapplauding, unsuspecting electorate; so cheap, to the wily Boer,who is waiting for his peace at almost any price.

No right-thinking man will blame Lord Kitchener for carryingout the instructions of the Government, for Lord Kitchener theHigh Commissioner has not got the free hand that Lord Kitchenerthe Commander-in-Chief had.

WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH

The man who was strong enough to desecrate the tomb of theMahdi and strike a deadly blow at superstition and heathendom, tothe horror and puny wrath of tea-meetingdom, is strong enough toshoot off traitors and devastate a country without fear ofcriticism or out-of-office hysteria. Strong enough is "K.," butweak, terribly weak is the knee-shaky Cabinet whose veryphilosophy—so much in evidence at the outbreak of thewar—is deserting them. There is nothing to be gained bykeeping dark such things as I have enumerated. There iseverything to gain by a policy of frankness.

Are we afraid to say that we are making war in a warlike way?Is it worthy of our national traditions that we should burn anddestroy the enemy's property which has been used against ourarms, and ravage the land that supports him, and be afraid totell the world that we are doing it? The war was a just war: aninevitable war. We were not ashamed to wage it: why fear to leteven a flabby Opposition know the method of waging?

And about the shooting of the wounded and the many stories ofBoer atrocities which may not he sent by cable. Why thissolicitude? Instances have occurred times without number, buttimes without number the greatest objection has been made to therecording of these. Conciliating and whitewashing seem to be somuch the order of the day now that one hesitates at speakingadversely of Brother Boer, lest an indignant Crown shouldinstitute an action for criminal libel!

A LETTER FROM BROTHER BOER

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand),August 23, 1901

Note.—Lest this letter fall into thehands of a civilian censor with no sense of humour, I do herebysolemnly say that the following is a purely fictitious epistle,addressed to an imaginary commandant by a non-existent Boer, andis written with the object of calling the attention of the B.P.to the humanity of British methods of making war.—E.W.
The Laager, Vlaakho*r, Z.A.R., June 14, 1901.

My dear Commandant Marais,-

This comes hoping to find you quite well, as bythe Divine blessing I and my brave comrades are, but livingalways in fear of the cursed and barbarous English, who haveDeluged the land in Blood, and have, as one of their greatest andmost statesmanlike writers said, let Hell loose by slaying theirBrother Boers, though personally I do not call an Englishman mybrother, but a Great Thief and a Bloody Monster.

You will be pleased to hear that we killedsixty of the enemy last week, which brings up the average of theenemy's slain and wounded, but would not have done had not Pietvan Heerden shot a few who were undecided whether to live ordie—so grievously were they wounded.

I had a letter from Louis Botha last week byway of Ermelo, telling me that we must fight while there is oneman left to hold a rifle, and a single white flag remains in ourlines, and if we get too hard-pressed and see no way of escapingfrom the hands of the Philistines, he will arrange for a week'sarmistice to discuss peace terms, which my son (who is with meand well) says is a much better way of gaining time than askingfor 24 hours to bury your dead—and my son was atStellenbosch training for the ministry, and is the slimmest kerl*that ever shot a doctor.

[* slimmest kerl (Afrikaans)—naughtiest boy, most wicked chap. ]

THOSE KIND OFFICERS

We are ready and willing to die for our belovedcountry, but the burghers' hearts are crying out, "How long, Howlong, 0 Lord? How long shall the barbarian sit at the gates ofthe Chosen? How long shall the reign of they that sit in darknesscarry fire and sword through all the Land of Israel?"

I forgot to tell you in my last letter that wemanaged to blow up an ambulance train near Geneva. There weremore than eighty sick soldiers in it, and you could hear themshout a mile away, so Andries, my brother, told me. I might tellyou that Andries is the life of the laager; he is such acomical rascal, he goes out dressed in khaki, and rides up to theenemy's patrol, and if the patrol is only one man, Andries shootshim quite close and brings his boots back into camp. He has gotsuch a collection that I tell him he must start awinkel*—so many boots has he got.

[* winkel (Afrikaans)—a shop, astore. ]

You must not be bang* for him, dear brotherMarais, because when the English, catch a Boer dressed in khakithey do not shoot him, but ask him why he is dressed so, and whenhe says that all his other clothes are worn out by continualtrekking, and that if he did not wear looted khaki he would haveto be in rags, the English officer says, "Poor devil!" andreports to his general that the Boers are in a very bad way, andthat they might all surrender it any minute.

[* bang (Afrikaans)—afraid.]

BEWARE OF THE COLONIALS!

I have warned Andries not to get caught by theAustralians and the other colonials if he is dressed in khaki,because several khaki burghers were captured by the Bushmen, andI have not seen their names in the list of prisoner—andthat was six months ago.

You will be pleased to hear that we have ourservices regularly twice every Sabbath, accept when we are on thetrek. Sometimes I read to the burghers, and sometimes Andries,and sometimes old Oom van Streuben. We have Psalms and anaddress.

Last Sunday Andries gave a beautiful address on"The Earth is the Lord's, and the fullness of the earth is theLord's also." And he told us how it was ordained by the Almightythat man should live by that which was extracted from the Land;that the People of the Land were the chosen people of Israel. Notthose who dwelt in the cities, but those who dwelt on the farms,were the chosen. The English, he said, lived in cities; we livedin farms—the English, by robbing and cheating and leadingimmoral lives; we, by the fruits of the soil and the bounties ofthe soil which the Lord gave unto mankind. It was a good sermon,but I do not think the burghers cared so much for it as theymight. They are, as you know, mostly cattle farmers and bywoners,and have never grown mealies or corn in their lives.

Talking of the treasures of the earth, I couldnot find the dynamite which you said in your last letter wasburied in this district. I found a Maxim at Witpoort, also someammunition; but the Maxim was so eaten up with rust and thecartridges so perished that I left the gun for a British columnthat was allowing me—you may have read the account of itscapture in the Cape papers.

We are all very well clad, and so far we havenot run short of ammunition, but we have no tobacco.

NO WORRY ABOUT THE WIFE

In spite of this we are all very happy. I havenothing now to trouble about. My wife is in the women's laager,near Kroonstad, also, my two children, and they are all living sowell and getting so fat that I shall not know them—so saysmy wife in a letter to me which be sent out by Erasmus Cloete,who, you know, is now in the employ of the English as alanddrost,* or justice, or something, he having becomeBritish, at I forget how much, a month.

[* landdrost (Afrikaans)—anofficial with local jurisdiction. ]

My son's wife is in Pretoria, where the EnglishGovernment allows her coals, and coffee, and meat, and meal, andshe says she is very friendly with the English soldiers, and theylike her very ouch, as she gives a few of them nice new bread toeat, which they like much better than their biscuits.

I hear that the outlanders are not to beallowed back to Johannesburg yet, for fear we attack the town,and that even if the English did not fear this, the outlanderscould not come up, because all the rolling stock that is notrequired to carry up soldiers is wanted for carrying theprisoners of war, who are being returned to the country.

Have you heard of the latest English madness?Surely they are all fools! Not only are they bringing back allthe prisoners they took away—from Ceylon, from India, andfrom St. Helena—but they are going to give as many aswant—what to you think? A horse and a rifle and ammunition!And why, do you think? They are to be sent out to hunt upburghers' cattle and bring in the burghers' stock! Well, I don'tmind. I can do with a few recruits, and if they bring their ownrifles and ammunition, so much the better, say I.

But, perhaps, you know as much about all thisas I do—still there can be no harm in giving you thesetips. Byers is at Zand River Poort. He is well laagered, and theydo say that the whole British Army could not move him from hisposition.

NEVER WAIT FOR METHUEN!

As for me, I am holding a kopje from which Icould defy two armies, but I am trekking to-night, for I hearthat Methuen is moving in this direction—and, brotherMarais, take this tip, never wait for Methuen. My! but he was didabout Spytkoppies (?Magersfontein), and he has been wild eversince. Also be cautious of the Yeomen; they are not such fools asI thought after reading that Pink English paper you sentme—they cannot ride much, but they can shoot—alsothey do not run. If you meet any of —— Horse, shootat them a little, and then go and take their horses and rifles,but do not hurt them, for later they will be given new horses andnew rifles—and I want new rifles. Also do not try to rush ablockhouse that is held by English foot-soldiers. GertMarais—he is no relation of yours, but you will rememberhim, the tall Veld Cornet with the light- hair and the redeyes—well, Gert Marais tried to do this by Heidelberg. Hetook fifty men with him, as there were only ten holding the post,and they started firing their rifles at sun-up, and then gallopeddown towards the fort. I am sorry for Gert; he was a nice man,but inclined to be quarrelsome. Will you tell his brother, who iswith you? Gert and ten others and a cross over each—theEnglish are good about these things.

I am sending this letter by my son Willem. Heleaves at dusk and travels by night. Zolang,* brother, keep agood courage, remembering that as the hosts of the Amorites weresmitten before Gibeon, so shall the Lord deliver his people fromthe oppressor.

Your friend, PIET HOFFMAN, Commandant.

P.S.—I do not quite understand how thenitroglycerine you sent me is to be used. Will yon send one ofthe Irish Brigade, or some other German, to show me? P.H.

[* zolang (Afrikaans)—meanwhile.]

THE BASER KIND OF BOER

Reproduced from The Wanganui Chronicle (New Zealand),August 27, 1901

STANDERTON, June 8, 1901

One of the idiosyncrasies of English temperament is the desireto find fault with work well done because it has not been donebetter.

However satisfied we are with the results of a battle, oursatisfaction is invariably tempered by the length of our casualtylist, while on the other hand, if we by any chance effectmovement with little or no loss to ourselves, the doubt willprobably occur in the minds of nine out of ten intelligentcritics, "Would not this movement of General Blank's have beeneven more prolific in results had he moved with less caution?"After all, it is only a superficial criticism; the thing that menwho open their morning papers in the train snap across thecarriage to one another.

In their innermost hearts they know we are doing our best outhere—that we don't throw away our lives to get our namesinto the paper, or crawl on our hands and knees across the veldtto avoid casualties. I say all this, because I do not know howyou will accept the Vlakfontein-Naauwpoort fight, accounts ofwhich I have cabled you.

IT WAS A VICTORY

I was near Pietersburg, about 200 miles away from the scene ofthe fight, when it occurred, and by the greatest luck in theworld I heard of it within a couple of hours. As fast as ajoggling, rattling, South-Eastern-like goods train could carry meI was on my way back to Krugersdorp a few hours afterwards. UntilI got to Krugersdorp I was not certain whether we were to callthis last affair of ours a disaster or a great victory, and avictory in spite of our heavy casualty list. Not only did wedrive off an enemy outnumbering us by three to one, but by thesplendid dash of our infantry we have established the irrefutablefact that, in spite of 20 months' hard fighting and tedioustrekking, and the lugubrious views of the Timescorrespondent notwithstanding, the old hands are just as fit andjust as keen as ever.

And it was a moral victory also. Abandoning the old methods ofdropping the butt-end of a rifle on the wounded soldier's face,when there was none to see the villainy, the Boer has done hisbloody work in the light of day, within sight of a dozen eye-witnesses, and the stories we have hardly dared to hint, lest youthought we had grown hysterical, we can now tell without fear ofridicule. The Boers murder wounded men.

Yes, the gentle, bucolic Boer, who was forced to take up therifle, purchased for him a dozen years before by a paternalGovernment, to guard the independence of his country, may beplaced in the same category as the Matabele, the Mashona, theDervish, the Afridi, and with every other savage race with whomBritain has waged war. And the soldier who is stricken down onthe field is no more certain that his life will be spared by hisbrother Boer than he was that brother Fussy would pass himby.

A FREQUENT INCIDENT

You will say that the Boers have not consistently killed offour wounded. Indeed, there are instances where they have treatedour men very well. That is so; under Commandant De la Rey's eyethese atrocities would never have been committed, and the woundedsoldier within view of that, or any other Boer commandant of hisorder of intelligence, would have been as safe as any Christianwho sought sanctuary at the feet of Li Hung Chang.

The murdering of the wounded has been a common feature of thewar, but except in one or two cases we have had none other thancirc*mstantial evidence. On the day of the sortie from Kimberleyhalf a dozen men swore that the wounded who fell with Scott-Turner had been deliberately murdered, and similar instances havecome to light during the campaign. What does this prove? Itproves the truth of a statement that has been made before, andproves it better than the amount of abstract reasoning woulddo—the Boer is half a savage. I make this statementdispassionately, without feeling any greater resentment towardsthe Boer than I should were I describing the cat as half a tiger.He is a savage not from wickedness, nor from any criminal effort,only just because, like Dr Watt's dog, it is his nature to.

Three stages marked the advance of primitive man from absolutesavagery to civilisation, the "finding," the "raising," and the"making" stages. At present the Boer is but in the "finding." Asprimitive man learned first to find and kill animals for hisconsumption, and then with the first glimmerings of intellectreasoned that it would not be at all a bad idea, if he herded orstored some of the findings, and so became a cattle farmer; sodid the voortrekker turn from pot-hunting to herding, andthere he has stuck.

[* voortrekker (Afrikaans)—apioneer, literally "one who treks ahead." ]

EXPLAINING HIS SAVAGERY

The average Boer is a cattle farmer pure and simple, very fewhave learned to produce from the land for the market, andconsequently the aboriginal is further advanced economically thanhe, for the native raises a considerable crop, having reached thesecond stage, and his success in the third being merely a matterfor education and time to assure. I am speaking now of theTransvaal and Orange River Colony Boers, since one industry inthe Cape Colony thrives languidly, as the wine farmers of theWestern Province will tell you. The Boer does not "raise" for themarket; indeed, he even depends on the native crops for his ownmeagre requirements, and by this fact alone he must take secondplace to the native in the standard of economic utility, sincethe Kaffir can, apart from other sources, sustain an independentexistence, that is, he can live by his own winnings from thesoil.

The Krugerian regime is all to blame for this, not only forthe ignorance and unintelligence of the Boers in the twoRepublics, but for the conservatism which made the burgher of theCape Colony reject any attempt to educate him. The Transvaal gavethe lead; it made the pace of progress. The dogmatism of itsorthodox educational methods was the faith of the Free State, andthe unassailable creed of the Afrikander. As fast as the SouthAfrican Republic moved along the road that leads toenlightenment, and a wider and more comprehensive view of lifeand men, so fast did the Free State and the Cape Colony move.Only, unfortunately, the Transvaal did not move at all, and therest of Dutch Africa remained correspondingly stagnant. Noattempt was made by the Krugerian Government—no honestattempt—to bring light to the enlightened. No effort wasmade to educate the burghers to a knowledge of theirpossibilities. They did not realise the potentialities with whichan accident of fortune had endowed them.

The discovery of gold at Johannesburg might have been for themthe gift of the gods had a wise and honest Administration beentheirs. The finding of gold, and the consequent influx of capitaland people into the country might have brought about a socialrevolution, making the farmer a real factor in the development ofSouth Africa. Indeed, the gold discovery was the very challengeof Fate.

STATE-AIDED BURGHERS

But the existence of the Krugerian regime rested solely on theignorance of the farmer, and the Boer, instead of beingencouraged to produce, was offered every inducement to stagnate.A price was put on his indolence. He was told times withoutnumber that, so long as his vote was given in the rightdirection, the State would see that he did not want. He wastaught to look upon the Uitlander as the goose whosegolden eggs were to save him from worrying about the future.President Kruger's system of teaching soon resulted in a veryfine crop of State-aided "poor burghers." What was farcicallytermed the agricultural community of the Transvaal was in realitya voting community. A man was not valued because he enriched theland, or because he improved the breed of cattle, or because heseriously attempted towards the amelioration of the farmingclasses, but because he was a voting unit; he could be dependedon to return to Parliament some one who would legislate to theUitlanders' discomfort—and incidentally to theBoer's advantage. Kruger crippled the farmer—or rather,with all the innate cunning that characterised his rule, heassisted the farmer to cripple himself.

So much has been written on the system by which the Pretorianoligarchy was upheld that I have only touched on this aspect, andthat to adduce a reason for the many otherwise inexplicableexhibitions of savagery which have from time to time "staggeredhumanity." Education is not necessarily an elementary knowledgeof the arts; it is the cognisance and appreciation ofhumanity—its laws, its emotions, its boundlesspossibilities. And Kruger has stifled the Boers' education in itsbirth, and the Javah of his well-thumbed Testament shall judgehim by his opportunities.

HOW THE PUBLIC IS DEPRIVED OF NEWS

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), August 28,1901

PRETORIA, June 19, 1901

They do not want war correspondents in South Africa; I don'tknow whether "they" ever wanted them.

War correspondents have their uses, of course. They explainthings satisfactorily. They retouch the spotty negatives ofdisasters, and make quite pretty pictures of them. They remark atdecent intervals that General So-and-so is a fine upstandinggallant Englishman, worthy of the trust, confidence, and otherrewards of the British nation. Sometimes they break away frombeaten paths and say nasty things about Those in Authority, andthen they receive unofficial hints that if they will persist intheir Unholy and Abominable ways of life, the next time there asa fat, comfortable, six weeks' war (illustrated) they won't begiven a free ticket, and will probably be forced by circ*mstancesto accept a position as war expert on a Radical morningnewspaper.

The war correspondent is the pest of the Army. He is not theonly pest, however; there are several others mentioned in theSoldier's Pocket-Book, only they are not called pests, butAcceptable Precepts. They would have remained Acceptable Preceptsto the end of time had it not been for this war; which hasproved, if it has proved anything, that you cannot wage warsuccessfully by a close adherence to rules contained in printed,books.

THE EXODUS

When the war ended last August the army was freed from thepestilence to a great extent. The contaminating influences wenthome first-class, some to produce books, some to give lectures,some to wander in Arcady and pipe the song of Pan, andsome—the more expensive—to enter Parliament andadvocate economy.

With the second edition of the war in November and Decembercame the return of two of the great correspondents; also aboutthat time I returned.

No others came back, however, and the correspondence of thewar was left in the hands of four London. journalists (for one,and the best of us all, Howell Gwynne, of Reuter's Agency, hadnot left his post) and by hundreds of local correspondentsscattered throughout South Africa—and these latter haverendered much excellent service to the London reader. But thelocal correspondent is a man who is making his home in thecountry. His existence in the Transvaal must necessarily dependon the terms he keeps with the military. He does not criticisemilitary operations adversely; he studiously keeps as far aspossible out of the range of polemics. He is practically underthe thumb of the censor.

I could quote many instances to demonstrate the fact that theGovernment has it all its own way as far as the localcorrespondents are concerned, that it is only from the Londonspecial, who is prepared to say what he thinks without the fearthat his outspokenness will result in his ruin, that you canexpect to receive an honest criticism. The British Governmentknows his, and it also knows that a newspaper can afford to keepan expensive correspondent in the field just so long as thatcorrespondent as able to send by cable long and important cablesfrom the theatre of war.

THE "FREEZING-OUT" PROCESS

You cannot afford to keep correspondent in the field, costinghundreds of pounds a month, if you get no other return for yourmoney than a meagre weekly message, from which every item ofinterest has been carefully excised—and hence a newregulation regarding the censoring of messages.

"In future the length of correspondents' wires will be inproportion to the importance of the news contained therein."

This, in effect, is the gist of the new instructions. Justthink that means. The correspondent may attach himself to acolumn operating against Botha, or De Wet, or Buyers. He may beaway from the wire-end for a fortnight or a month; all willdepend on what actions the agile enemy takes. At the end of thattime the column returns to the railway to refit, and thecorrespondent may then cable. All the time he has been away hehas not sent a single message lest it should fall into the handsof the Boers and prematurely reveal the General's plans. What ishe allowed to send now, after the fortnight's absence? Everythingnow must depend on the success of the movement. If it has beenmore than ordinarily successful, he may let himself go to theextent of half a column; if the trek has been middlinglyproductive, he must confine himself to half a dozen lines; if ithas been a fiasco, he had better wire about somethingelse—the weather, the state of the country, or the optimismof the Headquarter Staff.

WHICH IS IT TO BE?

The Government seems to think that this is the time for a morevigorous censorship, for at this period the situation is becomingless military than political.

On the contrary, I am of the opinion, and it is an opinionwhich will be shared by thousands, that at this stage thecensorship should be entirely removed, as far as Presscorrespondence goes. As far as the military position isconcerned, there is absolutely nothing to justify the maintenanceof the censorship. A wire of mine to the effect that ColonelColenbrander had arrived at Pietersburg with sixty prisoners wascensored because it dealt with the movement of troops! Couldanything be more absurd and childish?

THE ROSE OF THE PRINCESS

When the war broke out, and for some time afterwards, it wasvery necessary to conceal our movements. It was necessary once, Ibelieve, to put a sentry over a rose that a famous princessadmired. The rose faded and died, but the sentry remained. Theflowers were dug up and tomatoes planted in the place, but thesentry remained for years after; and years after, when thetomatoes had become cabbages, he still delivered over to hisrelief the order, "Not to allow any person to pluck the rose ofthe princess." And so the old restrictions, so necessary at thebeginning of the war, when Kruger had Delagoa Bay for hispurposes, and the cable worked, and envoys passed freely betweenLorenco Marquez, are still held as indispensable, at a time whenthe Boers have no interest in the telegraph line other than assomething to cut.

The censorship has had its innings; it has served its purpose.It can go. To use it now, when the only service it can render isa political one, is creating a bad precedent. It savours somewhatof Russia; nay, it is Krugerian. Personally, there is nothingthat I wish to say that I don't say—by letter. But I wantto say it by wire.

"THE TIME IS AT HAND"

It is right that England should know at the time what ishappening and what is felt. There is much that Lord Kitchenerdoes not think important enough to cable to Downing Street that Ithink is of sufficiently interesting to send to Carmelite House.*It is not fair that because Lord Kitchener is a poorcorrespondent his unofficial rivals are to be prevented fromcompeting with him.

As for me, I do not wish to compete with the HeadquarterStaff. Casualty lists are hardly in my line, but I think the timeis close at hand when I shall want to wire something that LordKitchener will not wish to send or the Government to receive.

[* Carmelite House—at that time thehome office of the Daily Mail." ]

WHY THE WAR DRAGS

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), September 5,1901

"CANNOT—ACCEPT—RESPONSIBILITY"

PRETORIA, June 20, 1901

It was in answer to a wire of mine, which I had despatched toa Press censor in the Orange River Colony, that I received thislaconic, but to me, significant, phrase, "Cannot acceptresponsibility."

One of my messages to the Daily Mail had been stoppedin transit, and I had urged by telegraph that it should beallowed to proceed.

"Cannot accept responsibility," said the censor, and themessage was presumably relegated to the waste-paper basket. Itwas not, I might say, a world-shaking message, nor one calculatedto stir to its depths established society. Not even a peace-negotiation-movement-of-troops-end-in-sight message. But I wantedto get it "through," though my perseverance was due rather moreto the fear of being forestalled by other Press correspondents inthe delivery of my news than to the great value of theintelligence I wanted to put on the wire.

I make this explanation lest I convey the impression that thisalso is a criticism of the censorship. The censor's message,however, is one which will bear speculating on, for therein liesthe secret of our non-success; for what is true of thisparticular censor is true of 99 per cent of the officers employedin South Africa. When I say non-success, I do so advisedly, sinceone cannot shut one's eyes to the fact that the extent of thecountry and the mobility of the Boer forces are not aloneresponsible for the prolongation of the war. Indeed, it would beunpatriotic in the extreme to encourage a national colour-blindness which recognises only the crimson and gold of triumphand ignores the blackness of humiliation and disaster.

MANY EXPLANATIONS

When the question has arisen, Why does the war drag? there hasalways been a plentiful supply of apologists ready at hand toexplain away any onus that might attach to the Headquarter Staff;to the generals, to the officers, to those responsible for thenewly-constructed Civil Administration. Why is not the war ended?and a dozen special correspondents hasten to explain. It isbecause the lies of the Boer leaders keep the burghers in thefield, said the Times Carolina correspondent a few weeksback.

It is the incapacity of the officers; brainless dandies withnot two ideas in their shallow pates beyond Bridge and Polo. Thiswas the opinion—and probably is still of a gentleman whoshould speak with authority, since he has been kicked out of moremesses than most men.

It has been our inability to grasp the essentials of SouthAfrican campaigning, light transport, and light horsem*n. ButCape Carts and Mounted Infantry have been adopted, and we are nonearer the end now than we were when Botha and Buller discussedpeace terms, and cow guns* were de rigueur.

[* cow gun—the popular name of a5-inch artillery piece used during the Boer war. ]

To my mind, however, you have to look no further than thecensor's message, and in the fear of responsibility which ispeculiar to the British officer you will find the true cause forthe slowness of progression.

There was a column operating in the north of the Orange RiverColony. It had been trekking all day, and towards evening wasapproaching the farm which the commanding officer had chosen forhis bivouac. Just before the farm was reached, the advancedscouts retired on to the main body with the information thatabout seven miles further on was a Boerlaager—evidently one of considerable size.

The commanding officer's Intelligence gave him no exactinformation as to the composition and strength of the commando,and he hesitated whether to attack and bring on an engagement, orwhether to leave the Boers severely alone, and wait forinstructions from the General conducting operations in thedistrict. He decided to do the latter. It subsequently provedthat, had he posted his men and made an attack on the followingmorning, he must have at least captured the enemy's convoy, whichwas a considerable one, if, indeed, he had not crippled! theenemy. He would not take the risk of a casualty list; he wouldnot accept the responsibility. He was not afraid for his life orthe lives of the men under him, but he was greatly fearful forhis reputation.

The hastily-dug trench and the funeral service in the waninglight, these had no terrors for him; but to draw up a thousand-word report, eight hundred of which referred to casualties, thiswas a horror not to be faced. In fact, the grave was lessterrible than the Remount Camp at Stellenbosch.

WHAT IS THE HIGHEST COURAGE?

So long as the responsibility lies elsewhere, the Britishofficer is willing and able to do most things. Physically he isthe bravest of the brave. In moral courage he is not encouragedto be strong.

So long as a man will not risk that which he values most he isnot playing the hero. Realise this: to the average officer Lifecomes but third in the list of Precious Things. That intangibleand elastic quality, Honour, makes a good first, and if notcomprehended in that term, Reputation comes second.

And a very satisfactory state of affairs too, you saycomplacently. Quite so, only remember that it is theunwillingness of the officer to risk his reputation or the fearof strangling it at its birth that is responsible for thedragging on of the war. It is responsible for all the evils thatwe call by other names—The Niceness of War, TheMagnanimity, The False Humanity.

The Boer cares less for his reputation than he does for hisnative's soul, and as for his Honour, why there is no word in thetaal that adequately conveys the sense of the word. Hehusbands life, and lets his reputation take care of itself. If hedoes that which we would call disgraceful, he is not kicked outof his club, because he has not got a club. He won't be cut inthe Row, because he has no Row, and his friends have not yetacquired the gentle art of cutting. If he is riding along in thevicinity of a railway line with a few pounds of dynamite in hisholsters, he does not "have the honour to request" the permissionof the hoofdcommandant to blow up the next troop-trainthat passes. He just blows it up, and casually mentions the factthe next time he meets his chief.

[* hoofdcommandant(Afrikaans)—commander-in-chief. ]

The seeming inability to take the initiative has been one ofthe depressing characteristics of the war. The stagnation whichhas caused commercial England to become such a happy hunting-ground for the hustling Yankee is very apparent in the Army. TheBoers have taught us many ingenious tricks of war. Inspectors offortifications would not have dared to suggest, before the warthat barbed wire would play so prominent a part in our defencesas it has. They would not have dared, for their reputation'ssake, to advise that we should make good the ground as fast as wewon it, by erecting a chain of blockhouses from one end of thecountry to the other. Inspectors of Cavalry would have hesitatedbefore proposing the reforms that the light-riding Boer renderedcompulsory. We wait to be shown, to have practical demonstrationsbefore we improve our methods—only the demonstrator happensto be the enemy, and while we are learning he is gainingtime.

THE SOLDIERS OF GENIUS

The war has not produced any very great generals. We have hadpassable commanders who have managed to steer clear of blunders,but the touch of greatness that distinguished Wellington, andNapoleon, and Moltke is wanting. In two men only does theNapoleonic fearlessness of consequences seem evident, and thesetwo men are French and Plumer.

French's performance before Colesberg was the finest piece ofgeneralship of the war. The splendid audacity with which bemanoeuvred his men—he held a line of thirty miles with afew thousand troops. His magnificent dash: his foresight: hisoriginality and departure from iron-bound regulation methods.

And Plumer, too, has these qualities. I have seen him rush offinto the wilderness after a flying enemy with only two days'supplies on his transport. He never hesitated, although everyday's march he put between himself and the supply base meant atwo day's wait for food. Calm, imperturbable, gentle always, henever hesitates.

When he was following De Wet, the town guard of Hopetownmistook his column for the enemy and opened a vigorous fire onhis advance guard. To wait until the zealous citizens could becommunicated with by flag of truce meant delay. Ninety-ninecommanders out of a hundred would hive risked the delay, andwould have cited the town guard's action as an excuse. Plumer didnot fear to take a little responsibility.

"A little pom-pom, please," he said in that gentle voice ofhis. Yes, Plumer turned his pom pom upon the overzealousdefenders of Hopetown. Nobody was killed: somebody was badlyfrightened—and there was no delay.

We periodically hold up the Colonial officer as a pattern ofall that an officer should be. The reasons we adduce for hissuperiority over his regular comrade are various and amusing. Itis his knowledge of the country, his acquaintance with theconditions of life in the bush, his ignorance of military regime,his training as a hunter.

The real secret is this: the Colonial officer acceptsresponsibility. He scores off his own bat. How many times couldnot commanding officers have brought off coups during this war ifthey had had the moral courage to act without writteninstructions? What would have happened had Pilcher summarilydealt with the Sunnyside rebels—the first rebels of the warinstead of referring them to Capetown? Supposing he had acceptedthe responsibility of dealing with them, and had tried them bycourt-martial and shot a few, do you think that there would havebeen any threats of rebellion a year later?

THE FORGOTTEN ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND

Reproduced from The Evening Post (New Zealand), September 7, 1901

"UNADVERTISED SOLDIERS"

Let us make holiday.

I am tired of the eternal trek, the everlasting veldt, whererotting carcasses of sheep and oxen putrefy the air. I am sick ofthe same hotels of corrugated iron and frowsy smoking-room; thesame broad, untidy streets, with the identical ugly church that Ileft in the monotonously same town sixty miles away. Sametalk—war, Boers, and settlement. Same dress—khaki,relieved now by the black armlet in memory of the 22nd January.The self-same dinner, with the self-same sweet—ricepudding. It all palls, it mostly sickens. Let us make holiday.Where shall we go?

YOUR CHOICE OF CHANGE

It really all depends on how your fancy runs. Some there arewhose idea of holidays is very much that of the bus-driver whospent his day off on the box of a friend's vehicle. Perhaps your| taste runs to industrial exhibitions. What shall it be? Boots,Leicester? You will find Leicester somewhere down Delagoa Bayline. It is guarding the rail in the vicinity of Middelberg, andlives in little tin blockhouses. It was in Ladysmith during thesiege, and as it had no false pride about taking cover when theenemy was unusually active and usually accurate, it has not lostso many men as its brave but misguided fellows of the line, andin consequence it is not a Celebrated Regiment. And by CelebratedRegiment I mean one that has figured in a music-hall chorus.

Perhaps you would prefer to go farther north. Let us go toCarlisle. Carlisle is somewhere down by Klerksdorp, and Carlislehas just had rather a bad time, for was it not atVlaakfontein?

Possibly you have a penchant for the Highlands, and theHighlands are at Kroonstadt, and were at Modder River andMagersfontein—and at Balaklava, where the descriptivewriter likened it to a thin red line.

Or Yorkshire? You will find Huddersfield at Warm Baths, and ithas not left its hospitality at home, for behind the barbed wireapron and the six-foot trench you will be asked to stay to lunch,and a very good lunch the West Ridings will give you.

As for me, I went to Kent, for it is my country. I wantedwhite chalk roads, and orchards, and strong-scented hopfields,and gardens and the upstanding stretch of the rugged Rag. Iwanted Kent, so I went there; for Kent lies at the fa*g end of theHeilbron line, on the outskirts of the inevitable town from whichI was fleeing. Kent was there—Maidenstone, Tonbridge,Bartford, Chatham, Rochester, Gravesend, Paddock Wood,Woolwich—and Greenwich.

ALL KINDS OF KENT

You don't hear much about Kent at Home, or, as a matter offact, about Yorkshire, or Carlisle, or Argyll, or Sutherland. Inthese days we are an Imperial people, and we think in Red. Youhear of Canada, and of Australia, and of New Zealand, and ofIndia; also you hear of China, but not of Kent.

Ottawa, Melbourne, Adelaide, Brisbane, Auckland, Christchurch,are more often on your tongues than is Maidstone, or Canterbury,or Sevenoaks. Your new brooms are made of splendid material, butthe old articles that swept Russia from Sebastopol, and Francefrom Waterloo, they are wearing well. The men who had the scienceof war ground into them at the Regimental Depots have donewell—never let that slip from your memory, for if you doyou will be unjust—criminally unjust, and you are notunjust as a rule, only somewhat careless and forgetful.

So I have been to Kent—West Kent, Royal WestKent—. Nay, I will give them their full and honourabletitle. I have been to have a look at the Second Battalion of the50th Queen's Own Royal West Kent Regiment. They were very pleasedto see me—the men—because we talked about Greenwich,and the twenty-four-hour clock on Observatory Hill, and ofBlackheath in relation to bank holidays, and Shooter's HillCemetery, and Woolwich Arsenal and the prospects of works thereatafter the war. And of Deptford Broadway, and Mill- lane, andChurch-street. Also of Bromley and blackberrying, and of public-houses in the New-cross-road and their relative excellencies. Andwe discussed the war, and Mr. Chamberlain and ex-PresidentKruger, who excites the admiration of the Deptford section byreason of his close adherence to his millions. And of AncientHistory we spake. Prinsloo's surrender, and grass fires, andwounded men perishing in the flames—and all in co*ckneyaccents. The West Kents see the world across the well-filled bowlof a favourite pipe, and are philosophical. They talked football,and they reminded me that they had had the Army Cup once, andnearly had it twice—nor did I need reminding, since everygood soldier knows that the men who wear the White Horse of Kentare good sportsmen par excellence.

Why have I brought you here, good reader of the DailyMail? Why have I brought you to Kent via Heilbron when youmight have got there via Cannon-street—in a day or two?

REMEMBER THOMAS ATKINS OF THE LINE

It is to remind you that there are other soldiers in the fieldthan the irregulars so well advertised because of the uniquenessof their entry into our rough Island Story. Patient, hardworking,hard-fighting men, capable now as they were a year ago of doinganything and at any time. The West Kents are not the onlyregiment serving in South Africa, the presence of which theoutside public would never suspect. It is one of the manyregiments which have passed through the campaign—or aportion of the campaign— without a display of fireworks orthe possession of a pet correspondent; so, let me for the day bethat pet correspondent, and drag them from the seclusion intowhich they have retired through foolishly doing their duty.

This may read as though I have a regiment or regiments in myeye which have adopted such a method—figuratively speaking,of course—but this is not so, though nobody who hascampaigned in South Africa can be blind to the fact that not alittle of the notoriety of men and brigades has been owing to thepresence of a correspondent who has been so comfortably quarteredand so well treated that he has not had the slightest inclinationto leave, and has in consequence dealt so frequently with thedoings of some particular General or some brigade that hisrepetitions have told, and the General or brigade has become asfamous as Beecham's Pills or Cuticura Soap. Then again, someregiments are of themselves picturesque, and if I had to describean action in which the Black Watch and the Somerset LightInfantry figured, I know which figure the special artist wouldchoose to illustrate an incident.

This doesn't matter very much so long as you do not forget theexistence of the regiments whose names do not recur. As a matterof fact, I don't believe that they care the proverbial tuppencewhether you talk about them or not, only—well, they arehuman. Think of them not as on parade with a Colonel on aprancing horse and the band playing a march, but as little groupsof silent, thoughtful, smoking men, dotted about all over thecountry, living in blockhouses—men from Kent and men fromSurrey, men from Hants and men from Durham. A hundred thousandunadvertised soldiers, whose claim to renown is that there arenone better in the whole wide world.

A LITTLE PESSIMISM

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand),September 24, 1901

PRETORIA, July 11, 1901

Hopeful on Monday, distinctly Encouraging on Tuesday, Doubtfulon Wednesday, Gloomy on Thursday, Alarming on Friday, Hopeless onSaturday, the South African situation viewed from Pretoria is asvariable in quality as an April day.

Hope, Encouragement, Doubt, Gloom, and Alarm, in rapidsuccession; and over, and through all, an uneasiness that tempersour optimism and justifies the forebodings of the chronicpessimist.

It is now eight months since Lord Kitchener assumed charge ofoperations in the three colonies. During a similar period, andimmediately preceding this, Lord Roberts captured Cronje,occupied in turn Bloemfontein, Johannesburg, and Pretoria,captured Prinsloo and his thousands, relieved Kimberley,Ladysmith, and Mafeking, and defeated Louis Botha at Belfast.Were I to draw any comparison between the work accomplished byLord Roberts and Lord Kitchener, I should hold myself up asplendid target for your ridicule; and, indeed, there can be nocomparison, for the task Lord Roberts set himself to do was byfar a lighter one than that which he banded over to his Chief ofStaff.

Lord Kitchener has had a hard, heartbreaking work to perform,without having had any particular brilliant battles torecord—modest man that he is, he has even deniedone!— and whatever one may think of his execution, therecan be no question at all as to the difficulties of theundertaking. I have merely called your attention to the timelengths to impress upon you the term of Kitchener's stewardship,a fact one may remember with advantage in considering the tale ofresults. Prisoners we have taken; Boers we have killed; we havedriven De Wet out of Cape Colony with a "great loss ofprestige"—which we trust De Wet in his saner momentsrealises—and by this last action the danger of a generalrising of the Dutch throughout the Cape Colony was averted, if,indeed, not altogether crushed.

But a fact that should be borne in mind—and it is afact—is that the feeling among the Boer commandoes is notless bitter, and the general desire for surrender no greater thanit was on the day Lord Roberts handed over his command. I will goso far as to state that we are not so near a general handing inof arms and a peaceful settlement as we were thirteen months ago,and I am confident that there never will be a general surrender,but that the war, if we then dignify it by that title, willcontinue as long as there are fifty burghers to carry arms.

One thing seems certain, that no big movement against Bothamay be expected for at least three months—that is, if everanother movement on a large scale is intended against the Boerchief. I gather this from the fact that it has been foundabsolutely necessary to reinforce General French in the CapeColony with the Cavalry brigade and other troops amounting to15,000 men, and by the movement northward of the columns thathave lately been engaged in the neighborhood of Ermelo. Thislatter presumably foreshadows a combined movement against Beyers,who, with Brand, is holding a position near Zand River Poort, andwho recently directed the attack on the train on the Petersburgline.

There are certain truths that we do not care to hear, certainprecious beliefs that we object to seeing ruthlessly shattered.But this I tell you, that as an actual observer, and oneprejudiced rather to optimism than the reverse, I see no prospectof a general surrender, and no promise of a state of affairssufficiently assuring to permit the withdrawal of a singlebrigade from South Africa.

Nor am I alone in making this, for in a special order datedArmy Headquarters, July 3, and addressed to the General andOfficers commanding Columns in the Field, Lord Kitchenerconfesses that as yet the Boers do not seem to have been broughtto a sense of the hopelessness of the struggle, and urges onofficers the necessity for renewed vigorous operations.

As far as purely military operations are concerned, LordKitchener's principles seem sound enough. Unfortunately, the Boerhas the unhappy knack of nullifying rules laid down to meetspecial tactics by adopting others. At the beginning of the warwe discovered that the enemy fought from the tops of convenientkopjes. Elandslaagte, Glencoe, Belmont, and Graspan were foughtso, but by the time we had adjusted our methods of fighting tomeet this system, the Boers had learnt that a trench at the baseis worth two on the summit, and Magersfontein was the result.

Similarly, as I pointed out in a letter dealing withKitchener, the General, there came a time when we grasped themomentous fact that a Boer, like any other human creature, couldnot live without eating, that his horse needed forage, as heneeded flour. Consequently, borne on the top of these facts, camethe amazing discovery that the Boer could not ride if he had nohorse, that if he could not ride he would be forced to walk, andif he had to walk we could catch him. Thus we reasonedprofoundly; and, acting on that reasoning, we made a systematicattempt to denude the country of food, forage, and horseflesh.This, as I pointed out at the time, was a very admirable actionon out part; and if theory played as great a part in the war ofwar-time as it does in the war of peace-time, then,theoretically, by now the Boer should be either a walkingskeleton or a streak of starvation riding a bag of bones.

But he isn't. He is a healthy-looking animal, somewhat dirty,who gallops over the veldt on the nag he lifted from the cavalrylines. He wears a warm khaki coat that he looted from the lasttrain that was captured; he has a watch and chain which came fromthe same source, and when he gazes at the enamelled dial it isnot so much to count the minutes he can longer hold out withoutdying of exhaustion. His greatest admirer must admit that theBoer is not so much a soldier nowadays as a brigand. He does notwant to fight, he wants to loot, for the Boer ambition to-daycomprehends less a vision of dying for independence than keepingalive and comfortable until the end of the war. Not very heroiccertainly, but if the conduct of these men is to be sneered at,the expenditure of the millions weekly that this line of actionmakes necessary is not.

I presume that both the Orange River Colony and the Transvaalhave been cleared both of foodstuffs and horseflesh, and as faras we are concerned— that is, as far as our part of thecontract goes—we have done well, only the Boer does notfulfil his part—he won't starve. It was felt, and I mustconfess to being one of the sanguine, that what with the erectionof blockhouses along the railway and the making bare of thecountry, the plight of the Boer would become well-nigh hopeless.The long, winding ox-waggon convoy, with its corporal's guard,had ceased to be the Boer Whiteley.*

[* Whiteley—an allusion toLondon's first department store. ]

There was no more chance of a Boer commando pouncing down onsufficient food to keep an army for a month, and enough warmclothing to last it for a year. A well-watched railway line, withstrong blockhouses at every thousand yards, was to restore andmaintain an unhindered communication between the coast ports andheadquarters, and the day of the rushed convoy was to be a thingof the past. And yet what do we find?

Within the past two weeks a train has been wrecked and lootedunder the very nose of a blockhouse on the Johannesburg-Klerksdorp line, its escort killed or wounded, and those who wereneither killed nor wounded were stripped and sent naked into thenearest village. Within a few days the Boers have descended onRoodepoort, a small station a few miles from Johannesburg, andhave driven off cattle; while northward on the Petersburg-Pretoria line a train has been wrecked and looted, and that in acountry in which it has been officially stated "guerrilla warfarehas been effectually stamped out."

Nor, seemingly, does the Boer depend entirely upon the wreckedtrain for his foodstuffs. There is always the "captured" cattle.I venture to say that if the numbers of captured stock, both oxenand sheep, were totalled and compared with State returns, itwould be discovered that since the outbreak of war we havecaptured three times us much stock as ever was in the threecolonies. The reason is not far to seek. We cannot spare therolling stock to carry our captures into headquarters, nor can ageneral or officer commanding a column afford to send a largeescort with captured stock. The consequence is that thousands ofoxen and sheep are driven by road into the nearest garrison, withhalf-a-dozen men to guard them. It is not to be wondered at thatmuch of our loot never reaches its destination, and even whileofficial wires are being published in London that General Such-a-one has made a splendid haul of 10,000 sheep, half the capturesare back again in the Boer lines.

I have not referred in this letter to the derailment of apassenger train in the Orange River Colony, or the capture ofanother train on the Middelburg line, or the disaster to a patrolnear Vereeniging whereby De Wet inflicted a loss of fifteenkilled and wounded and captured a gun, or the disaster the otherweek to the Victorians when the enemy cut up our men and capturedtwo pom-poms, or the surprising fact that the Boers have now gotguns from somewhere. These are all unpleasant truths, and allseem to point to the continuance of the war for another year.

There is, however, one bright spot in the general gloom, onepleasant prospect that perhaps compensates for the surroundingdreariness. The Boer refugees, who are waxing fat in the campsalong the line, have declared themselves perfectly satisfied withthe treatment they are receiving.

THE KING AND HIS ARMY

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), October 7,1901

WANTED—A NEW ORDER

The other day I met a young staff officer with such a stretchof rainbow-coloured ribbons across his left breast that when hegets his South African medal and his colonial star, and theC.M.G., to which, as a staff officer he is almost entitled, hewill have to start afresh on another tier.

He had ribbons representing five decorations, but alas! forthe hero worshipper, who would place him on a pedestal on thestrength of his medals, they represented but one fight, which isknown as the Battle of Omdurman. There was the blue and whiteJubilee ribbon, the crimson and blue Distinguished Service Order,the green and red-fringed Medjidie,* and the two ribbons for theImperial and, Khedival decorations. Five ribbons, or say four forone fight. How many fights will the regimental officer, theaverage hard-working, foot slogging, saddle-raw regimentalofficer, see and engage in for his one ribbon?

[* Medjidie—The Order ofMedjidie; instituted in 1851, the Order was awarded in fiveclasses, with the First Class being the highest. The Order wasissued in considerable numbers by Sultan Abd-ul-Mejid I as areward for distinguished service to members of the British Armyand the Royal Navy and the French Army who came to the aid of theOttoman Empire during the Crimean War against Russia.Wikipedia.]

We have had a list of honours, and another has been promised,and it will be interesting to note how the rank and file of theofficers—if the bull is permissible— will fare in thedistribution, and what share they will take of the enamelledcrosses and the many-pointed stars.

Were this France engaged in subduing the Boer army, and hadshe through the dogged persistence and magnificent courage of herline officers succeeded so satisfactorily, there can be littledoubt that every officer in the Army would become exofficio a knight of the Legion of Honour, for France wouldargue rather wisely that the bestowal of a decoration is easier,more gratifying, and cheaper than a brevet which gives a fewyears' seniority and in six months loses its significance. Notthat there has been any overwhelming number of brevets given tothe lower regimental ranks, but it does seem as though that soundbusiness institution, the War Office, takes a most commercialview of things, and considers that a step in rank, which means anextra few shillings a day, was the most desirable of rewards.

NEGLECTED LINESMEN

The regimental officer hitherto has not expected much. Rewardor kudos were not for him. His commanding officer, who has hadtwo brevets, a C.B., and the thanks of Parliament for teaching aWest African corps which end of a rifle the bang comes from,tells him that duty well done brings its own reward, and thesubaltern, remembering the colonel's levies, who bolted the firstand last time they were in action, wonders if it does.

And so the regimental officer goes into action, and all thetime the bullets are chipping up the face of the earth around himhe is teaching has men to take cover and telling them what theynever knew before, that they are there to kill and not to bekilled. If the isn't killed, he attacks a kopje the next day, andevery Boer marksman within a thousand yards will do his levelbest to give that officer's junior his promotion. When he getsback to camp that night, tired and hungry and bewildered that heis still alive, he will pass a young gentleman with red tabs onthe collar of his khaki coat. He will be squatting on the groundwriting out the general's despatch. In six months' time, when thehonours are out, the lean, wiry, yellow regimental officer, whoby this time will be sitting on top of a kopje at Forsakenfonteinwith his company, some gunners, and a 4.7, will be forgotten, butthe young gentleman with the red tabs will get his D.S.O.*

[* D.S.O.—Distinguished Service Order.]

"My able and brilliant Staff Officer, who carried out hisduties to my entire satisfaction," will be rewarded, but "anofficer whose name I have been, unable to ascertain" will besitting tight on his kopje, wishing his wife was on nodding termswith an Adjutant-General.

I am contrasting these two cases with the desire of pointing amoral rather than with any wish to suggest that the Staff Officerdoes not earn his decoration. Marker, of the Coldstreamers, wasone of the smartest Staff Officers I have met, and by that I meanthat he was a brilliant theorist. But has smartness did not stopat theory, for he was the officer who with three or four mencharged De Wet's guns when they were pointed directly at him andthe gunners were fumbling at the breech. And there are, ofcourse, many Staff Officers who, during the present campaign,have done excellent work as regimental officers— thoughwhether their services would have gained recognition had theyremained in that capacity is problematical.

STICKING TO THE REGIMENT

In the Army it is understood that there is no chance for anofficer who is contented to identify himself with the ruck of theregiment, who makes up his mind that he will stick to hisbattalion and take his promotion as it falls due. If he haspatience he will retire with the rank of colonel, while the manwho passed out with him at Sandhurst, and who was seconded as alieutenant to the Gippy Army, will be deciding between acceptinga seat in the Cabinet and taking command of the forces inIreland.

Soldiering is not a profession that pays. Actual soldiering Imean—parade, route march, and Ash Range soldiering, thatcalls you from your bed at dawn and sends you round outlyingposts after midnight. It doesn't pay you to shine, it doesn't payyou to excel, and it is certainly not profitable to attempt toinitiate reform or novelty into a regiment which has a colonel, asecond-in-command, two senior majors, and an adjutant. And inconsequence the regimental officer who has any snap or influenceor ambition takes the first opportunity of handing over hiscompany or squadron to a duller, patronless, or unambitious man,and wires to his tailor for a Staff cap and an aiguillette, andthus armed wins rank and distinction, stringing after his name insuccession A.D.C., D.A.A.G., and C.S.O.

Now I think you will agree with me that this is not asatisfactory state of affairs. Qualifying for the command of realhuman men, with hearts over their stomachs, requires somethingmore than, the ability to do the amiable at a General's dinnerparty, or a book knowledge of procedure. You cannot become aleader of men by being a reader of books, any more than thecontents of a dozen works on anatomy will qualify for a surgeonthe student who has never used a knife. But, on the other hand,you will not induce men to to stay in regiments by passing themover and ignoring their claims to recognition.

What claims can a man have to distinction who has neverfought? you ask; and I would answer that a dozen years' or twentyyears' devotion to a regiment should certainly qualify as muchfor the King's honour as a six-weeks' campaign and a twentyminutes' battle.

AN EDWARDIAN ORDER

But it is not those that have plodded without fighting that Iwish to particularise, but rather those who have plodded, fought,and will fall back to the old regulation pace after the war isover, without recognition, without thanks, and with nought tomark their heroic sacrifices but the same medal and the sameribbon that the Militiamen on the Channel Islands will wear.Surely the case of the company leader and the junior officer isone that calls for substantial recognition. A brevet thrown hereand there to be scrambled for does not meet the need, and theaward of the Distinguished Service Order will not be madegeneral—four to a regiment, I believe, is to be theproportion.

Only one decoration is fitting for the officer who, at therisk of life, leads his men forward under a heavy fire, and thatis the Victoria Cross; but as the V.C. has deteriorated intosomething of a Royal Humane Medal, and is seldom awarded exceptfor saving life—queerest of all paradoxes!—theoccasion seems to call for a new decoration.

It may be urged that a decoration which was generally bestowedwould not be a distinction, and that the instances of heroism andthe number of officers entitled to the decoration are so manythat such awards would lose their value. But valour is not marketproduce. It does not fluctuate in value in ratio to the output.If five hundred men earned the Victoria Cross, five hundred menwould get it; it would not make the distinction less splendid,hut rather glorify the nation that bestowed it, raising theaverage of national gallantry. There will never be a betteropportunity for the institution of a new military order than thepresent; and no military order would be as popular as one createdby, and in some way associated with the same of his Majesty KingEdward VII.

The King's popularity in the Army is a very real thing, andthe reason is not far to seek, since his Majesty possesses allthose qualities so dear to the heart of the officer. Apart fromhas high office, which commands the loyalty and respect of hissubjects, King Edward is the good comrade and the good sportsman,which combination represents the soldiers' idea of the premierqualities of mankind. The creation of an Edwardian Order would bemore than popular. Not only because it would serve to meet thecases that do not come within the scope of the V.C. and D.S.0.,but because it would owe its institution to the grace, and beidentified with the name, of one whom the Army is honoured tocall King and Comrade.

LORD KITCHENER'S PROCLAMATION

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), October 21,1901

SOME COMMENTS

MIDDELBURG, August 10, 1901

Now, therefore, I, Kitchener of Khartoum, etc.,under instructions from his Majesty's Government, proclaim andmake known as follows:

—All commandants, field-cornets, andleaders of armed bands, being burghers of the late Republics,still engaged in resisting his Majesty's forces, whether in theOrange River Colony or Transvaal, or in any other portion of hisMajesty's South African dominions, and all members of theGovernments of the late Orange Free State and the late SouthAfrican Republic, shall, unless they surrender before Sept. 15next, be permanently banished from South Africa. The cost ofmaintenance of families of all burghers in the field who shallnot have surrendered by Sept. 15 shall be recoverable from suchburghers, and shall be a charge upon their property, movable and,immovable, in the two colonies.

* * * * *

Yes, there can be no doubt at all about it, the newproclamation has been very favorably received. South Africa haswelcomed this exhibition of firmness on the part of the ImperialGovernment, and the welcome has been all the more warm becausethe people out here were beginning to despair of witnessinganything approaching strength introduced into the policy of theHome Government.

Personally, I am not particularly elated, because I do notbelieve that it will bring about the surrender of one singlecommandant of importance; but if this new proclamation hasexcited any feeling at all within me, it is a feeling of intensecuriosity, for I am curious to see what proclamation ex-PresidentSteyn will issue as a counterblast.

When we have finished issuingproclamations—proclamations that warn, proclamations thatentreat, proclamations that cajole, proclamations thatthreaten—and when we have thoroughly realised the futilityof issuing the "whereas and therefore," and have been convincedof the disadvantages of legal phraseology as compared withmilitary activity, perhaps we shall take down, from our wallsthat charming motto, "The pen is mightier than the sword," andendeavor to bring about the conclusion of the war by giving ourenemy a severe beating.

I do not think that it will be a very difficult matter tosketch out the gist of Steyn's proclamation. It will dwell mostlyon the "barbarity" of Lord Kitchener's proclamation: will containdivers well-meaning passages relative to his belief in the powerof right over might; will be sprinkled with platitudinous matter;and will wind up with an invocation to Divine Justice.

It seems strange enough to you living in England, but afterall it is no stranger than the grotesque uses that Cromwell'sIronsides made of the Name, and although the Boer leaders do notcall themselves Fear-the-Lord Botha or Walk-in-the-lightSteyn— and 1 do not wish to be flippant—yet Ipersonally have no doubt that these men are as genuine andsincere in their belief in the special protection of Providenceas are the best of Calvinists. This is the proclamation Steyn orBotha will issue, and September 16 will come and go, and Botha,De la Rey, De Wet, Beyers, Kruitzinger, Hertzog, Steyn, Uys,Kemp, and the other leaders will yet be in the field.

THE POWER OF TERRORISM

Now, what is the object of the proclamation? I suppose, to bebrutally frank, it is to terrorise the Boer commandants intoimmediate submission You may take exception to that definition,you good, loyal Britons, who want to wage war nicely. You mayprotest vigorously that your motive, or the motive of theGovernment, is of the very kindest. Dear, loyal Briton! Do younot know that kindness only comes into a warlike policy aspitiful weakness thinly disguised?

I must confess I have a profound contempt for people whosanction the killing of men and then hold up their hands inhorror if we depart from killing him and only burn his farm, orcease from slaying him for the moment in order to frighten him.One of these days, dear friend, you will be dead, and if you havesense enough to realise it you will be perfectly convinced as youlie a-dying that you would very much rather that somebody burntyour house or threatened to kick you out of the country than thatyou should shuffle off this mortal coil. So I say, withoutblushing for my country—and I will here add (inparentheses) that throughout the whole of this campaign I havenever witnessed one act of my countrymen of which I have beenashamed—that we are trying to terrorise the Boercommandants into immediate submission, and if there was anylikelihood of our bringing about the desired results, I shouldsay that it was a very good move on the part of the ImperialGovernment.

But I think there is very little chance of this. The fact isthe proclamation is not strong enough; indeed, it shows a decidedweakening on the original policy of the Home Government, since Itake it that those commandants and leaders of armed bands whosurrender before September 15 will be allowed to remain in SouthAfrica in terms of this proclamation—which was certainlynot the intention of the Government a year ago. But, waiving allthis, the wording of the new proclamation may, and will be,construed into a threat, and the question is, "Is this threatstrong enough to pull up the Boer chiefs and make them realisethe hopelessness of the struggle,and—incidentally—the great inconvenience aprolongation of the struggle will entail upon themselves?" And Isay No.

PROFITABLE FIGHTING

The threat amounts to very little. As far as the greater menare concerned—the leaders with their well-feathered nests,the young commandants who have no desire to remain in a conqueredcountry, and who have a call upon the treasury, of which Dr Leydsis custodian—to men like Steyn and De Wet this proclamationmeans nothing. To be effective the penalties will have to begreater; and I can only suppose that the Government has yetanother proclamation to come into force some time afterSeptember. 15, which will arrange for the confiscation ofproperty of such commandants, field-cornets, and leaders ofarmed; bands as do not surrender by a certain date.

I have a sneaking regard for Brother Boer, which may surprisethose elegant journalists who flung mud at me for saying that"Boers murder wounded men." I have no desire to "vilify a bravefoe," but if speaking the truth is vilification then I may let itgo at that. I have a sneaking regard for his astuteness, just asI admire the ferocity of the Fuzzy or the guile of the Matabeleor the austerity of the Afridi. I am aware that in criticisingthis proclamation I may be doing a very unpopular thing, but ifwhat I say does not quite please you, will you believe me when Isay that I am trying to speak what I believe to be thetruth?—just the solid, unofficial truth.

THE TREACHERY OF BOER WOMEN

Reproduced from The Southland Times (New Zealand), October 16, 1901

There have been many occasions since the war started (saysEdgar Wallace in the Daily Mail, writing fromJohannesburg) when I have wished most earnestly that the friendsof emancipated womanhood had had their way, and that the exactstatus of woman had been made equal to that of man.

I have often wished her all the rights and privileges of heropposite fellow. The right to wear his clothes, and adopt hisfreedoms, to earn money, smoke cut cavendish, and wear a ring onher little finger. Also to share man trials and hardships andresponsibilities. To lead men into action, to be always eligiblefor the Victoria Cross, to be honoured for hergallantry—and shot for her treachery.

Especially shot for her treachery.

I wonder how many graves Boer women have filled this past yearor so? How many brave fellows have given up their lives through awoman's treachery?

Women have played a great part in this war, not so much thepart of heroine as spy. Not so much in the way of fighting in thetrenches as luring the unsuspecting to destruction. The symbol ofher patriotism is not the eagle of war, it is rather the decoyduck.

There were, I believe, women fighting in the trenches againstBuller. Two of their dead were found after the fight at PietersHill, but the Boer has sufficient regard for his women folk tokeep them well out of danger, and the ambition of the Boer Amazonhas found very little scope in the fighting line. Nor, I honestlybelieve, has there been any organised attempt to utilise woman'sservice for Boer ends, no secret service spies drawing large sumsof money from the Boer Treasury in payment for informationsecured. Such women exist only in certain fertileimaginations.

The women I speak of are the wives and sisters of the poorerBoers, people who believe that the secret service fund is anEnglish myth and are actuated in their treachery only by theirhatred for the British, and the knowledge born of experience thathowever badly a woman behaves we shall treat her with the samecourtesy and gentleness that we should employ towards her wereshe our dearest friend instead of our unreasoning foe.

It has been one of the problems of the war, this question ofwomen enemies and what to do with them, and we have solved theproblem in the easiest and most gentlemanly way. We have decidedthat we do not make war upon women and children, and if throughill-nature women and children make weir on us, we loftily refuseto take them seriously in fact, and after we have buried theTommies who foolishly accepted the woman's invitation to step inand have a cap of coffee, and are shot from the window bygentlemen friends of the hostess, we return the hospitableinvitation of the lady of the house, give her tea, and tell herthat we are awfully sorry, don't you know, but we areconfoundedly afraid she will have to be brought into camp.

So we take the murderess into a camp where she will be wellfed and kindly treated, and we don't burn her farm for fear MrLloyd George or Mr Redmond shall ask questions in the House.

If I were to write down every story I have heard of Boerwomen's treachery I should fill these columns, but here is apeculiar instance.

Two mounted troopers were out on a patrol when they came to aBoer farmhouse. They dismounted some distance from the house,which apparently was deserted except by a woman, who, standing inthe stoep, beckoned the men to advance. This they did and walkedto within a few paces of the building, when the woman suddenlydisappeared from view through an open doorway,and the next momenta volley was fired from the house.

Now I have cited this as peculiar, and the peculiarity isthis. Show this paragraph to your returned Yeomanry friend, oryour volunteer brother, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundredhe will say, "Yes, that is perfectly true; it happened tome— or to a friend of mine." And this he will say, notbecause the story I have told is the very incident of which he isthinking, but because this sort of thing has happened so often inSouth Africa that there is no military unit now serving at thefront that has not had some such experience.

Very few people know that De Wet has not once, but often, owedhis wonderful escapes to the aid of women sympathisers When hewas last in the Cape Colony and we had driven him off northwardto the Orange River, the women on some of the farms in theHopetown district had arranged a signal whereby De Wet's hiddenscouts should be made aware of the proximity of our scouts. Apatrol of Victorians who rode up to a farmhouse was somewhatastonished to see the good lady, who bad been taking a siesta onthe stoep, suddenly rise from her chair, and making for the door,for apparently no other reason than to make a noise, violentlyslam it twice. As she did so a horseman broke from the bushes afew hundred yards beyond, and galloped for all be was worth. DeWet, who was in the angle formed by the Brak and Orange Rivers,waiting for one of the two streams to fall, moved that nighteastward, and Plumer, who was marching to intercept him, onlymanaged to get on to the tail of the enemy's column.

The arrival of a woman at a refugee camp does not mean thather opportunities for evil-doing are ended. In the Orange RiverColony recently a plot was discovered, in which the prime moverswere women, for the rushing of the camp at night, and instancesare innumerable of the Boer women of the refugee camps havingsystematically transmitted important military intelligence to thecommandoes outside.

It is unfortunately true, too, that the Boer women, and forthe matter of that, gentler sympathisers with the Boer cause,have not confined their efforts to aiding the enemy practically.The foulest of all the slanders which have been utilised toinflame the passions of the Cape Dutch, and to excite the horrorand pity of the civilised world, have emanated from femininesources. Stories of murders, outrage, and suffering haveoriginated in the minds of women enjoying British protection andhave been glibly repeated by others who have received at ourhands all kindness and chivalrous attention.

In Capetown, the hub on which the whole organism of seditionturns is a woman. In her salon are to be found England'sbitterest enemies—and here it is that propagandas are born,new embarrassments for England are planned, and subscription-lists for sedition-mongerers caught tripping, initiated. Heregather the men who pull the strings, the Krugerian agents, thesubsidisers of the pro-Boer press. Here are the semi-millionaireswho inspire articles against capitalism; the ministers ofreligion who weave devilish mendacities about our soldiers; thehybrid crowd of journalists who, in varying degrees ofvituperative violence, shriek periodically for moderation. Andthe woman gives them tea and inspiration.

THE GREAT WAR MUDDLE

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), October 22,1901

MORE UNPLEASANT TRUTHS

It is always refreshing to turn from the dark evidences ofweakness and folly that lie around in South Africa, so that eventhe careless unofficial observer may not pass them unnoticed, tothe cheery and joyous, not to say sanguine, optimism of DowningStreet.

Downing Street can see the end. It can work out on paperexactly how long Boer army will hold out. I presume it doeslittle sums. "If 2000 burghers surrender in thirty days, how longwill it take 10,000 burghers to surrender?" and I should say theresult is eminently satisfactory and encouraging.

There are not wanting people in this colony who share in theoptimism of the Home Government, and these assert that by thetime General Lyttelton arrives in South Africa the war will bepractically ended, and Lord Kitchener will be justified inhanding over his command to General Lyttelton and returninghome.

Speaking of General Lyttelton reminds me of the fact that inone of my recent letters I did that general an injustice. I said,I think, that he, as general commanding the forces engaged incornering De Wet, was solely responsible for the failure tocapture the Boer leader. I have since learnt that theseoperations were conducted from Pretoria (600 miles away!) bywire, and that General Lyttelton was a mere figure-head without avestige of authority over the movements of the troops engaged. Sothat for the failure to corner De Wet in February General LordKitchener must accept full responsibility.

MERE GOVERNMENT GAZETTES

There is a view of the present situation in South Africa,however, which is not a bright and a hopeful one, and is a viewwhich we cannot afford to ignore. This is the view of SouthAfrica's loyal but censored Press. The position of South Africa'snewspapers to-day is a peculiar one. Everything that red-tape andthe tyranny of the local commandant and the folly of incompetentcensors could do has been done, and the newspapers published inMartial Law areas are little better than GovernmentGazettes—opinionless advertisem*nt sheets sprinkled with ameagre supply of Reuter's cables.

If these papers wish to express an opinion they have to fightfor the privilege, and very often when it is conceded they printtheir articles with the knowledge that if their outspokencriticisms do not draw down upon their devoted heads the wrath ofthe Headquarter Staff it will be remembered against them in thefuture by the disloyalists of the districts in which thenewspapers flourish. Think of a Wesleyan paper, holding strongMethodistic views, published in a Roman Catholic community, beingcensored by an intolerant Mahommedan, and you have thesituation.

The Tarka Herald is a paper published in a martial lawdistrict, and although I do not know the censor, I at least havesome idea of the district in which it circulates. This paper,referring to the present military situation in South Africa, andparticularly in the Cape Colony, says:—

"The question for the military authorities now to consider andto solve without delay if this: Are the means now employed likelyto bring about the desired end?... We have been led to theseremarks by the arrival in our midst of a long and heavy column,consisting of waggons, carts, and horses innumerable carryinglarge supplies of food for man and beast. 'Set a thief to catch athief' is a trite saying, and until we adopt the methods of theenemy as far as their mobility is concerned we shall neversucceed in hunting these roving commandoes down and carrying themaway as prisoners of war.

"These weary months are a heavy expense to the country, andultimately to the taxpayer, who will feel the cost in a verypractical and unwelcome manner. John Bull is very long-suffering,but he will one day begin to resent these continued appeals tohis patriotism and his pocket. It is invidious for a layman topass an opinion on military methods. We cannot forbear to saythat a change of plan will have to be adopted sooner orlater."

VIEWS LOCAL OR OTHERWISE

I make no apology for extracting yet again from the TarkaHerald:—

"We think the time has now arrived for the authorities tocarefully consider the question as to whether, with the forcesnow at their command, they are in a position to successfully copewith the difficulties of the situation. We think not. A glance atthe map shows that a considerable portion of the colony,comprising principally the divisions of Graaff Reinet, Cradock,Middelburg, Tarka, Somerset East, Albert and Queenstown, are moreor less overrun with marauding bands of ex-burghers and colonialrebels. Further, that though the towns have, as a general rule,escaped attack, again and again forays more or less successfulhave been made on the farms of loyalists and wayside stores...Time is precious, and every week as it goes by prolonging thepresent state of insecurity adds very much to the sum total ofloss, direct and indirect, sustained by the community. We thinkthe time has certainly arrived when the military authoritiesshould consider very earnestly whether all that can be done toend the war as speedily as possible is being done."

The writer seems to recognise that the end of the war can onlybe brought about by our success in dealing with the invaders,and, even allowing for the fact that this is the view of a manpossibly directly affected by the marauding band', there is muchin his opinion which commands acceptance.

The East London Despatch is not published in a martiallaw area, and the writer of the paragraph I have subjoined cannotbe accused of having taken a local view of the situation, sinceEast London is almost as far removed from the scene of thefighting as is Cape Town or Port Elizabeth:

"We have reached an end that is not an end, and theintelligence received from time to time from the seat of war,except where it is relieved by the bravery of our troops, is amost disheartening record. Englishmen are becoming bitter in tiecontemplation of the slow movements of our forces, and theshallow criticism of home-staying citizens and street-cornergenerals bears the evidence of an exhausted patience and anincreasing asperity. We admit that it is difficult to keep thetemper continually in what is advertised to be the condition of acommon stick-phast, 'good and sweet always.' It is especiallydifficult in the light of current events. The policy pursued bythe Boers is most irritating, and, to us, exasperatinglysuccessful. We hear of invincible combines being formed to crushthem, of extensive cordons that afford no loophole of escape, ofcontracting circles that must imprison and finally destroy, butthe enemy elude them all without much strain or loss, and appearelsewhere to inflict a severe blow upon some unsuspectingcontingent separated from the main guard."

OUTSPOKEN

Grahamstown is in a Martial Law area, and the Journal,which is the oldest and soberest of all South African newspapers,shows very little hesitancy in its criticism.

"We have no need to descant upon the inefficient way in whichoperations have been conducted; but it is certain that gravedissatisfaction has been caused to colonists whether on serviceor at home, by the slow progress of the campaign. Great exceptionis taken to the lumbered condition of the columns, which are forever prevented from overtaking the enemy by being encumbered withox-waggons, mule-waggons, and other bulky transport, whose slowmovements can be traced even by the dust, they raise twenty,thirty, or fifty miles off by the amused Boer scouts. The angrycolonist who finds his homestead ravaged time after time by thecommandoes, whose industries are totally at a stand, and who goesin danger of his life, is apt to designate this mode of warfareas a picnic rather than a campaign."

Similarly, the Daily Mail's namesake published in thesame town says:—

"It bodes badly for the future control of the Dutch thathitherto we have entirely failed to inspire them with salutaryfear. They deem us soft-headed, as well as softhearted. Theybelieve that our leaders are not shrewd enough to discover theshortest road to the goal of complete victory and peace; or thatthose leaders have not the moral courage to take the shortestroad. We have not a very high estimate of the morality ofBismarckian politics; nor of Bonaparte's method of dealing withhis enemies. But certainly the moral scrupulousness andhumaneness of the British leaders in the present war are verycostly in money, men and even in reputation with the Boers.

"Every week's continuance of the war enhances the Boerestimate of his own prowess, and renders more difficult thepacification and durable settlement of the country."

The plaint from the Port Elizabeth Telegraph will findan echo in many an editorial sanctum:—

"But we do complain of being left so absolutely in the darkrelative to all that is transpiring, and to being fed likechildren on false assurances. We sometimes wonder whether thecommandants of districts are themselves aware of what ishappening in the areas over which they are placed. Only a week ortwo ago a well-known commandant of one of the most important Capeareas declared emphatically at a public meeting that, as a resultof a recent fight, his district was absolutely clear of Boers.Almost at the moment he was making this assurance a raiding bandwas wrecking a train in the very heart of his district, andsubsequent information has proved that the district is not, andhas not been for many months, clear of hostile Boers. Are we not,in face of this, justified in protesting against the public beingfed upon information that is not reliable? The Press censor mayincrease his vigilance, but be cannot prevent the general publicforming their own opinions on the conduct of the campaign."

There are many other extracts I should like to give had I butthe space at my command. I do not identify myself with all thathas been said regarding the conduct of the war, but I do thinkthat you at Home should know exactly how the Cape Colony feelsabout the present situation, which has inspired so much optimismin High Places.

AN ALARM AT CRADOCK

Reproduced from The Evening Post (New Zealand), October 26, 1901

The Dutch Reformed Church at Cradock (says Edgar Wallace inthe Daily Mail) is pretty, there is no gainsaying that. Afriend of mine has unkindly likened it to a Greek templesurmounted by a fool's cap, but the tastes of my critical friendare severely orthodox in the matter of architecture. It is apretty building of dressed stone, and its white spire freshensthe eye of the traveller approaching Cradock, and "the touristdoesn't live there all along."

I seldom remain long enough in a South African town to fallinto line with the oldest inhabitants in my views on the naturalbeauty of its surroundings, and I must confess that, as a rule,the Dutch Reformed church is the very first thing that palls. Itis usually a great barn-like building as comfortless as it canwell be, and as ugly a structure as the hand of man can makeit—for the ornate enters not into Afrikander architectureof any sort. Your Boer leads a drab, grey, dull sort of a life,an existence as colourless as his summer-parched, winter-witheredveldt. If he troubles to paint his house at all, he splashes itwhite—a dead, dull, depressing, eye-aching white—verymuch suggestive of an East-end backyard on washing day.Remembering this you would be greatly surprised to see Cradock'schurch, for, ill-tempered criticism notwithstanding, it ispretty.

IN THE HOSIER'S SHOP

But we are learning to utilise the beautiful, and the top ofCradock's church is sand-bagged, and the steeple of Cradock'schurch is an observation post, and when the "hooter" goes flagswag from its summit and yellow-clad men in puttees take theirstations on the roof. I did not know very much about this forsome time after I had been in Cradock. The sand-bags I noticed,and wondered at vaguely, but I did not realise the significance,of them all until I went shopping the other day.

To be exact, I went, to buy socks, for, 0 Matrons of England,such are the emoluments of a war correspondent that he can affordto dispense with socks that need darning. So I went a-shopping,and even while I was meditating on the relative merits of brightscarlet merino and a sober blue woollen article, there was a longmoan in the distance which might have been the asthmatic whistleof a railway engine, but certainly sounded like nothing that wasexciting or thrilling or anything suggestive of the romance ofwar.

"I think I'll take a dozen pair of these," I said, indicatingthe blue. For answer, the young man behind the counter lookedremarkably fierce and commenced taking off his coat. I wasstartled, not to say alarmed, and hastened to appease his wrath."I'm awfully sorry if I've hurt your feelings," I assured himhurriedly. "Of course, if you've any tender associations in whichred socks——"

THE TRANSFORMATION SCENE

He looked at me for a moment, and then, groping for a momentin a dark corner, he produced a gun. It wasn't a gun in themilitary sense of the word, but really a Lee-Enfield rifle. Thenhe discovered a bandolier, then a haversack. I recovered myequanimity, and when he had got himself into a khaki jacket Iunderstood. He was a Town Guardsman. I walked to the door of theshop.

A little further along was a hardware store, and a youth witha gun slung over his shoulder was rapidly taking down tin bucketswhich had been hanging outside, while another youth, in khaki,bandolier, and a golf cap, was putting up, or pulling down theshutters. I strolled across the great square and met the youngman from the chemist's and the gentleman from the bank. They wereon their way to the trenches. Further still I went, passing thestationer's assistant, who with his rifle between his knees wasmaking a rapid search through his pockets endeavouring to findhis pince-nez, which he feared he had left in his other clothes.And as his shocking language had not ceased by the time I hadturned the corner that leads to the station, I have reasons tobelieve that his fears were well-founded.

READY FOR KRUITZINGER

A jaunty child struggling manfully with a rifle informed methat Kruitzinger was "outside," and the "hooter" had sounded tocall out the Town Guard, and the Town Guard was manning thetrenches, and the Town Guard was going to hurt Kruitzinger mostseverely if Kruitzinger would only come near enough, and would Ibe good enough to straighten the strap of the haversack, whichhad got twisted somehow, and thank you very much, old chap, andI'll do as much for you one of these days. Then the MidlandNews gentleman came flying along on his freewheel, and he wasin khaki with a big red cross on his arm, and later came hisstretcher-bearers, also in khaki. They looked for all the worldlike real dhooli wallahs,* but I recognised Ram Sammy andLal Sammy and several other Sammies who on various occasions hadimposed on me questionable bananas and fibrous oranges. But theycarried their stretchers neatly, and lowered them as well-drilledstretcher-bearers would do, and their waterbottles and surgicalhaversacks were business-like.

[* dhooli wallahs (Hindi)—Indianlitter-carriers. ]

THE COMPOSITOR IN KHAKI

Then the compositor who had set up a little poem of mine sothat I mistook it for an acrostic came along resplendent inkhaki, he also bound for the trenches, where he was as preparedto mangle the Boer as he had cheerfully mangled my manuscript.Backwards and forwards they moved across the square. Parties oftwo, of three, of four, single individuals, father and son,employer and employee. There was no hurry, but there was muchquickness. There seemed to be little uniformity of dress, butthere was a wonderful precision and alertness about this turnoutof the shop assistants. Men walked down the street in khaki suitsand straw hats, but there was nothing ludicrous in theirappearance, but rather something fine and inspiring. Where thetrenches where I do not know; they were located somewhere on thefringe of the township. But I did not trouble to go along andsee, for I expected no attack, having grown callous of alarmsthat have been resultless. But the cheery shop assistant wentalong to the trenches, and he went with a wild hope thatKruitzinger had at least determined to try conclusions with theCradock Town Guard.

And so the roof of Cradock's pretty church was garrisoned, anda man in khaki wagged a flag from its steeple, and soberbusinessmen shut up their shops and ran a "pull-through" throughtheir rifles, and the man who at 9 o'clock was serving outbutter, was at 10 o'clock serving out ammunition, and the "boots"became a bugler, and the young man from the soft goods departmentdeveloped into a very martinet of a sergeant, and ordered aboutand swore at young men from the hardware department as to themanner born. And young gentlemen who shouted "Sign!" were , nowshouting "'Shun!" For the shop assistant was a power in the land,as Kruitzinger evidently knew—for he did not come.

MORAL OF GOUGH'S DEFEAT

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand),November 8, 1901

Major Gough, who met with a reverse at the hands of GeneralBotha near Utrecht on September 17, is regarded as a brilliantofficer of great dash and courage.

It must be remembered that it is only by taking great risksthat the military commanders here can possibly hope to bring thewar to a conclusion.

It is absolutely impossible to effect a reconnaissance in thecountry, when pursuing a flying enemy, where the appearance ofthe advanced scouts has the effect of scaring the commandoagainst which the movement of the main body is directed. Want ofdash and over-caution have frequently been disastrous in theirafter- effects.

The moral effect of the Boer success is unlikely to be great,in view of the fact proved by the capture of correspondence fromvarious commandants that extravagant stories of Boer victoriesare manufactured weekly, beside, which this genuine success isinsignificant.

NEVER UNDER FIRE

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), November 20,1901

THE ARMY THAT DOES NOT FIGHT

KENHARDT (Cape Colony), September 6, 1901

He will scarcely confess to you !he has never been under fire,that soldier friend of yours.

If he has been within a hundred miles of a battle, he willcheerfully lie to you when describing that battle. That is, if hehas never been under fire at all. If he has been out on patroland has been sniped at, he will not make any claims to have beenpresent at a big battle. He will be content to exaggerate theimportance of his "engagement," but he will not claim to havebeen at Colenso or Modder River or Nooitgedacht. But if he hasnot been sniped at, and has never heard "clik-clok," then if heimperils his immortal soul he will have to claim a battle toavoid the stigma, of "never under fire."

And you do not blame him, do you? How would you like to havecome six thousand miles on the troop deck of a transport, onethousand miles in a cattle truck, and have done duty by railsideand dorp for a year or so, and then, through force ofcirc*mstances, be compelled, were you making a truthfulconfession, to admit that you had never once seen anything but atame Boer, and had never once been shot at? And yet such is thecase with hundreds of the troops engaged in South Africa.

Owing to a succession of bad luck, or the positions they haveoccupied, or the duties in which they have been engaged, theyhave never once been within rifle or cannon shot of the enemy,and will be forced to make, what is to them the humiliatingconfession, that they have never once been under fire, and themedals they are getting or have got are—to modify Atkins'sexpressive term— "barefaced " medals.

NO NEED TO FEEL ASHAMED

As a matter of fact, there is nothing that is reallyhumiliating in such a confession. There has been much duty to bedone, well out of range, and hard, wearing, tedious duty, too. MrKipling has rendered an inestimable service to some of these men,by giving just a glimpse of the monotony and tedium of that"details guarding the line" are called upon to endure. There is aheroism which is not of the splash-dash kind, which is none theless admirable. A patient waiting for nothing amid greatdreariness: that is to be appreciated and to be ranked equal withthe courage that guns are captured with. A performance of duty;monotonous routine work, unrelieved by exciting incident. A lifemade up of days following one another with such a grey samenessone to the other that yesterday is only distinguished from thisday week by the state of the weather. Bridge guard on the Karoo,with never a Boer to pot at the blockhouse and never a straycommando to raise wild hopes, with only the knowledge that it isa duty which must be done by somebody, and must be done just aswell as if the bridge was on the Barberton line—this is aperformance which calls forth, or should call forth, our loudestexpressions of admiration for men of whom it is no disparagementto say that they are "never under fire."

Do you know Kenhardt? The C.I.V. infantry do. It is hundredsof miles north of De Aar, and hundreds of miles west of therailway line. Kenhardt is a nowhere sort of place, and before thedays of the second invasion was untroubled except by occasionalvisits of small rebel commandoes that were wont to halt on theother side of the Orange River and shout defiance at Kenhardt'ssmall garrison. For months Kenhardt's garrison never saw a Boerexcept in the Illustrated Mail. For months—long,dragging months of thirty-one days—Kenhardt's garrison werenever under fire. What was war to them? What was Mafeking nightto the keepers of the Eddystone Lighthouse? It was a something ahundred—a thousand miles removed. And yet, here they sat,by the Orange River, pawns in the big game; faithful watchers ofEmpire; right worthy to rank with the stormers of kopjes and thechargers of positions.

"NON-COMBATANTS"

There are twenty or so stationary hospitals in South Africa,the staffs of which have seen little more of war than its bullet-shattered victims—though this is the real and most terribleside of warfare. Not for them the forced march and the assault atdawn. Not for them "the clang and the clamour and dust of death."The enemy they have fought has been the universal foe, thedestroyer of armies— enteric.

Patiently and bravely the men of the R.A.M.C. have done theirwork, and little enough thanks have they got out of it at. Nocorps has been more vilified, no set of officers have been moresystematically cold-shouldered by the Powers That Were. No corpshas had harder work and less reward. And these men, forming thestaffs of the general hospitals, have not, except in rareexceptional cases, where the personnel has been recruited frombrigade bearer companies and field hospitals, been anywhere nearthe fighting line. "Never under fire" applies to a very largenumber of the Royal Army Medical Corps, as it does to other corpsin the army.

The Army Service Corps is a combatant unit. Unlike theR.A.M.C., its duty carries it into the firing-line, and when itdoes get a chance to put in a shot it never passes such anopportunity by. But the strength of the Army Service Corps is soinadequately small, that the demands of an army of a quarter of amillion have sorely tested its resources. The dapper littledriver in blue and white has been replaced by the Kaffir boy witha long whip. A.S.C. Companies have been split up intoinfinitesimal portions. There have not been enough men to goround the various columns, and the A.S.C. man, if he did not gethis chance of seeing fighting in the early stages of the war,stands a very poor chance of seeing it now. I am not thinking somuch of the Transport branch as the Supply when I speak of theA.S.C. who are never under fire—the clerks at base camps,the issuers, the bakers, and the other good tradesmen of theArmy.

EAGER TO FIGHT

Another unit is the Ordnance Corps. This is a corps which inordinary circ*mstances sees little fighting unless it happens toget shut up in a beleaguered town, or is sniped on its passagefrom town to town.

The men of the Army Pay Corps, the Treasury Department of theArmy, have little opportunity of seeing fighting.

How heartily sick of office work and dreary routine thesetechnical corps are may be guessed from the enormous number ofapplications there were from the ranks of the corps I have namedfor transfer to the regular line. Men who occupied good positionsand were in receipt of good salaries were anxious to exchangetheir non-commissioned rank in departmental corps to that ofprivate in marching regiments.

The exigencies of the service, however, forbade suchtransfers, and the men have remained at their old plodding tasks,totalling figures, taking stock of biscuits, and counting broom-handles. I think you must agree that, in spite of the apparentmeanness of their duties, as compared with the finer and moreapplauded work of their comrades of the line, there is somethingin their labours that dignifies their efforts. There is alwayssomething fine in the faithful observance of ordinary everydayduties; in the case of the soldier who works with his hammer orhis pen when he would much rather be working with his rifle andbayonet it is in its degree heroic.

THE GLORIOUS STORY OF ITALA
HOW GENERAL BOTHA WAS CHECKED

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), December 7,1901

"NOT HEROES"

PRETORIA, October 3, 1901

In the district of N'Kandhla, in the northern portion ofZululand, is Itala Mountain. Northward runs the Umyanyeni River,dividing Vryheid from the British territory. Westward and to thenorth are the famous Ingogo heights; still further westIsandhlwana; westward again the Blood River, with Rorke's Driftand its ancient history.

Itala is one of the line of fortified posts established duringthe past few weeks to hold in check the commando which, underLouis Botha, had been threatening Natal.

After his success on the Blood River, where he capturedColonel Gough's force, Botha moved eastward. To force the driftsand march on Dundee had been his plan, but Natal, which at thebeginning of his march had been almost empty of troops, was, longbefore he reached striking distance, garrisoned from end to end.Columns which had been safe and snug in the south-east corner ofthe Orange River Colony; columns that had been prowling roundCape Colony looking for rebel farmers; columns that had beenresting in unheard-of dorps on the edge of Nowhere—theywere all in Natal when Botha knocked at the gate. Sweaty andgrimy engine-drivers, contemptuous of hidden mine or twistedrail, had driven through the night from east, from west, fromsouth, from north, and long, nasty-smelling troop trains threwoff their mules and men, their waggons, their ambulances, andtheir stores—the Scratch Army had arrived.

EASTWARD

So Botha moved towards the rising sun, for there are otherways of entering Natal besides well-guarded front doors.Zululand, for instance. Raids into Zululand had been easy enoughto accomplish. Unknown commandants had from time to time movedabout leisurely and without restraint. What had been done beforemight be done again, and Botha moved eastward.

So also did British columns, and they arrived some days aheadof Botha. And they spread themselves out along the border lineand waited for Botha.

It is advisable to stop and examine with some curiosity thecomposition of the force that held the position at Itala. Notwith enthusiasm nor with reverence, but just with speculativecuriosity. To enthuse on matters military is bad form; reverencefor traditions which common people vulgarly term "splendid" isalso bad form—this from a military point of view, where thedesire for proficiency on the part of a young soldier in hisprofession is the worst of all varieties of bad form. So regardChapman's force curiously, as you Would regard a pointer or ahunter.

"THE MEN THAT FOUGHT AT MINDEN"

Right of the line of this little army were two guns of theRoyal Field Artillery. Gunners and Drivers, you understand, ofaverage courage and intelligence. Ordinary Woolwich-bred, sturdy,spur-clinking, beef-fed, soldiers. Let not Mr Alfred Austin orany misguided maker of verse imagine they were heroes. There areno heroes nowadays except in the classical dictionary. Heroes arebad form. There is a song about them somewhere, and if you havenot grown blasé with much daily intercourse with bravemen, you may sing it now with some feeling. It runs "Bravo"something or other. I have only heard it sung once, and then byan intoxicated and weedy youth in the New Cut.

Then there were men of the Middlesex Regiment. They call theMiddlesex Regiment "Die Hards" or some nonsense of that sort.They are recruited in the Mile End Road, and are chiefly peculiarby reason of the fact that they have not sufficient intelligenceto raise a white flag when they are in a tight corner;preferring—such are their brutal instincts—to go onfighting till something turns up.

The Dorsets were there represented. They boast, brassily andin Latin, that they were in India before any other regiment knewthe difference between "rutee" and "pawnee."*

[* rutee, pawnee(Hindi)—bread, water. ]

The Lancashire Fusiliers, who gave themselves airs the dayafter Minden—you won't find it on the South Africanmap—and all because at that battle "they behaved with greatgallantry, repulsing every charge of the enemy," they were there;most of them, I venture to affirm, absolutely ignorant of thesituation of Minden and of the fact that their regiment was overthere. And there were men of the South Lancashire Regiment also;two-and-twenty honours have the South Lancashire, stretching fromLouisberg to New Zealand.

FOUR TO ONE

Major Chapman's little force had a good backing of tradition;and, with a hundred battles behind them, and good, stoutbreastworks in front, his men awaited the arrival of Louis Bothaon the evening of Sept. 26. Three hundred men against twelvehundred. It was a most encouraging proportion. Britons fighttheir best under such conditions. It is only when they are onequal terms with the enemy, or slightly superior in numbers, thatSomebody regrets to state that "the ammunition ran out, andwithout my orders a white flag was raised."

The enemy came by way of Babanango and Wonder Kraal, and soonafter midnight of Sept. 25 a little outpost garrisoned by sixtymen under Lieutenant Kane, South Lancashire Regiment, andLieutenant Lefroy, Dublin Fusiliers, was attacked. This post hadbeen established on Itala Mountain, and a desperate fight ensuedfor its possession. Numbers told, and Lieutenant Kane fellmortally wounded, shouting "No surrender!"

"Never give in!" he cried, and he heard themshout,
And grappled with death as a man who knows nodoubt.

What was the fate of the men of this little outpost we do notknow. Killed, wounded, or captured, they did their duty. Hardlyhad the outposts fallen than the guns of the 69th Field Batteryand the Maxim were put out of action, and the attack had to bemet with rifle fire and the bayonet.

THE BRAVERY OF THE BOERS

Let us say this of the Boers, that they fought with alldisregard to danger. That they charged again and again, exposingthemselves to our fire, reckless of consequence, determined onlyto take the little post that stood between them and their object.For nineteen hours they fought with heroic madness. Theyabandoned their usual tactics. They flung themselves again andagain upon the tiny dwindling British lines, and again and againwere flung back, battered and broken and maimed. So their tale ofdead rose, even as the supply of British ammunition failed. Therecould be no hope of help from the other posts. Every post foritself. To withdraw troops from one position to assist a post atanother would mean the abandonment of the post from which thetroops were drawn, and a gap left for the Boer commandant to slipthrough.

Indeed, even as Itala was engaged, so also was Fort Prospect,ten miles along the Melmoth Road, and held by Captain Rowley andtwenty men. The Ermelo commando of four hundred men underGrebelaar attacked the post at daybreak, rushing to within a fewdozen yards of the defences, and continued the attack all day. SoItala was left to work out its own salvation, and this it did,fighting desperately for nineteen hours, waterless and short ofammunition, and without artillery. In the evening Botha retiredtowards the river, leaving his dead for our men to bury.

The cable has told you the number of the Boer casualties. Theyrun into hundreds. It has also told you that Major Chapman hasbeen recommended for the Victoria Cross, and that Lord Kitchenerhas expressed his opinion that every man of the force should byrights have one. In the early days of the war—before thewar bored you—you would call the men of Chapman's forceheroes. Even now, perhaps, you have sufficient enthusiasm left toexpress yourself in accord with Lord Kitchener.

AT A TRIAL FOR TREASON

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), December 27,1901

ONE PENALTY OF AN INDISCRETION

JOHANNESBURG, Sept. 12, 1901

Courthouses bear a striking resemblance one to the other allthe world over. There is a dinginess and a stuffiness and an airof aggressive respectability. And furniture polished smooth withmuch usage, and the smell of ink and the rustling of papers, andthe subdued babble of whispered talk from the public's standing-place. It might be Bow Street or Marlborough Street, or Lambeth,with its draped canopy, the raised dais, the cumbersome dock, andthe crescent-shaped table where counsel sit.

Only the Bench was constituted differently, and three officersin khaki clasped a Bible and swore that they would well and trulytry the prisoner before the Court according to the evidence, andthat they would duly administer justice according to the Army Actthen in force, without partiality, favour or affection, and theydid further swear that they would not divulge the sentence of theCourt until it was duly confirmed, and that they would on noaccount at any time whatsoever, disclose or discover the vote oropinion of any particular member of the Court unless thereuntorequired in due course of law, so help them God.

A PICTURE OF BROEKSMA

And the prisoner before the Court, haggard and wretched-looking, stood between the file of stolid soldiers—little,firm-knit men with fixed bayonets—and looked neither toleft nor right, but only groundwards, and later, when he wasallowed to sit in the well of the Court, he crossed his legs andlooked at his knee, and so he sat throughout the trial.

A hard-faced man, an intolerant, purposeful schemer—anda fool. A man who devised methods of passing treasonablecorrespondence through and past a dozen censors—yet was soill-witted as to keep copies of incriminating letters in hishouse. Cunning enough in his way—the pamphlets he hadprinted under his personal supervision, bore the imprint,"Printed on the field-press of the Z.A.R." Yet hisprinter—a Hollander youth who became a burgher for fiftyshillings, as he told the Court—gave him away in the veryinnocence of his heart. Broeksma brought him the little book. Itwas addressed to "all true Afrikanders," and was dedicated toLouis Botha, and to Christian De Wet, and to all commandants,veldt-cornets and fighting burghers—a sufficientlycomprehensive dedication.

They read this little book aloud in open Court. It was rathera tedious task, but it was managed very well by relays ofofficers, and, as Francis Davies read it, it read very wellindeed. The writer started with an apology for the fact that hehad taken the oath of neutrality, and endeavoured to explain awayhis peculiar position. He quoted extensively from a book by "anEnglish officer"—apparently "English officers" and such oftheir opinions as coincide with pro-Boer writers are noinconsiderable factors in the arguments of our enemies; and thisbook was all about the American War of Independence—whichwas, I believe, a regrettable occurrence that happened longbefore the Fourth of July Hotel Cecil dinners wereinaugurated.

WITHIN REACH OF THE GUNS

It told—this pamphlet—of parallel instances of theAmerican war with those of the Boer war. Of ill-clad, half-starved American burghers fighting for their country. It told ofone Arnold, who went over to the English ranks, and it likenedhim to Piet de Wet, and the surrendered Boers who are striving inthe interests of peace. It contained references to namelessatrocities committed by British droops on Boer women andchildren, of murders and outrages perpetrated by our men. Itsuggested punishment for burghers who surrender and work forpeace, including the novel suggestion that they should be buriedalive.

Altogether, it was a poisonous little book. Not, be it known,that it was any worse stuff than one sees printed in English andIrish papers of a certain class. Many of the sentiments containedin the pamphlet that was read in court, while the prisonerstudied his knee and flushed and paled alternately, were verymuch like the matter I have read in European papers, but theyhave said their say with impunity; they have been—let meuse a notable phrase—"intriguing beyond reach of the guns."But here in Johannesburg there is a law that sends to theirdeaths such men as try to encompass the destruction of oursoldiers by skillfully-worded encouragement held out to theenemy. The words treachery and treason have a meaning here. It isno newspaper term, and the educated men who for their own endsand purposes, not only cause suffering to our own troops, butmisery to the poor ignorant fools whom they induced to rebelagainst the authority of the Crown—for these men there is alaw, swift and sure and awful.

There were letters, too, that Broeksma wrote. Letters toPresident Kruger, "at present on leave in Europe," to Mrs Steynat Bloemfontein, a letter which would have been innocent enough,containing as it did a request that the lady and the Presidentshould stand sponsor to a newly-arrived "burgheress," had thewriter not seized the opportunity of launching forth upon a floodof verbal unpleasantnesses regarding Great Britain and hermethods. Then letters conveying stories of reverses and news ofthe commandoes, and pathetic requests to "Dr L." for money tocarry on the work. And letters conveying messages from therelatives of the fighting commandants to their friends in thefield. Then more letters with acknowledgment of cuttings from theDaily News and requests that other "respectable" papersshould be sent to the writer wrapped up "Jingo papers."

THROUGH THE POST?

But how did the foe within get news from the foe without? Howis it that these letters were able to pass our censors? There arerights which are respected by all civilised nations, and theseare the sacred rights of Foreign Ambassadors and Consuls. We donot molest or touch the correspondence of any foreign Consul. Thecontents of the consulate mailbags are held by us as sacred, andabove suspicion. And by some means or other, this correspondencebetween the intriguers at Home and the Boers in the field hasbeen carried on by means and through the medium of the Consul forthe United States of America in Johannesburg, and the Consul forthe United States of America at the Hague. In whatever way thesegentlemen have been deceived, and to what extent they have bee autilised as tools, it is not for me to judge.

Further, I know that for some time past the Foreign Officehave been aware of the fact that some such thing was going on. Itwas known that such correspondence was passing under cover of theall-powerful sub-address "Care of the American Consul,Johannesburg." It was Broeksma's indiscretion that he shouldleave copies of his letters about in his house. Dr. Williamson,at the Hague, with whom the prisoner corresponded, Mr Kruger, atHilversum, and others in London, will regret the publicity givento what was intended as private correspondence.

As to Broeksma, by the time this appears in print he will havepaid the penalty for his treachery—and hisindiscretion.

(Broeksma has since been shot.—Ed."Star")

WHAT DOES THE END MEAN?

Reproduced from The Hawera & Normanby Star (NewZealand), December 28, 1901

Edgar Wallace, writing in the Daily Mail,says:—

What does the phrase "the end of the war" mean to you?

It means one or more of three things. It signifies in yourmind, either (1) The date on which the legalised killing of menwill cease in South Africa; (2) The date on which some one who isnear and dear to you will be released from military service inSouth Africa; or (3) The date on which it ceases to be necessaryto devote the funds of the nation to the up-keep of an army inthe field other than the garrisons usually employed underordinary peace conditions.

And this is my estimate of the periods intervening between thepresent date and the three "ends" of the war:— (l) Ninemonths the "fighting end." (2) Fourteen months the "militaryend." (3) Two years the "financial end."

In making this estimate I know that I err on the side ofoptimism. Send us out men by all means, and horses for Heaven'ssake, and spend as much money as you like, only be patient as youhave always been. Don't expect any quick result. If we out hereknow that you are prepared to wait grimly for a year or two,we—we generals and brigadiers and columncommanders—we shall not get flurried or worried, or loseour heads. Be patient—that is the best way you canhelp.

PRO PATRIA—THE EMPIRE BUILDER

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), January 9,1902

A SOUTH AFRICAN SKETCH

JOHANNESBURG, September 27, 1901

The veldt is young and green from the new rains. The sun hasjust topped the horizon, and the world is a golden world; aglorious, glittering, laughing world full of sparkle and colourand warm lights. My horse is fresh and the veldt is easy going.My pipe is an old pipe, and the tobacco has just arrived fromEngland, and it is the only tobacco in the world worthsmoking.

It is a beautiful world I am living in; the keen morning airtingles the tips of my ears and fills any nostrils withexhilarating coldness. It is a morning to think on the blessingsof life, and the particular blessing that I think of thismorning, as I touch my hat to the blockhouse guard and canterinto the eye of the sun, is Empire. It is such a good thing on amorning like this to be a Briton. It is the sort of thought thatdoes not strike one very often. The bond that binds you to themillions of the red maps is not always apparent. Home: there areobvious bonds to that; kin; a penny stamp on a dirty envelope,and it's hands across the sea!

NEVER QUESTIONED

"Dear Brother John" is a John Smith, auctioneer and appraiser.An excellent gentleman or a mean thief, according to the mannerhe has treated you in the past. It is not to an Englishman youare writing; that fact is too apparent to appreciate. You arewriting to John Smith, the brother, and if you were questioned asto his nationality, you would answer, with a lift of youreyebrows, "Why, British, of course," wondering in your mind; whysuch an absurd question should ever be asked, yet never beforehaving given the matter a moment's thought. That everybodyconnected or associate with you is British, and that to beBritish is something to be proud of, you accept as a matter ofcourse, without for one moment reflecting on what Britain'sgreatness is built.

You accept the statement that Britain is great in about thesame manner that you accept the theory that the world is round,without any more misgivings that our power could slip from usthan you have that this old globe would become of its own willcubiform. Some hundreds of years ago, somebody or other smashedup a Spanish fleet and gave England power over the sea. It was inthe English Channel or at Flores, in the Azores, or somewhere,Oliver Cromwell beat the Dutch; or it may have been Queen Annebeat the French. Then there was Trafalgar and Lord Nelson. Thisyou won't forget, because there are so many public-houses namedafter that great man. And there was Waterloo. You do not knowmuch about Vimiera, or Talavera, or Buçaco, or Fuentesd'Onor, or Ciudad Rodrigo—(a meerkat slips out of a holeand glides across my path at this point of thought and sets myhorse a-bucking and a-swerving; the sun is getting higher; veldtand kopje and distant ridge take new shapes in the strong, younglight, and the blockhouses are behind and out of sight)—andyou have never heard much about Vittoria, or Salamanca, orOrthes, or Ava, because these names are difficult to remember.Well, we won these battles, or lost them creditably, and Englandbecame great and, of course, being great, cannot be less.

Our might is the might of the history book, and we do nottrouble to read Blue Books and Consular reports to correct ouropinions or realise that what we have gained by the sword we maylose to the Mauser; that the power which Drake's red-hotculverins built for us, the apathy of Blank, Dash, and Co., orthe rates of the Half Moon Steamship Company may piffle away.

DREAM PICTURES OF EMPIRE

So this morning being fair and inspiring, and the land beinggood to look upon, and my tobacco being particularly fragrant,and the motion of my horse remarkably easy, I think pleasantly onEmpire. Of the Drakes and the Marlboroughs, of the Effinghams andRaleighs, and Benbows and Nelsons, and the Empire-makers workingblindly to ends they were fated never to behold. And of mattersmaking for Empire to-day. Of a great people ignorant of itslatent strength and fretful of its palpable weaknesses. Of hoststhat come from the four corners of the earth; of great steamersbearing commerce under the red ensign; of millions on millionsflung with a lavish hand; of illimitable treasures; of a thousandcities, some sweltering beneath a tropical sky, some lazing bySouthern seas, some ice-bound by frozen rivers, some harried bytyphoon, some buried by snowstorms. It is pleasant, this dream ofEmpire. It is comforting, this dream of Empire. It is comforting,this thought of great men and cities rising to Britain's need tothrow treasure and province and people into the common fund. Itis...

Hallo, what, is this?

The horse will be glad of a rest, so I dismount and loosen hisgirths, and knee-halter him securely, to see what attracted myattention. It is a little cairn. There are not many looseboulders in the vicinity, and very few stones, and the materialfor the cairn must have been brought with some pains from adistance by those who made it. Dull, red stones they-are, andhave been long enough in their present position to allow a littlegreen creeping weed to throw one slender tendril up one side ofthe mound and half-way down the other. And there are some wildflowers, too, growing among the stones. Green slips tipped withtiny white flowers. Shoots of maize already a foot high, andswaying to every vagary of the soft winds.

Somebody's grave.

And two pieces of biscuit box have been nailed together toform a cross, on which the maker has evidently started to carvethe name, but, being pressed for time or the rude tool failing,finished off the inscription with black lead pencil.

"FOR KING AND COUNTRY"

"Pte. J.L——" Rain and dust have obliterated thehastily-written pencilled letters; but on the lower part of theupright, and protected from the elements by a larger stone,evidently placed to give stability to the symbol, is written inpencil, "for king And countery."

So Pte. J.L ——, whoever he was, has died for Kingand Country. Did he know it, I wonder, and did the writer of theepitaph realise at all the significance of the inscription?Perhaps he didn't. It may have been a line from some music-hallballad—such a one as may be heard at any hall beingaddressed to the sentimental artisan. A trite little phrase, butperfectly descriptive of the passing of him beneath the hastilygathered stones. Hackneyed, heroic and threadbare pathos, tawdryfrom long dwelling amid tinsel and grease paint, smelling of thevery orange-peel at the pit-door, but raised to its properdignity by fitting application.

So, here you are, and this is the end of all things, PrivateJ.L——, whosoever you were, yokel or co*ckney sharp,ne'er-do-well or gentleman. This is not the end youpictured—if, indeed, your mind ever ran on the GreatFinality.

Poor tool, broken in the fashioning of Empire, and laid asidefor ever. Do the great ones of earth, who shall go down toposterity as Empire-makers, who shall shine in the pages ofhistory because of this work you have done—do these knowyour work, divine your worth, and place you at your truevaluation? I wonder, as I replace the stone and force upright thedrooping cross, how many lines of history you deserve, you poorunit, who died for King and Country. How many hearts lie buriedhere, broken and crushed and mangled for King and Country? I knowhow you died, uncomplaining, undoubting the wisdom of God, halfwondering, perhaps, why no presentiment of death had come to you,and strangely curious through all. I have seen your like, and thedeath they died.

I could not wish you a resting-place more fitting. Nature issilent hereabouts. God's Sanctuary, where world noises are hushedand the circling hills are giants linked hand in hand to keepback the crush and the fret and the hurry of life. Sleep well,brother. There are those who will not forget who are the realEmpire-makers. I almost envy you this victorious quiet, thissplendid rest. No mausoleum of polished granite, no sculpturedstone, no graven praise, no tablet in the dim chancel. For you,no churchyard by familiar lanes. Day breaks and night falls, andno hoof-fall breaks the silence. The west glows and sleeps; theeast quickens and pales. Hesperus becomes Lucifer, and only thewheeling hawk looks down upon the little red mound beneath whichlies this Private J.L——, this maker of Empire.

(Despite the assurance given in Parliament as tothe freedom of letters from the censorship, the above letter,which has been delayed about a month in transmission, was "openedunder martial law," and the envelope bears the Press censor'striangular stamp.)

FIGHTING IN THE MIST

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand),January 21, 1902

The blockhouses, which previously served purely for railwayprotection, are now rapidly encircling vast tracts of country andlimiting the sphere of the operations of the commandoes thusencircled. The advantage of this is in estimable, for theblockhouses act as a sort of outer cordon through which there islittle possibility of the enemy breaking. Thus they preventcommunication between the commandoes and the arrival ofreinforcements from outside. The best example of this is found inthe line of blockhouses which runs from Norvals Pont toNaauwpoort, De Aar, and Orange River, and along the river fromNorvals Pont. Thus it is evident that the commandoes now in CapeColony can hardly return or be reinforced from the north.

The size and remarkably different conditions of the country inwhich operations are being conducted were manifested yesterdayweek, when one column engaged the enemy near the shore of theAtlantic and another was fighting 1,000 miles east on the bordersof Kaffirland, while 1,200 miles north Colonel Colebrander waspursuing the enemy in the thick bush country.

The extraordinary conditions under which the troops fight woreexemplified by Colonel Plumer's recent operations in theSlangapiesberg and the Pongola bush, where both British and Boerswere hidden from one another by the thick mists peculiar to thatpart of the country, in consequence of which the men oftenapproached within a dozen yards of the enemy, many of whom werekilled at point blank range.

Colonel Somerset's column was encamped high above the clouds.The Boer snipers from the valley below were invisible, but theirshots piercing the cloud fell harmless owing to the greatelevation. In the midst of this country of large canyons a townwas discovered in which were women and children, and also shops,wherein bootmakers, tailors, and wagonmakers were regularlyemployed.

On every hand the columns are doing good, steady, ploddingwork. I would again protest against the injustice of exaggeratingminor Boer successes and against the seeming inability of thecritics to set off against these our weekly total of captured,none of whom were taken without fighting. The weekly summary butinadequately conveys an idea of the progress made.

From January to the end of last October the following were theBoer losses: Captured and surrendered, 15,000; killed 1,837; gunscaptured 29; rifles captured 10,000.

That certain columns should be more useful than others is onlynatural, and it is perfectly true that some columns areconsiderably hampered by excess of impedimenta. Upon thissubject, however, Lord Kitchener has issued strict orders as tothe limitation of transport. It is only fair to point out that itis hardly to be expected that men who have been two years in thefield should willingly endure the same privations andrestrictions which were unavoidable at the beginning of thewar.

WAR—FROM A SALOON WINDOW

I. — THE START

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), January 24,1902

This is Cape Town, and Cape Town at night. To be exact, at tenminutes To nine at night. The grey bulk of Table Mountain isveiled in mist and a drizzling rain drenches the long woodenplatform, on either Side of which stand the up-country trains,which in ten and twenty minutes will be roaring northward.

From the street without the electric tram gong booms down thewind, and a hundred paces northward the black waters of Table Baysough and gurgle along the foreshore. Blurred, flickering,dancing, twinkling lights on the far waters—liner, tramp,transport, collier, cattle boat, and ketch. One long white arm oflight stabbing a way through the drizzle and swinging languidlynorth and south and east and west: up and down, high poised, andsearching vainly for the distant Koeberg Hills; depressed andcutting through the dark, dead waters, a lane of living light.This is his Majesty's Ship Something or Other using hersearchlight. Only a second or two, however, for appreciation ofthe picturesque.

VERY MUCH LIKE HOME

"Pas op, baas!"*

[* Pas op, baas!(Afrikaans)—Watch your back, sir! ]

You jump round in time to avoid a heavily-laden trolley,overtopping with mail bags, and trundled forward by two sweatingKaffirs in the uniform of Cape Town's G.P.O. The mail vans areopen, and are already half filled with bulging bags. The moistplatform is crowded with passengers and their friends; portershurry to and fro, trucks laden with baggage collide and entangleand generally mix up with trolleys piled with mails. A greatsack, marked "From London for the British Army, in South Africa "slips on to the feet of a matron struggling with a bundle ofrugs, a bandbox, and a baby, and altogether it is very much likeEuston or King's Cross, with a suggestion of the departure of amidnight "hopping excursion," only the saloons with their little,well-lighted compartments and their dim narrow alley ways aredifferent, and the few natives in the third-class arestrange.

"By your leave, please!"

Uttered in that tone, the "please" sounds almost like a swearword. Rumble, rumble, rumble, clank, clank, clank—this thetrolley or truck. Thud, thud, thud—umph! This the throbbingdynamo in the end carriage, which sets the train a quiver.

"As for me," says the correspondent deprecatingly—thedisappointed correspondent who has come a thousand miles towitness a great movement in the Malmesbury district, which hasproved something of a Great Fizzle—"As for me, onedistrict's as good as another. I am disappointed; I don't mindconfessing that. Pretoria to Malmesbury is a trifle over athousand miles, and I did expect a little excitement. Whathappened? A thundering lot of horse thieves came down from VanRyn's Dorp to sneak horses, got a few hundred, occupied a dorp ortwo, rushed an outpost or two, stole a rifle or two, and retired.Troops were immediately on the spot, did you say? Of course theywere! See my telegraphic report when it comes out. 'Troops wereat once hurried to the scene of action, and the enemy retired,etc.' Oh, yes, I wired all that. Many strange incidents inconnection with the invasion? Of course. Why, a colonelcommanding one of the columns operating against the enemy tookout with him two guns. What do you think he did? When he wasabout a day's march out he sent the guns back to headquartersagain. Why? Oh, he said he was afraid he would lose 'em. Fact!No, I didn't wire that, and for heaven's sake don't tell anybody;they'll think I'm unpatriotic. Censors? Don't talk about 'em.Why, the other day—"

THE PASSENGERS

Encourage a young father to talk about the smart sayings ofhis first-born, or a suburban lady to descant on the enormitiesof the latest domestic, but never draw the correspondent on thesubject of the Censorship.

"And tell Jack we shall be up on the Rand in a month."

A burly gentleman and his burly wife are seeing off anotherburly gentleman and his singularly buxom better half. Both burlygentlemen wear massive watch guards and diamond rings, and bothsmoke offensively large cigars.

"If you see 'Arry up there," commented the large gentleman whohad spoken before, "tell 'im I'm waiting till the 'umming birdsings—he'll know what I mean."

The other large gentleman and his spouse are evidently also inthe secret, as also is the speaker's wife, and the roar oflaughter that follows is worthy of all the wit in all the world,rolled up though it be for the time into an esoteric reference toa singing 'umming bird.

"My carriage, porter!"

He really says "portah," does the officer who, followed by afew ladies, dodges his way down the choked platform, but thatsort of thing has been done to death, don't you think?- Asuperfluous "haw" has somehow come to be regarded as a sign ofincompetence, and a monocle in the eye of an officer the cause ofdisaster; so I decline to report phonetically, lest my object inreporting at all be obscured.

It isn't the porter at all who responds to the officer'sappeal, but the suave, frock-coated conductor, looking for allthe world like a hall porter suddenly transported from PiccadillyClub to the Cape Town railway station.

There is a seat already occupied in the compartment, and theofficer gentleman does not approve.

"Eh—my compartment, I believe?" Good Englishman!faithful to his national traditions, he wishes to travel histhousand miles by his lonesome self. He objects to the presenceof another human being in the same saloon; indeed, he would bemuch happier if there was no other man in the whole train. If thetruth be told the other passenger is just as wrathful at theintrusion and objects just as strenuously. I know he does, for hehappens to be me.

INSULAR BRITON

I glare at him and suggest that, if he has reserved thecompartment, I shall be most happy to find another seat. Heglares at me, and remarks to his wife, who has come to thecarriage window, that the type of persons who travel first-classin this —— country is extraordinary, and I pray forthe arrival of a friend to whom I can address as audible am asideand as uncomplimentary. Bitter rage fills my heart, and aprofound contempt for officers of his Majesty's second line ofdefence. Smarting under the injustice of his remarks, I almostbecome pro-Boer. However, I don't, for previous experience hastaught me that before we are a dozen miles on our way we shall bethe best of pals, and by lunch time we shall be sharing lunchbaskets.

"Well, good-bye. Hope, you'll have a pleasant trip, and allthat sort of thing. Sorry you haven't a nicer travellingcompanion."

This from his wife. "Can't help that. Have to do the best Ican, I suppose. Hope you'll enjoy yourself at theJordans"—the name was not Jordan, of course. "They'refrightfully slow, and all that, and the old man is quiteimpossible, but—"

"Take your seats, please!"

This from the guard, followed by a request for permits from agentleman in a cutaway coat and a red armlet. Quite as formal isthe officer's leave-taking. He might be going to Scotland orleaving a country house-party. Confound the man, why doesn't heshow some trace of emotion? There is all the material for "hightragedy" here, all the elements for a coloured supplement for aChristmas number, something thickly laid with tears and tensefaces, and drawn cheeks and droops and faints. Something of thegood-bye-soldier's-farewell order; but he kept one anxious eye onthe stowing away of a case of champagne, and she twiddled withher long gold chain and looked bored.

But there is comedy enough, and at the last minute.

Enter belated Atkins, with a kit-bag slung over one shoulder,a carbine gripped in one hand, and his helmet put on wrong sidein front. Atkins has been dining, and Atkins wants much of theplatform to himself. There is a ticket-inspector, who wants tosee Atkins's ticket, and as for Atkins himself, all he wants isto find his train.

Ticket Inspector: "Your ticket, please.

Atkins: "Whoffer?"

T.I.: "I want to see it."

Atkins (jocularly): "Go hon! Where's my train?"

T.I.: "Where are you going?"

(Atkins (severely): "Never you mind where I'm goin'.Where's my train?"

T.I.: "Let me see your ticket."

Atkins (sternly polite): "Big ear?"

TI.: "Hey?"

(Atkins (grimly pleasant): "Thick lip?"

T.I.: "What do you mean?"

Atkins (dropping carbine and kit bag with a crash onthe platform, and throwing his helmet on to the roof of thesaloon): "D'you wanter big ear or thick lip? 'Cos if so, canaccommodate."

T.I.: "None of your nonsense, me man.

Atkins: "Never min' 'bout nonsense. Will you be sokind's ter put up your 'ands for about two minutes?"

At this point enter the military police, who knowing Atkinsfor a brother, gather together his traps, throw them into athird-class compartment, and bundle their owner after them.

"Stand away, please!"

The flash of a green lamp and the long shrill of a whistle, ananswering hoot from the darkness ahead, and the train moves.

"Good-bye. Remember me to ——. Don't forget to tell'Arry about the 'umming bird."

"I arst yer, man to man, do you want a big ear?" This fromAtkins, his body half-way out of the carriage window, andaddressing a station inspector, who is absolutely innocent ofoffence against him.

"Good-bye; do write. Good-bye, old chap, mind the Boers don'tcatch you!"

Boers! Why, of course, we are off to the front, travellingfirst-class through the enemy's country, and seeing war from asaloon window.

II.—SCRAPSOF WARFARE

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), January 28,1902

Dressing bag on the rack: camera on the rack: field-glasses onthe rack. Sleeping-bag and rugs and pillow on the lower bunk:portmanteau on the upper bunk: wearing-apparel lightly rolled andstowed on the upper bunk: boots under the seat: pyjamas andslippers on the person: cigarettes and matches and the latestfile of the Daily Mail on the folding-table in the centreof the compartment, and all before the train reaches DurbanRoad.

My stable-companion is the officer who, finding I was to sharehis compartment, had cast reflections upon my respectability. Weare half an hour out from Cape Town, and already we are dearfriends, and have discovered that we have acquaintances whom wemutually detest. I knew his regiment before the war, and we talkof officers and men whom I had known. Some are dead, some arepromoted, some are Stellenbosched,* some commandcolumns—three years ago they were not trusted alone withcompanies—some have gone Home, and the rest are scatteredalong eighty miles of railroad, guarding the line in littlepagoda blockhouses.

[* Stellenbosched—sent toStellenbosch, a camp and remount depôt at the Cape, where,during the Boer War, incompetent officers were sent to awaitpassage back to the England. ]

How is Major This—hadn't I heard? Gone Home, got"jumpy," funked a frontal attack, so he left. A disgracefulthing, you think, good reader? Not a bit. The very bravest men inthe world get "jumpy." There's nothing wonderful in it. It's asort of military stage fright, and is as inexplicable as it iswithout remedy. And Captain That, is he with the battalion still?Oh? Old That—he's a D.A.A.G. of one or the Cape districts;before that he was Press censor - somewhere or other, and beforethat an A.D.C. to the Governor of Zululand. No, he hasn't seenmuch fighting, but he's got his D.S.O., and is daily expecting aC.M.G.

[* D.A.A.G.—Deputy Assistant AdjutantGeneral (British Army); A.D.C.—Aide de Camp;D.S.O.—Distinguished Service Order; C.M.G.—Companionof The Most Distinguished Order of St. Michael & St. George.]

IN THE DARK GORGES

Then it is my turn to be questioned. Where's Blank of theTempus, and Brazen of the Telephone—is he asobnoxious as ever; and Howell of the Agencies—Howell, forwhom everybody has got a kindly thought—and Marlborough ofthe Last Post, and Charlie of the DailyMillion—Charlie is another personality kindlyremembered.

And so on to Wellington, where a gentleman comes round toinspect the permits, and a very nice lady serves very indifferentcoffee.

The night is pitch dark, but the rain has ceased. One by oneout go the electric lights in the compartments, and thepassengers of the "4 Down" settle to sleep.

With many a roar and rattle and swish the train flies down thegradients of the Hex Valley. Thundering through cutting, skimmingalong narrow bank, whistling with hoarse rage at every redwarning, with many a grunt and cough, and clank of slippingdriving-wheel it climbs again. Great, dimly-outlined masses ofrock and tree slip from the darkness, focus the harsh roar of thetrain for a second, and are gone.

Flying through corn-fields, the damp green of the young corn,which comes straggling down to the rail edge, lit for the momentby a blaze of light from the engine as the stoker throws open thefurnace-door for the moment to feed his iron-bellied baby.Twisting and turning through the dark gorges of Tulbagh, the carlights reflected in the waters of the mad little stream thatraces fifty feet below. Sweeping cleanly round the bases of thegrey buttresses of the Hex River Range, and then clinging likedeath to lip and ledge as the slow-going, snorting, grinding masslaboriously wins a way up to 4,000 ft to the very crest of themountain.

All this is in the dark, with little lights showing faintly inthe black valley below, and the pale flush of coming daywhitening the topmost peaks above. Snort, snort, snort, puff,puff, puff, foot by foot, and yard by yard, and so slowly thatone might alight from the front carriage, go to sleep, and wakeup in time to board the guard's van. Strain and tug, and grind,and steadily the twenty-eight feet gradient becomes thirty, andthen fifty, and then sixty, and so till with one triumphantsqueal from its brass lips, the hauling engine feels levelground, and halts like some animate thing to pant and sweat andtremble.

"A SCRATCH TEAM"

Then, as the fan of light broadens eastward, and the moltenrim of the sun serves the whole visible world as it has beenserving the higher peaks for the last quarter of an hour, amillion diamonds flash on herb and bush and tree, and a dozenrays of light force the wooden guard that bars the window. Tenmillion dust motes in every streak of light, a hand gropingsleepily along the table for a watch, which hours since has beenshaken to the floor, a jarring of brakes, a long whistle, andTouws River—and coffee.

Coffee tastes well in the early morning, and the firstcigarette tastes —no. it doesn't taste, it is a sensation,the like of which no smoker of opium or eater of bhang has everexperienced. My officer friend agrees with me, and remembers anoccasion in Mhow when—also I recollect a time in Marandalaswhen—and so on for half an hour, and the train, moves not.Why? A native porter outside who is appealed to doesn't know, butthinks that the train is "going soon now." Questioned, thestationmaster supplies startling news laconically. "Wire cut;Boers fourteen miles down the line." And this is a trifle over ahundred miles from Cape Town, at a time when, according to noless than four Cabinet Ministers and at least one specialcorrespondent, the fabric of Boer resistance is tottering to itsfall.

You get a glimpse of the station commandant; as he passes. Ayoung, purposeful Kaffrarian Rifleman. He is here, there andeverywhere, moving quickly, yet without hurry. Two lines on hisforehead. One for the Boer commando that is approaching his post,another for the handful of raw troops he has got to hold thestation.

Touws River stands, on the top step Of the Hinterland.Fittingly enough, the garden of Cape Colony lies at the foot Ofthe steps, and to push the metaphor still further, the commandantis anxious to confine the disturbance to the house, and toprevent a scandal in the Street of Nations by the brawlerscarrying their quarrel to the front garden.

There is a quick search along the train for reinforcements,and the first man discovered is the pugnacious Atkins, who islooking particularly cheap in the fresh tight of morning. Thesearch along the carriages is prolific. Two lancers, a dragoon,three militiamen, an Imperial Light Horseman, one of the cyclistcorps, a Royal Engineer, a Cape Policeman, and a Guardsman arequickly organised under an Artillery sergeant, an armoured truckis improvised, and the little force, which in better days andnewer clothing, might well have stood as a group representativeof the British Army, climbs on board, and the armoured trainmoves slowly towards the spot where the wire has been cut.

THE BOER HAS COME AND GONE

It is gone half an hour when from the high hill at the back ofthe station a blue flag waves frantically, and is as furiouslyanswered by a signaller near the little camp. A pause, full ofspeculation, and then from the engine-shed:"Hoot—toot—toot—toot—too-o-o-o-t."

That is the inevitable hooter for the inevitable TownGuard.

"A large body of Boers are approaching the station."

That is the news the flag has wagged, and the inevitable TownGuardsman commences to arrive quickly. Touws River has a fairlylarge railway population, say a hundred at the outside, and theturn out of the Town Guard at Touws River was very much like aturn out at any other place.

First a telegraph messenger boy, with a rifle as long ashimself, and a bandolier reaching down to his thighs. Then a verydirty engine-cleaner, grinning whitely through the grime. Then aforeman of sorts in dingy slouch hat and corduroy trousers, whoturned out later to be the sergeant-major. Then a very fat porterin a golf cup and a bandolier that seemed imbedded in his adiposetissues. Many youths smiling sheepishly, one elderly gentleman,looking remarkably fierce, and in khaki, with a slouch hat tiltedrakishly over one eye, and the usual ruck of indifferent people,all rifled and bandoliered, some with bayonets, and every onelooking singularly fit and cheerful. In parties of six and eightthey marched off to their appointed stations.

An hour passes—no Boers. Another— still no Boers.Two more—and yet not a Boer, or the sign of a- Boer, andthen the armoured train returns. The Boers have cleared, the lineis untouched.

"Right behind."

Off once more, seven hours late, till we reach a place wherethe wires droop to the ground, and the poles are bent andbroken.

The Boer has come and gone, and as we steal along we pass alittle group of men who, with bared heads, are lowering somethinginto a narrow slit of the earth.

IN SEARCH OF A FIGHT

Reproduced from The Taranaki Herald (New Zealand), January 31, 1902

THE HISTORY OF A PARAGRAPH

JOHANNESBURG, November 22, 1901

"A small engagement is reported fromRietfontein, where a patrol of the Transvaal Carbineers came intouch with twenty of the enemy. Shots were exchanged, and theBoers retired, leaving three wounded in our hands. The enemy losttwo killed. Our losses, one trooper wounded."

That is an unimportant enough paragraph, don't you think? Itis copied-with certain alterations from a wire I despatched tothe Daily Mail. And yet, you may not believe it, but it isnevertheless a fact, that the minor engagement was once a bigbattle. It was a British disaster: it was a Boer defeat. It wasthe capture of two of our guns, and the killing of two Boercommandants. Also it was an evenly-matched fight, with casualtiesrunning to three figures on both sides. It was all these things,at various times and in various localities. In Maritzburg it wasa reverse, and a bad reverse; in Pretoria it was a victory, and agreat victory. Johannesburg had heard of it, and Krugersdorp knewthe number of guns taken and the battery which, had lostthem.

SIFTED FIRST, THEN SENT

I went to find out all about this great fight, and afterreducing the evidence by comparative examination, I sent a wiresomething like that above, and I fancy it is about correct.

The fight occurred on a Monday, and the first news was from ablockhouse in view of the mountain near which the fighting tookplace. The corporal in charge of the blockhouse telephoned "Heavyfiring in the direction of Rooiberg." Now there are twoRooibergs, as indeed there are twenty (I am using a fictitiouslocality for obvious reasons), and the commandant of the nearestgarrison jumped to the conclusion that it was a Rooiberg nearwhich Botha was known to be, and whither columns were hastening.Immediately he wired that Botha was engaged. The mistake,however, was soon discovered and rectified, and that incident, asfar as those chiefly interested were concerned, was closed. Butwhat time the little roadside garrison had been astir with thenews that Botha was heavily engaged, the Johannesburg train hadpassed through the station. Only a few minutes, it stopped, butAtkins on the platform had imparted his exclusive information tosuch of the passengers as were interested, and the train movedon,bearing in addition to passengers and baggage quite acarriage-load of stories of "the great fight." To Johannesburgcame the rumour, and it trickled into the railway carriage inwhich I was making my way to Pretoria.

"A big thing: a very big thing, I've heard," said mytravelling companion, an officer in an irregular regiment; "we'velost—I don't know how many—and two guns—I'mtold. They lost just as many as we did, if wot more. CommandantsMarais and Du Plessis captured—so I understand."

You see, he had got hold of the "evenly-matched" story. The"complete reverse" yarn I heard from an irate subaltern, ofMilitia, who told me his father was an M.P. and would see aboutit. He was a very young subaltern, and his clothes were quitenew.

"Where did you hear of it?"

That question generally elicited one reply. "Oh, a fellow toldme. don't you know. He heard it from a passenger on one of thesetrains who saw the fight."

EMENDATIONS BY MR ATKINS

All this looked sound enough, and although the nearestintelligence officer knew nothing about the engagement, Iprepared to get nearer to the scene of operation. OfficiallyJohannesburg knew nothing, as did Pretoria and Vereeniging; butnone the less there seemed every possibility of its truth, and itwas worth looking into.

It was somewhat of a shock to discover that the news had comeby the Cape train and not, as I had imagined, by the Natal mail,which crosses the country in which Botha usually operates. Bothaseldom goes south of the Natal line, but anyhow there was nothingto prevent him doing the unusual thing if he felt inclined. A fewminutes after the thought occurred to me, an officer hurryingpast stopped to tell me that Botha had crossed the Natal line andwas engaged south; So the story grew more feasible, and Iresolved on moving south towards Vereeniging. I passed thegarrison post whence the story had emanated, I passed theblockhouse that had reported the firing, and, all unknowing ofthe irony of it. I passed the handful of men who had beenengaged; and so I reached Vereeniging. Vereeniging knew the truthof the matter, for this station possesses a real intelligenceofficer. I was told the true story of the "great battle" and howthe mistake had arisen, and got back to Elandsfontein station intime to hear a veritable Bill Adams of an Atkins telling anadmiring circle the story of the Battle of Rooiberg. He had beenone of the patrol and had brought the slightly wounded men intoElandsfontein by means of a convenient train that had happened tobe coming the right way. Now the way Atkins told his story wasnot as I told it in the telegram which heads this column. Nor wasit told as the widely exaggerated stories that first reached mewere told. This is the story as it fell from Atkins's lips andtaken down by me:—

"'Ere was them," said Atkins, indicating "them" with the buttof his rifle on the station platform, "and there wasus"—"us" being by a weighing machine—"The Captin, 'esays, 'I think we've got 'em now, me lads. All I want now is aman to volunteer to go round the back of that kopje and see ifthey've got anyone awaitin' be'ind to give us 'ell as soon as wemove on 'em. I want,' 'e sez, 'a trustworthy, reliable man,' 'esez, 'one that knows 'is dooty, and is an ole soldier,' 'e sez,'none of your three months' service boys,' 'e sez. An' SergeantJones—that's my sergeant—'e sez, 'Send Baker,' 'esez, ''e's a good soldier,' 'e sez—that's my name," addedAtkins modestly.

THE END OF THEIR TAILS

"I dessay," said a sarcastic listener. "And did you go?"

"I did," replied Atkins, "and—"

"I s'pose your face frightened 'em" suggested theinterrupter.

"Shut up". Go on, co*cky." This from the audience,

"Well, I crawls and I creeps, a-'idin' be'ind bushes androcks, till I gits beside the kopje, an' when I looks round therewas their nibs a-sittin', waitin' for the captin to come on. Nighon seven 'undred, I should say. As soon as I sees 'em I nips backto the captin, an' I sez, 'There's about eight 'undred burjers a-waitin' for you there, sir.' An' 'e sez, ''Ow many?' 'Eight'undred,' I sez. 'Did you count 'em,' 'e sez. 'Yes.' sez I asbold as brass. 'Well,' he sez, 'it strikes me, Baker, you've gotsecond sight,' 'e sez, 'an' if there's eight 'undred Boers roundthere I'll eat my boots,' 'e sez. Any'ow, we got the squadrondivided into three sections, an' one went to the left, the otherto the right, and the other a'ead. Well, bimeby we give a yellan' charged on the kopje, an' sure enough they started firin'from the top, only it wasn't what you'd call an 'eavy fire, butjust a 'klik-klok, klik-klok,' just about as fast as I can sayit. Well, bimeby up went a white flag, and me an' Jimmy Sparkswent up with our rifles at the ready—you bet your life onthat—and there was three wounded Boers an' two dead 'uns,an' the rest of the commando was gone. Then the Captin comes up,an' he starts questionin' the wounded ones—that one," saidAtkins, pointing to one of the prisoners seated with his arm in asling on a bundle of blankets "—and then 'e asks 'im whatthey called the kopje—the name of it, I mean—an' theBoer, 'e sez, 'Baboon's Kop,' 'e sez. 'Are there any baboonsabout "ere?' sez the Captin. 'Lots,' sez this 'ere Boer, 'Lookover there,' and may I be —— if there wasn't a youngthousand of 'em, chatterin' an' jorrin' along a ridge nearby. Sothe Captin 'e laughs an' 'e sez, 'Oh, Baker,' 'e sez, 'where'sthem eight 'undred Boers?' 'e sez. 'Didn't you notice they 'adtails on,' 'e sez."

JUSTICE—HOW A TRAITOR DIED

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), February 4,1902

JOHANNESBURG, Nov. 20, 1901

Familiar as we are with death that comes sudden and horrid,callous as we have grown to the inevitable casualty, to theshrunken mess, the vacant seat, to the comrade who has passed andwhose requiem is a "poor old boy" and a half-ashamed sigh, thereis always something extraordinary in the prearranged casualty,the death that is as an engagement made three weeks ahead.

Men inured to scenes of carnage, hardened in warfare andseasoned to death—I have seen them shudder at a little calmand bloodless sentencing. It is not the value of the life to bespilt, for in this, the Land of Little White Crosses, wheregraves are more frequent than milestones, what is the value of alife, be it prince's or private's? It is not pity, for what pitycan there be for a man who trafficks in treason, and is a chapmanselling men cheaply? It is perhaps the brokery of it all: thefair trading of life for life; the bargaining of plea againstaccusation; the final adjustment by the keen-witted arbitrator,and the businesslike arrangements for a settling day. It is theknowledge of the settling day, that there will be no carrying ofaccounts, but a final settling for once and for all. No whirl andclamour and delirium of battle. No joy of give and take, with allthe chances of immunity and little reck of death—only thecold, helpless, trapped doing to death, with a grave dugbeforehand and the hour of the funeral arranged in advance.

I have told you before of a military execution; from time totime I have tried to paint war in its true colours—whichare black and red and grey. Black for the sorrow and the gloomand the suffering; red, blood-red for the quick, clean death; andgrey for the monotony and dreariness of it all.

HORRID WAR

You ought to know what war is, for it is a good thing toavoid; yon should see that side which the war artist is blind toand the decent photographer wisely passes by. You can do this incold print, since the writer may skip sickening details which thecamera places on record—and it is the detail that counts.If there is a cheerful aspect to warfare, it is but one spoke inthe whole wheel, and all the rest are horrors. War! what does itsignify to you? I will tell you what it signifies to me.

I once met a dear old friend of mine—he was not old asyears go—and he asked me to breakfast with him. We weretrekking at the time, and he had joined the column during thenight, having brought in a convoy. We talked of old times and oldfriends, and he talked about his wife and apologised for ababy—he was ridiculously young. The column moved off and werode together for a distance, and he told me a funny story abouta brigade-major, which I jotted down as I rode for futurereference. He did not finish the story, for he was called away totake his troop on ahead to reconnoitre the country.

The Boers were holding a position a few miles ahead, the usualsort of thing; a ridge, a farmhouse, and a donga,* and ittook two hours' fighting, and hard fighting, to turn them out.After the fight was over I went round with the ambulances tocollect the wounded. The first man I saw was H——, mypoor friend, a bullet through his heart, a smile on his lips, andeyes that stared blankly at the hot blue sky. And the word "war"always recalls that picture, and- the" story of the brigade-majorthat was never finished.

[* Donga (Afrikaans from Zulu)—aditch formed by the erosion of soil. The word means "bank, sideof a gully" in Zulu. Wikipedia. ]

And so now I tell you of another death, that you may see waras it is, not as you would wish to see it.

THE CHARGE

Nearly three weeks ago, on November 4, to be exact, two menwere arraigned before a military court at Johannesburg. For sometime past the burgher camps had been utilised by a certain classof burgher as convalescent homes for enervated burghers. Pleasantrest camps, where captured Boers might recover from the fatiguesincidental to campaigning, and where, having thoroughlyrecuperated, they might seize favourable opportunities forslipping back again to the commandoes. True, they were obliged totake the oath of neutrality if they wished to remain in thesecamps. If they did not so chose, they were deported.

It was in consequence of this practice that:—

"David Garnus Wernich and Hendnck Meyer,residing within the British lines in the burgher camp atJohannesburg, in the Transvaal, were charged with:

Firstly, High Treason, in that they, both or oneor other of them, and at various dates between the months of Julyand October 1901, (both months inclusive), did, at the saidburgher camp, incite and persuade by word of mouth certainsurrendered burghers residing at the said burner camp—thatis to say, among others, William Cornelius Mynhardt, JohannesJurgens Klopper, Hendrick Cornelius Nel, and Frederick Emil Metz,to leave the burgher camp and join the King's enemies;

Secondly, breaking the Oath of Neutrality, inthat they both or one or other of them, on the dates and at theplace mentioned in the first charge, having previously taken theoath of neutrality did incite and persuade by word of mouth,certain burghers, namely, the said burghers mentioned in thefirst charge, to leave the said burgher camp and join the King'senemies;

Thirdly, inciting to break the Oath ofNeutrality, in that they, both or one or other of them, and onthe dates and in the places mentioned in the foregoing charges,did incite and persuade, by word of mouth, certain burghers,namely, the said burghers , namely, the said burghers mentionedin the first charge, to leave the said burgher camp and join theKing's enemies."

Stripped of all the legal phraseology, they were charged withholding a pro-Boer meeting. The court found Wernich guilty on allcounts, Meyer on charges one and three, and the court havingclosed, the prisoners were led back to the cells. That was threeweeks ago, and neither man knew what his sentence was to be.

MERCIFUL SWIFTNESS

Yesterday morning Wernich knew. A raw morning and no sign yetof the dawn. A terrific storm had passed over Johannesburg theprevious night, and the thunder still rumbled on the hillsaround, and the lightning flared fitfully on the horizon. Hereand there a coated policeman, his rifle slung at his shoulder,paced the dead streets, casting an eve upwards for a stray starglittering through a momentary cloud break The streets silent,save for the grumbling thunder roll, every house lifeless, everywindow dark, and on the outskirts of the town the unquiet signallamps, blinking and winking from kopje to kopje. Then a clatterof hoofs from the direction of the fort, and a horseman gallopsthrough the town to the charge-office, Johannesburg's centralpolice station. He has a message to deliver, a sealed envelopefor the chief gaoler Then he wheels his horse, for he has anothererrand. This time it is a doctor to be roused. Then the horsemanrides back to the fort, and the iron-shod klip- klap growsfainter and dies away. Once more silence the streets ofJohannesburg.

Inside the charge-office the gaoler has broken the seal, andhas proceeded to Wernich's cell. A muffled figure with rifle andfixed bayonet steps on one side to allow the gaoler to pass intothe cell, and a man is wakened from his sleep to hear thesentence of the court.

"To be shot at sunrise."

The condemned man does not understand; he is still halfasleep. It may be only a bad dream. Then he realises and burstsinto tears.

To be shot at six, and already it is past three! He dresses,and the guard outside assemble to march him to the fort, theplace of execution. Dressed at last. Out into the deserted streetswings the little party.

Tramp, tramp, shuffle, shuffle; the prisoner is taking hislast walk.

Think of it This walk through the city of the dead, with nevera familiar face or the glint of pity from human eyes. Only theunpeopled streets and the silent houses and the pale herald ofdawn in the eastern sky. What a morning for thoughts! Littlewhite boats on a sunny sea; fat kine browsing on a golden ridge.Love and hope and the goodness of living. Then the fort and shutdoors behind, and the hours slip round faster than ever theyslipped before, and the minister's voice offering spiritualconsolation is a meaningless drone.

"Life everlasting——"

This is the life the poor wretch wants; and then he is ledoutside and blindfolded, and two gaolers lead him by the arm to achair. He cannot see what is happening; he only knows that hewill be killed very quickly and very soon. If his eyes wereunbandaged he would see that even as he is placed against thechair, and while yet the warders are at his elbows, ten menfacing him have raised their rifles to the present. Then,unassisted, he sits, and the warders spring clear.

His body does not touch the seat before the rifles crash.

THE ROCKS AHEAD
LORD MILNER'S DIFFICULT TASK

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), February 6,1902

JOHANNESBURG, Saturday, November 23, 1901

The war has gone on so long now that we have almost forgottenthe events that led up to the ultimatum, and quite forgotten theexact conditions that existed in Johannesburg in the days of thecrisis.

The relations of master to man, or capital to labour, and thereal feeling of the Uitlander population were generally crowdedout or over-clouded by the more pretentious or serious issues onwhich depended the position Great Britain should take in thefuture in South Africa. British supremacy in South Africa was theparamount issue, and the minor questions relating to theregulations of the many conflicting interests which go to themaking of internal politics in the Transvaal, or more properlyspeaking, in Johannesburg itself, were never factors in theestablishment of British rule, and as such never attained thepublio attention that such matters as the wording of the preambleof the 1881 Convention succeeded in attaining.

HEIGHT OF HIS POPULARITY

That there were questions quite as important to the man in thestreet of Johannesburg as the franchise, or, indeed, as thesuzerainty; that there were parties in Johannesburg as dissimilarin their views as are Tories and Nationalists cannot be doubted;and the fact that Lord Milner will have these questions to dealwith on the general return to the Rand is absolutely certain.

Lord Milner has now reached the zenith of his popularity, fornow it is that the people of South Africa, animated by a genuinepatriotism, take a broad Imperial view of his work. They view hiswork from a distance, and they can admire his splendid powers,because he is now, and, indeed, has been since he first arrivedin this country, grappling with the great national danger whichthey but imperfectly understood, yet understood sufficiently toappreciate. There will come a time when some immediate actionwill be called for by the exigencies of the case, and when hewill have to deal with questions which, outside the sphere ofhigh politics, present more complex aspects than has done thisgreat South African question of Briton versus Boer.

Questions demanding legislation which must necessarily affectadversely the many interests of the industrial community, and asnecessarily creating dissatisfaction amongst men who to-dayregard Lord Milner as an embodiment of every virtue. The wisecounsellor of to-day will, with a section of the population, bethe foolish, if indeed not criminal, counsellor of to-morrow. Thehonest, fair-minded arbitrator of to-day will be suspected to-morrow of bias and prejudice—the bias being in favour ofthe suspicious party's opponent. No concession to capital butwill be accompanied by a loss of confidence on the part oflabour; no attempt at the amelioration of the lot of thedemocracy which is not in some way offensive to theplutocrat.

PERPLEXITIES BEFORE HIM

The rocks before Lord Milner are many. It may be urged that inevery British possession under the sun the same conditionsobtain; that there is no Colonial Governor who did not have tocontend against similar difficulties. In the case of theTransvaal, however, it is quite different. There can be nocomparison made between South Africa and any other colony orcollection of colonies. Examine first causes, and appreciate thedifficulties of Lord Milner's position in the first days of hisrule.

The feeling that prevailed at the time of the Jameson Raidamong the Uitlander community was scarcely modified at the end of1899, and Lord Milner knew that the ambition of a great majorityof Uitlanders was less centred in the Transvaal becoming mergedinto the British Empire than that it should become an English-speaking republic. Such a republic could not but exercise a mostpernicious effect, and could scarcely help dominating affairs inthe Cape Colony to the detriment of purely British interests. Itis by no means uncertain that had the Uitlanders been left towork out their own salvation, on the death of President Kruger,something approaching a revolution, in which many of the Dutchwould have taken sides with the Uitlanders, would have beenwitnessed, and the balance of power been shifted from the headsof the retrogressive party into those of progressives, many ofwhom, as the "flag" incident of the Raid days testifies, were byno means anxious to see the Union Jack raised in the Transvaal.Here was a condition to start with which has no parallel in theworld. Then came the war and the exodus of the Uitlanders. Thewar dragged on, and two years and a quarter find that 80 per centof these people are still away from their homes, and the majorityof them dependent upon charity for their existence.

THE RUINED ELEMENT

It will probably be nearer three years, before all thesepeople can return, and what does that mean? It means that someforty to fifty thousand people who, three years ago, were incomparatively comfortable circ*mstances, will return beggared.Three years of idleness will have demoralised them; they willreturn full of bitter grievances—many unreasonable, if youlike—against those who have been the cause of theirenforced holiday. They will be subject for some years to a heavytaxation, and for some time will be ruled by a Crown Government,which form is always the most exasperating and most resented.

Added to this, these people who have been rusting for threeyears—eating their hearts out in the coast towns andgrowing old at the rate of one year in four months—will becalled upon to compete with the eager new- comer, who, withmountains of energy and not a little capital, has come out fromEngland or America to make his fortune. Other colonies, it istrue, have been under Crown Government for a considerable numberof years; but it must not be forgotten that no war preceded intheir cases, nor was there all the material to hand, not to saymachinery, for elective representation.

I shall never be surprised to learn that echoes ofdissatisfaction are reaching England regarding Lord Milner'sadministration, and that from quarters whose loyalty is abovesuspicion. Our great pro-Consul has done so much for theUitlander that the possibility of the Uitlander turning on himdoes not seem worth thinking on; but in spite of the seemingingratitude of the action, there are many excuses which may befound for the disaffected ones. That some dissatisfaction alreadyexists is certain, and that this will increase with the increaseof Johannesburg's population is more than likely.

BITTERNESS TO BE OVERCOME

In the first place, the refugee will return with the knowledgethat while he and his wife have been left to starve theGovernment has been pampering the families of our enemy, who isstill fighting against us. That is a good basis for everlastinggrievances. Public men will return to find that the Governmentwhich Lord Milner controls has forced upon it municipal reformscosting over a million of money, which has to be paid by peoplewho have had no voice in the appointment of the men who voted themoney. Property-holders will find laws and proclamations soambiguously worded—as, for instance, the now famous"beneficial occupation" clause—that can result in nothingbut endless litigation. It will be well to be prepared for somestrong expressions of public feeling which, while of only localsignificance, may be easily construed by Lord Milner's enemies asexpressions of mistrust in his greater policy. The question ofBriton and Boer vying peacefully together in the same country isless likely to cause the High Commissioner trouble than thequestion of Briton and Briton residing amicably in the samestreet.

It is during the next two years that Lord Milner will requireall the patience and strength that he has at his command, and allthe confidence and affection his countrymen can give him.

JOHANNESBURG OF TODAY
RETURN OF FIRST-CLASS REFUGEES

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), February 7,1902

JOHANNESBURG, November 28, 1901

Three decently-crowded streets and half a hundred desertedones—that is Johannesburg to-day.

Commissioner Street, Pritchard Street, Market Square, and thestreets adjacent are alive enough between nine in the morning andfive in the afternoon; rickshaw-boys with a rattle and jingletrot about in the white sunlight or seek shady and unfrequentedstreets for a quiet "loaf." Dilapidated cabs, many having theappearance of having been on commando, rattle through the unevenstreets. The tramway lines are almost hidden by the accumulationof dust and the overspread of macadam.

Johannesburg is only half awake. It is a dozing town, havingbad dreams—a town that, if it speaks at all, speaks in itssleep. A military town with mounted: orderlies and cyclistsinnumerable, and budding Rand riflemen, irreproachably dressed inPanama hats and carrying Lee-Enfield rifles.

A DESERTED CITY

In the middle of the day Johannesburg is deceptive. You seebusiness people hurrying backward and forward, You see a thronground the counters of the banks. You lunch at the club in acrowd. You take your place in a long queue at the censor'swindow, and you think Johannesburg is pretty full. After dinnerstroll out in the town and look for the crowd. The streets areempty, the windows are black, and dead, here and there apoliceman, here and there a solitary pedestrian, on the rank inMarket Square the gleam of a dozen cab lamps—Johannesburgis a place of great emptiness.

The man in the street has not yet returned. The people who goto make a crowd are still waiting their permits at the coast orare yet in England. The men you see hurrying about in thebroiling sun at midday are the heads of departments, who inordinary times could not leave their offices, but the clerks andthe messengers are still at the coast. The men who have yet toreturn—and they will soon—are they who have no moneyto bank, no telegrams to send, who lunch cheaper than at the RandClub.

Take a stroll through the suburbs; visit Doornfontein,Fordsburg, Braamfontein. If Johannesburg is a city half asleep,these suburbs are dead. Here and there a house is inhabited, butmost of them are shuttered, blinded, and barricaded in the mannerin which they were left by their tenants. Weeds dominate thegardens, dust covers the windows and lies inches thick in thecorners of verandahs. The roads are worn and uneven, thesidewalks are painful to walk upon, and at all hours, day ornight, a deathly stillness reigns.

THE FIVE-SHILLING PEOPLE

Go to the poorer parts of Johannesburg, homes of the poorwhites. Sordid and wretched at the best of times, they aredilapidation itself to-day. Rough planks torn from old packing-cases nailed with crude workmanship across grimywindows—Heaven alone knows what the poverty-stricken ownersfeared to lose from their hovels. Battered lengths and half-lengths of galvanised iron serving the same purpose, and acrosseach improvised shutter, be it wood or iron, the tatteredremnants of some alluring placard demanding in uproarious red orthreatening black, and in letters six inches long, recruits forevery irregular corps in the field, from Kitchener's FightingScouts to the Rand Rifles. Sometimes it is an advertisem*nt of anentertainment, but these are few and far between. There is aflaring poster on the hoarding opposite my hotel which tells thatfor sweet charity's sake Dr Gerald Grace, own nephew to "W.G.,"*will give an entertainment to-night at the Masonic Hall. Theseats are five shillings and the booking is enormous. It is thefive-shilling people who are back on the Rand. There is anotherconcert next week at ten shillings a seat, and the booking isbrisk. One of these days the people who do not rise above ashilling will come back, and then Johannesburg will berepopulated.

[* "W.G."—the famous English cricket-player William Gilbert Grace (1848-1915).]

I went for a walk this morning around the slums. Through longstreets of ugly one-storied shanties, with a storekeeper at onecorner and a Peruvian at the other. Through lanes of filthy,crazy dwellings, leaning against each other for support, boastingof one window and one door, all religiously boarded up where notoccupied, and all giving the idea that a small boy with a tack-hammer could knock them to pieces. Past hideous erections on the"model" plan, empty most of them—dirty blinds behind grimywindows, and silence in the stifling little courtyard. Thecaretaker, an Italian, offered me a room at £6 a month, andwas visibly depressed when I declined his offer.

ABSENT AND PRESENT

From the deserted slums I sought the quarter where I wasinformed dwelt in time of peace the artisan. There were tinycottages, weather-worn and soiled-looking, with a slip of tangledgarden in front, and just a bit of verandah. Some there were withwhite curtains and men and women moving about in front, butmostly they were poor, soulless things looking miserable andforlorn. Evidently the Maker of Things is still absent, and so,too, is the small shopkeeper who supplies his needs, for thecorner shops were mere hoardings for the local Willing.

From the home of the toiler to Johannesburg'sBelgravia—broad avenues, tree-shaded, and glimpses of red-brick houses through the trees. Houses that stand back from theroad in aggressive modesty. Establishments rising storey uponstorey, with wings flung left and right—houses withcarriage- drives and servants' entrances. Houses of red and whitestone, polished windows and snowy curtains and glitteringbrasses. The little roadways that lead through ornate iron gatesto the noble portals, these are clean and well-swept, for theowner has returned. By night the soft glow of electric lamps andthe glitter of silver and glass—the owner is giving adinner-party, perchance to celebrate his return to the Rand,lucky man that he is! It is a pleasure to walk round this suburb,to see these mansions so beautiful and chaste and refreshing. Tothink on these evidences of wealth and luxury, to note the trimgardens and the well-stocked conservatories, the tennis-courtsand the croquet lawns, and it is with a feeling of pleasure thatyou remember that the owner is not being kept from his beautifulhome by the unpleasant but necessary restrictions of the CivilPermit Office. We are not doing business in Johannesburg thesedays, there is no business to do, and yet there are quite anumber of people here, and two hundred families are returningweekly.

WHEN THE THIRD-CLASS COMES

Go to the tea-rooms at five o'clock. The place is crowded, andyou will scarcely get a seat. A rustling of skirts, a babel oftalk, flushed waitresses hurrying to and fro, a string-bandhidden somewhere in the fernery playing "Florodora." Manyofficers, a few ladies, and a sprinkling of civilians.

Leave the tea house, walk down Pritchard Street, cross theMarket Square, and through the chains to the Stock Exchange. Nota soul here. The offices are boarded up, the saloons closed, andthe asphalted roadway knobbly and uneven. Business, realbusiness, the business that Johannesburg knows and liveson— this is dead. But the refugees will return soon, andthe streets will fill and the town will hum, and between thechains will only be less in its animation than ThrogmortonStreet. The great wheel of useful life that sways now feebly toand fro will turn again, albeit for a time creakily.

It is nearly time the Cape train was in: let us go down andmeet it. Here it is— punctual to the minute. Here are somepassengers whose faces you will know if you are an oldJohannesburger. Mr A——, the head of the great firm ofA—— B—- and Co., Mr F——, thefinancier, Mr G—— , the great stockbroker. Familiarfaces all of them. Yes, the return to the Rand has started; therefugees are returning— the first-class carriages are allfull. They are acquisitions to the community, these first-classfolk, but Johannesburg will doze, will sleep, will languish,until the third-class carriages discharge their load.

CHRISTMAS DAY ON THE VELDT

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), February 10,1902

DINNER IN THE BLOCKHOUSES

A Merry Christmas to you, my good friend, whoever you be. Onbehalf of the Army—let me arrogate to myself the positionof spokesman for the Army—on behalf of the Army I wish youthe best and the happiest of Yuletides. I cannot send you aChristmas card, so I send you this.

It is turkey and round of beef and plum-pudding and mince-piefor you to-day. It is festoons of paper chains and laurel andholly and mistletoe and music and laughter. Waits at yourdoors—"God rest ye, merry gentlemen." Perhaps skating,possibly snow; certainly fog.

There are Christmas Days and Christmas Days. There isChristmas in the country, with the hard field a-glitter withhoarfrost and the little church smothered in frosty ivy, and thelittle "nippers" in thick boots clattering up the aisle. There isChristmas in town, with the unhappy West being bored to death andthe joyous East with little Christmas-trees in parlour windows,the smell of cooking travelling up the passage and into thestreet, and the impatient knot of children with jugs and men withthirsts waiting at the corner pub for one o'clock. And there isChristmas on the veldt.

THE PICTURE FAR AWAY

Turn up the gas, snuggle closer to the fire, and imagine us,the Army. Imagine first a great plain; imagine dozens of greatstone heaps sparsely covered with bush. On the horizon a long,blue, jagged strip of cloud. It is not cloud at all, as a matterof fact, but it looks like cloud; in reality it is a range ofmountains. The plain would be green if it could, only the red oldearth wears through, and shows itself in patches, and mottles thegreen untidily. Pick up a stone, there are plenty lying about.You drop it again quickly, and stare at the angry red scorch onyour hand. Yes, it is very hot, and you have been transported soquickly from smoky, dingy old London that you blink and wink andshade your eyes from the strong white sunlight. It is light thatfills all space and searches every fissure. A light that turnsthe sky brazen and chases the blue from the very horizon. It is alight which blisters the paint of the blockhouse on the top ofthe hill, and makes the men who lie on the-shady side of thelittle iron building pant again.

To-day has been, an uneventful day for them, judging by ouridea of what goes to make art interesting day: to them it hasbeen a red-letter day. It is Christmas, and my friend Smithy, wholooks the hottest of the sprawling six, will tell you he hasquite enjoyed himself. What sort of a day have they had, thesem*n? This morning—this very morning that you read yourDaily Mail, and long before you dreamt of getting up, if,indeed, it was not before you went to bed —a form creepsthrough the little door of the blockhouse and gently shakes oneof the sleepers within.

GOOD WISHES BY HELIOGRAPH

"Nearly dawn, corporal," he says. The sleeper awakes and rubshis eyes and yawns and stretches his arms, and throwing off theone thin blanket that covers him, he rises to his feet and wakesthe others; one by one they rise, slip on their coats, buckletheir belts, sling their bandoliers, and creep through the holein the wall to join their comrade outside. The stars stilltwinkle overhead, and the plain below is very quiet. Eastward thedawn is coming, and the tiny garrison stand rifle in hand,waiting for the Boer that comes with the dawn. Not in thisblockhouse alone air tired eyes watching the dawn. A thousandyards away is another blockhouse, and another half a dozenwatchers. Farther along another, east and west, north and south,the men of 2,000 blockhouses await the day, looking eastwardsuspiciously. Then the east changes from dead white to primrose,and from primrose to blush rose, and then golden, and then upsprang the first dazzling rays of light like the sticks of a fan.Then comes the sun, the pitiless, grilling, triumphant sun,brushing away the shadows and filling the empty veldt with life.The garrison piles its arms arid proceeds with its ablutions.

Suddenly from the edge of the horizon northward comesdiversion. An irregular star-light splash of light quivers for amoment and is gone. Then it comes again and goes as quickly. Thanit quivers and dances and twinkles jerkily. The corporal produceshis note-book and jots down the message as one of the men readsit off.

"W-i-s-h a-l-l r-e-g-i-in-e-n-t M-e-r-r-y C-h-r-i-s-t-in-a-s."

It is from the headquarters of the regiment holding theblockhouse line hereabouts. The helio dances merrily, and anotherof its kind, living on the top of a flat-topped mountain tenmiles south, makes haste to return the compliment. Greetingsflash from hill to hill. They are short and condensed, for thereare messages other than complimentary to follow.

"One of my men sniped last night while patrolling line, diedduring night; buried this morning "—thus flickers thesouthern helio.

"I wonder who that is," says one of the men of our blockhouse."I know two chaps in No. 81 "—blockhouses are numbered.

A PUDDING FROM HOME

A helio in the west has sprung to life.

"A merry Christmas, and keep your eyes open. Small party Boersslipped past here last night; making your way."

This news does not interfere with the breakfasts of thegarrison. Coffee, biscuits and jam, and a tin of tongue. Thecoffee isn't bad, the biscuits are more than tough, the jam isdistinctly good, but who in the name of the unnameable openedthis 'ere potted tongue last might? Ten reproachful eyes look onSmithy, and Smithy prepares to take an oath of exceptionableforce that he never set eyes on no blooming potted tongue, but hewas ignorant of its presence in the blockhouse. Five peopleremember that Smithy was complaining last night of a greathunger; five people distinctly recollect that Smithy hadsuggested that the tongue should be opened for supper; fivescornful voices give Smithy the lie direct with five varieties ofadjectives. Smithy is indignant, injured, frank, and penitent byturns. Confesses to feeling hungry in the night, pleads Christmastime as an excuse and a justification, says he'll make up theloss at the earliest opportunity, and throws himself on the mercyof the court. It is Christmas Day, so there are nowranglings.

In the little box that serves as a pantry is a Christmaspudding, which the good people of England have sent out; there isa prime cut of beef, which the Cold Storage Manager has arrangedfor; there are vegetables, and a pint of beer a man—it camelast might on a gangers' trolley; and there are letters andpapers to be read—they came last might, too.

Phew! but it's hot. The blockhouse smells of warm paint andwarm food and old clothes. There is a fire in the tiny kitchendug-out, white smoke rises straightly, no breath of air moves onthe veldt, and the light of the fire is made nothing by the lightof the sun that beats down from the white-hot sky.

SEASONABLE VISITORS

"There's someone riding over the ridge, corporal."

This from the sentry who has sighted the stranger. Thecorporal applies his glasses.

"Three of 'em," he says, "in khaki; might be our chaps andmight be Boers. Keep under cover you fellers; shove a round inyour rifle, sentry—can't be too careful."

The horsem*n drew nearer. They have feathers in their broad-brimmed hats, that the corporal can see.

"Scallywags," he murmurs, "or Boers."

Do you observe how suspicious Atkins has grown—do younote Atkins's definition of an irregular corps? Nearer they draw,their rifles in the buckets at their side. They are talking andlaughing; you can hear that plainly. The one of them waves hishand, and a long "Coo-e-e-e!" wails across the plain.

"Bushmen," says the corporal, closing his binoculars. "Allright, sentry, give 'em a shout. Atkins does not "cooee," but hehas got a good pair of lungs, and "What ho!" roared lustilycarries a considerable distance. They ride to the hill on whichthe blockhouse is perched, and stumbling up the boulder-strewnslope, their horses picking a way, now slipping, now jumping, nowwalking, till the little party reach the barbed-wireentanglements and dismount.

"A merry Christmas to you, corporal."

"Same to you, co*cky. You've just came in time for dinner."

An hour or so later they sit down to dinner. A blanket isspread on the concrete floor, the meat is carved, the potatoesare served, the pudding is cut, the beer is divided, and Smithythe irrepressible proposes a toast—"The King, God blesshim!" I wonder how many blockhouses to-day will ring with thatanthem?

There is only another toast, and the Australian proposesit—"The folks at home"; in other words, my friends, at thisvery moment, or, say, at one o'clock to-day, thousands of tincups will be raised—to you.

THE ART OF CONSPIRACY

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), February 27,1902

KILLED BY THE SPREAD OF EDUCATION

JOHANNESBURG, November 29, 1901

The history of the plain prosy historian is never asinteresting or acceptable as the history of the novelist.Harrison. Ainsworth could give points to Macaulay, and the GuyFaux* of novel and, ballad is a considerable advance on the GuyFaux that the historian has pictured.

[* Guy Faux—usually spelt "GuyFawkes." Wallace presumably chose the historical spelling for itsimplications of falsehood and treachery. ]

I cite Guy Faux because he is one of the best known charactersof English history, the most famous of conspirators. We have madelittle headway in the conspiracy business since the days of thatgentleman. We never conspire nowadays without writing to somebodyand telling him all about it. In South Africa this isparticularly noticeable. The chivalry of Mr Faux that promptedhim to give warning to one of those gentlemen who would otherwisehave been a victim led to hid undoing; and the few painfulscrawls that saved his friends brought the chivalrous one to thestake. Conspiracy has never flourished since people learnt towrite.

DEATH IN THE INK BOTTLE

Last Tuesday week, while hurrying to my quarters in thedriving rain I heard two shots fired in rapid succession. Thencame a woman's scream and the sound of men running.

A friendly policeman at the corner of the street supplied mewith the explanation. A conspiracy has been discovered, and thepolice were engaged in making arrests. I have heard no more aboutthe conspiracy, so I presume it is being dealt with quietly. I donot know exactly how many conspiracies this makes which have beenunearthed in Pretoria or in Johannesburg. About seven, I think.As far as I know, the Criminal Investigation Department havediscovered none. The conspirators have discovered themselves.However subtle the conspirator, however close-mouthed he is,whatever secret signs and antics he indulges in when he meets abrother conspirator, give that man a clean sheet of paper and a"J" nib, and he will start discovering his plot to the world atthe rate of five folios a day. Who dares to question the wisdomof free education? What warped mind sees in the Board school aforcing house for criminals? Education is rapidly making somecrimes impossible; the crime of conspiracy is one. Pothooks andhangers have rendered more service to the Criminal InvestigationDepartment than the best detective who has ever strolled throughWhitechapel in plain clothes and policemen's boots.

This new conspiracy of ours was discovered in Botha's laagerthat time he departed hurriedly, leaving his hat and his revolverbehind him. That there was a conspiracy in Johannesburg there canbe no doubt. Well under the noses of the Criminal InvestigationDepartment a plot had been hatched, and a great scheme had beenperfected, and nobody was any the wiser. It was a pretty littleplot, and comprehended not only the delivery of Johannesburg intothe hands of the Boers, but a wholesale shooting of Rand Rifleofficers and the execution of certain public officials who werein some degree obnoxious to the promoters. So clever was thewhole, thing, and so pleased were they with their ingenuity, thatthey there and then sat down and wrote and told Botha all aboutit.

WRITTEN WORDS REMAIN

They were charmingly frank; they told the Boer general whatthey intended to do, and they proposed to do it, and give hintfull particulars regarding the names of the conspirators and alist of the condemned officials. Botha, presumably got theletter, and we can only guess at the satisfaction he got out ofits perusal. Some time afterwards a small British force swoopeddown on the farm in which Botha had been staying, and theCommandant-General left hurriedly, leaving behind him, as I havesaid, and as you must know, for they have passed into historywith Mr Steyn's trousers, his hat and his revolver. Also hisprivate papers. And among them one of the ingenuous epistlesindited by the conspirators. It was not a very important letter,however, except in so far as it betrayed its writer. The policeof Johannesburg were communicated with and the writer of theletter was arrested, and his house searched. What was found?What, but letters from other conspirators—I feel almostinclined to put conspirators in inverted commas— and notonly these, but the lists referred to and the names of all thoseimplicated in the plot. So there was a general arrest, and thosepeople who cannot plot without a dictionary, or scheme without astylographic pen are lodged at the Charge Office.

It is all very silly, but it is all very dangerous. The humourof the thing does not detract from the serious character of thecrime. I was never so much amused as I was by the delicate humourof a lunatic who was once under my charge; but one night when Iwent to visit him he chased me up the ward with a poker, all thetime shouting the funniest of japes—and I never appreciatedhis humour after that. Broeksma wrote letters, dangerous letters,letters that brought him to his death. He knew how dangerous theywere, and left them unsigned, or else adopted a fictitious name.He took every precaution to keep the thing quiet; he quiteexpected to be raided by the police, and yet he kept copies ofall his correspondence in an unlocked drawer! Show me aconspirator, and I will show you a fool. The fool element hasentered into all these conspiracies. The plot to blow up LordRoberts. The plot to kidnap the Commander-in-Chief. In the lattercase Cordura apparently discussed the matter as freely as you andI would discuss the theatre we proposed spending Boxing Nightat.

HOW BROEKSMA WAS CAUGHT

The conspirators have eliminated the romance from their plots.There is nothing of the secret stab, the midnight outrage, thedeath that comes from nowhere. They have touched nothing deeperthan the ridiculous. They are clowns juggling with death.

One of the most interesting stories I have heard is the storyof how Broeksma was detected. Broeksma was known to have beenbitterly anti-English, but he was not suspected of treachery.Some time before Broeksma's arrest, the Kaffir "boy" of one ofthe men implicated, a well-known doctor of Johannesburg, appliedto the pass officer for a permit to visit outside the lines,saving that his master wanted him to go on an errand. The passofficer, knowing the doctor, gave the boy the necessary permit,and then later, wondering whether the doctor really did want theboy to go, or whether the boy had merely lied to get the pass, heresolved to call on the doctor and ascertain for himself. Hecalled, and found the doctor at home. No, he bad not told the boyto get the pass; in fact, he knew nothing about it. The passofficer asked to see the boy and was taken into the kitchen.Questioned, the boy first denied that it was he who called, andthen denied that he had said the permit was for his master'serrand. Cautioned, he became first impertinent and then violent,and was promptly knocked down by the pass officer after he hadattempted to throw a pot of boiling rice at the officer's head.Assistance was procured and the boy was arrested. At the policecourt, the doctor tried to get the boy acquitted, but he was sentto prison for a month. The boy must have been some sort of agentof Broeksma's, on whose service he was probably bound when heprocured the pass. This the doctor knew— he has since beendeported—and it was this that made him so anxious to obtainthe boy's release. You must not sell a Kaffir or desert him indistress if he knows anything to your discredit; and while ingaol the boy informed on Broeksma, with the result thatBroeksma's house was raided and his seditious pamphlets andcorrespondence found.

THE CONCENTRATION CAMPS—A JUSTIFICATION

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), March 8,1902

THE REPORT OF THE LADIES' COMMISSION
PRO-BOER EXAGGERATIONS

The Ladies' Commission, appointed at the instance of MissHobhouse, has gone Home via Zanzibar and Suez, and from sourcesother than the Commission itself I learn (writes Mr EdgarWallace, the Pretoria correspondent of the Daily Mail)that it is very well satisfied with the condition of the campsgenerally, and that such recommendations as it has been pleasedto make will be acted on immediately and before the publicationof its report. The Commission has been careful to inquire intothe specific charges laid against the British troops by MissHobhouse, and was quite prepared to endorse any of MissHobhouse's recommendations if the necessity of the casedemanded.

THE RECOMMENDATIONS

The following are the recommendations which the Commissionshows most inclination to endorse:—

1. That such inhabitants of concentration camps should beallowed to leave as

(a) Have friends and relatives in the Cape Colony, providingsuch are not military suspects or have been convicted of hightreason or any breach of Martial Law regulations.

(b) Have means to support themselves at any seaport bases.

(c) Are separated from their children; in this caseopportunity will be given them to rejoin their families and liveaway from the concentration camps, subject to conditions (a) and(b).

2. Equality of treatment, whether the men of the family arefighting, imprisoned, dead, or surrendered, as recommended byMiss Hobhouse, has generally been meted out to the people of thecamps. The Commission has found, however, that the greatestdistinction is made by the Boer women themselves, the families ofthe men still fighting or captured in the field having a profoundcontempt for the "handsuppers," or the men who have voluntarilysurrendered, which dislike is extended to the men's families, andindeed is often the cause of internal dissension.

3. The appointment of a resident or visiting minister havingaccess to the camp at all times has the approval of theCommission. As far as possible such appointments were made at thetime of the formation of the camps, and very soon after they gotinto working order every effort was made to fill upvacancies.

4. The suggestion of Miss Hobhouse which has received mostsupport from the members of the Commission is No.7 of herrecommendations forwarded to the War Office at the suggestion ofthe Secretary of State for War. This was to the effect that"considering the congested state of the line, and the great lackof fuel, any new camp formed would be in a healthy spot in CapeColony, nearer supplies and charitable aid." Few new "camps" havebeen formed since the arrival of the Commission in the country,but the Commission has endorsed Miss Hobhouse's recommendationsup to this point, that camps should be reduced as far aspossible, and that the removal of the refugees to places nearerthe coast, and within easier reach of the supply base, should becarried into effect. It was ever a self-evident fact that everyprinciple of economy and expediency demanded the removal of theseconcentration camps to places nearer the sea, and just now themilitary are moving the people of the camps down the line at therate of several hundreds a day.

THE FINDING

Briefly, the following will be the finding Of theCommission:—

The camps were rendered necessary by the peculiar conditionsunder which warfare was being waged, and were formed for

(a) The protection of the families of surrendered burghersfrom the retaliatory measures threatened by Louis Botha.

(b) The protection of women and children from wanderingnatives.

(c) The distribution of food and creature comforts to peoplewho, by the denuding of the country of food, live stock, andgrain, rendered necessary by the exigencies of warfare, wouldotherwise have been left to starve.

SANITARY CONDITION OF CAMPS

The Commission found that generally the sanitary condition ofthe camps was good, and the mode of life in the camps, from anhygienic point of view, distinctly in advance or the normalconditions of life on the farm. With the object of verifyingstatements that had been made to this effect by authorities onthe subject, the Commission paid visits to farms, and, as far aspossible, typical residences of backveldt farmers, occasionallyremaining overnight. The Commission further enquired into theworking of the camps at the date of which Miss Hobhouse wrote,and is of opinion that, while undoubtedly the inmates of thecamps suffered inconveniences engendered by the unpreparedness ofthe military to accommodate the large number of women andchildren brought into the camps, the circ*mstances wereconsiderably exaggerated, and authentic cases of suffering werefew.

OF CHILDREN

Sentimentally, this was the most important question theCommission had to deal with, and the greatest difficulty it hadto contend with was the total absence of any reliable statisticsdealing with mortality returns previous to the outbreak of war.It is a well-known fact that the ignorant Boer had the greatestobjection to rendering any information to the Governmentregarding his private affairs. In consequence the old mortalityreturns were very unreliable, and, compared with those preparedwith conscientious accuracy by the medical officers in charge ofthe camps, they appear to be remarkably light.

The Commission is inclined to believe that while the infantmortality is undeniably heavy, and while it appears probable thatit has been slightly increased by an altered mode of living andthe strange conditions of camp life, yet a heavy infant mortalityis a feature of the Boer life.

I have merely sketched the outlines of the finding of theLadies' Commission, and have not attempted to go into suchdetails as the water supply of camps, the scarcity of fuel, theunsuitability of diet, etc. It will be found that theCommission— which need never have been appointed—hasreported favourably upon the conduct of the camps generally, andthat its recommendations are neither drastic norrevolutionary.

IN BLOCKHOUSE STREET

Reproduced from The Southland Times (New Zealand), March 12, 1902

Distance is without significance to the railway traveller inSouth Africa; time does not count. You reckon progress by mealseaten and meals due. You do this from the very start. Thus twohours' travelling means 44 miles accomplished, which equalssupper; 160 miles brings early morning coffee, 196 miles andbreakfast, 280 miles and lunch, 340 miles is afternoon tea, 420is dinner, 500 is De Aar and midnight coffee. We are 12 hourslate, however, and last night's coffee is to-day's lunch.

Once more it is "right away," and De Aar, sweltering and a-quiver in the heated air, lies behind, as turning sharp to theleft the train passes the first house in Blockhouse street. As acorner house it should by every right bear the sign "TheBlockhouse Arms," or the "Bandolier Inn." But it does not. It isa private house pure and simple. A very respectable house, too.Evidently, a sort of bachelors' bungalow, for four or five nicequiet-looking young men are standing at the front gate. One ofthem has a gun in his hand -probably a sportsman of sorts. Thelittle house painted a sober buff stands in its own neat grounds.There are no flowers, and the fence which encircles the plot isof barbed wire, and would be, I should say, a considerable dangerto the strange wayfarer, for it seems almost impossible toapproach the house without failing over or entangling oneselfwith not only the four-foot fence but a confused tangle of wirewhich has been carelessly left by the builders, and which almostentirely encircles the house.

The squat, hexagonal bungalow is evidently a well-ventilatedbuilding, for all round it and at the height of a man's eye thereare little oblong slits, in all about 16. This is the first ofthe houses, and at first you think it is standing in a verylonely position, entirely apart from all structural fellows. Evenas the thought strikes you, you observe yet another building of asimilar colour a little further down the line.

In a minute or so the train brings you to it, and you see thatit is exactly like that which you have passed. Barbed fence, buffbuilding, loop-holes, and water tank exactly the same. Also,there are the same six young men—or six remarkably likethose you have left behind at the last house. Also, one of themhas a gun. You wave a passing salute and chuck out a few paperswhich the quiet young men scramble for, and throw your eye aheadto see if there are any more of these desirable residence insight. Yes, there is another, perched this time on a littlekopje, the base of which the line skirts. A thousand yards andyou are abreast of it. Same house, same fence, same grave youngmen waving their hands solemnly, same quickening to life as ahandful of papers sprawls earthward.

Then you realise that you are in a street—a street ofhouses, each a thousand yards distant from its neighbour, andeach monotonously alike one to the other, each with the samenumber of inmates. I do not notice till I have passed the thirdhouse that there is generally one grave young man attendingindustriously to something boiling on a fire. He is a greasy,grimy individual, and lifts off a lid gingerly and peersanxiously into the steaming contents. This is the cook of thehouse, and his kitchen is a hole in the ground. Nor did I noticetill I had passed some distance down the street that between eachhouse and the next ran a fence of barbed wire ten strands deep.Nor did I notice that at regular intervals along this fence wereplaced ingenious contrivances, which looked from the saloonwindow remarkably like spring guns. These were connected withdivers trip wires, and were evidently fixed with the idea ofgiving intruders who strayed across the railway line a very badtime.

Some of the little houses had names, Not, be it known, suchfanciful and meaningless things as "Fairlawn," or "The Elms," or"Linda Vista," but such suggestive titles as "Terror of theNight," and "Lonely Lodge," and "Bulldog Bungalow." And they arenot black-lettered on modest brass plate are these names, butpicked out on the blood-red veldt with stones as big as yourfist. For 70 miles we pass along this street, from De Aar toNaauwport.

Beyond that, northward to Pretoria, another street runs forseven hundred miles, eastward to Port Elizabeth for 270 miles,north-eastwards to Queenstown for 300 miles, from StormbergJunction to Springfontein, 100 miles, and each with itsblockhouse every thousand yards and its barbed wire fencebetween. From De Aar northward to Kimberley rune another street,from Elandsfontein to Klerksdorp runs another, from Pretoria toKomatipoort another, from Elandsfontein to Ladysmith yetanother.

This street we pass down now owes its origin to De Wet's CapeInvasion. It is the base of a square, the left side of which runsfrom De Aar to Orange River Station, the top side consisting of achain of blockhouses running from Orange River Station toNorvalspont—it really runs on to the Basutolandborder—the right side from Naauwpoort to Norvalspont. Toreturn to our street. Here is the typical string that keeps incheck the wandering commando; here is the thin electric thread onwhich are strung the dull squat beads, each od itself deadly tothe unsuspecting hand touching it. Blockhouse and fence, fenceand blockhouse.

Blockhouses sitting tightly on rocky spurs, blockhousessquinting over rocky ramparts. Some crouching in hollowdongas in a web of wire, like monstrous spiders waitingpatiently for burgher flies. Some open and unashamed in the fullglare of the pitiless sun by day or silhouetted against the starsby night. Some cunningly placed on kopje sides, so that youcannot tell from a distance which is kopje and which isblockhouse. Some hanging over the edge of the everlastingly dryriver, some within handshake distance of the lean red bridgesthat span it.

And before each the man with the gun. The man who brings hisrifle to the shoulder as the train spins past, and smiles like anangel when you throw him a paper.

To-night a commando may attempt to rush the little post. To-night rockets may rush skywards from a dozen blockhouses as acommando changes its direction, and the man with the gun and hisfriends who are catching flies inside may be fighting for theirvery lives. Perhaps not to-night—to-morrow—or thenext night—or never! That is the horror of it all, theconstant watching for the enemy who will not come. Everlastinglyon the alert for events that will not happen. Waiting, waiting,waiting, with a white-hot bowl of a sky overhead and a sizzling,shimmering, dancing, blistering desert around.

Blockhouse street is a street to remember in your prayers, adeadly, soul-destroying, damnably dull street of galvanised ironprisons, in each of which are six prisoners waiting forexecution.

A LITTLE OPERATION

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), April 3,1902

THE SKILL OF HOSPITAL 13

A SOUTH AFRICAN SKETCH

The doctor pulled up his horse, and with his whip indicatedthe lean black smokestack that towered above its grimy fellows,lifting its thin body high over entanglement of head-gear, greatuntidy heaps of slag, and the hundred-and-one staggering,sprawling, round-roofed buildings that go to justify a quotationin the daily share list.

"That is the tallest chimney in the country," he said proudly,"and the hospital's just the other side." There may or there maynot be occasion for inordinate pride in being even remotelyassociated with the highest chimney stack in South Africa. Thathis hospital is pitched on a goldfield, and that his tent-pegsfind other people's claim pegs reside side by side, and thatuntold wealth is beneath and about him, must naturally be asource of vague gratification to your Royal Army MedicalColonel.

It is, perhaps, somewhat of a drawback to be in command of ahospital numbered thirteen, but superstition does not flourish inthe dissecting-room, and ere the budding medico has learned todistinguish between scalpel and scapula, he spills salt withimpunity, and passes under ladders without a second thought. Theyare proud of their hospital, the staff of No. 13. They have someopinion of themselves and the little town they have won from theveldt. They have a drainage scheme that works; they have anelectric light installation with a dynamo driven by their ownsteam engine. All kinds of queer appliances for abolishing thedanger of infection. They have an operating theatre, which is apicture; an orderliness and a cleanliness which are verywonderful. An X-ray tent which is very dark, and a huge bull thatwanders round the outskirts of the hospital, who is reported tobe very mad. Perhaps it is unfair to credit No. 13 with, thebull; he rightly belongs to the mining company on whose groundthe hospital is pitched. I am going to the operating theatre.

THE OPERATING THEATRE

Come with me. Atkins, wounded in Benson's fight, is to beoperated, on. Atkins, whom I had met earlier in the day, is not alittle proud of the importance of the impending event.

Indeed, in thinking over the events the recording of which goto the making of this article, I am almost inclined to call it "AMatter of Pride." Atkins is a typical Atkins, not of the Kiplingtype, but truer still, the Pett-Ridge article—not that Mr.Pett-Ridge writes soldier stories—and his anxiety seemsmainly to secure bits of the things that the surgeons willextract from his arm in the course of their operations.

The operating theatre is a well-lighted room: windows allround and overhead, great glass irrigators on portable stands,glass tables with white porcelain bowls and trays and dishes.Silver-bright sterilisers, a cupboard, its half dozen shelvescovered with instruments, all neatly arranged and laid out tohand. Knives by the dozen; queer little saws that look likeknives, strange things like corkscrews, thin strips of steelweirdly suggestive of button-hooks, dainty little centre-bits,silver-mounted— altogether a pretty devilish sort of a kitfor the nerveless workmen who use it.

It will be a neat operation, this of Atkins. My friendBeachnut—that is not his name—is to be the operator,and the colonel holds a watching brief on behalf of Atkins. Alsothere are a few other younger officers who will assist on behalfof Atkins. All things being ready, the narrow, padded table thatstands in the centre of the room is prepared for the reception. Aglance round to see if all is right, and then comes the measuredtramp of men carrying something heavy.

The door opens, and Mr Atkins, reclining uneasily on astretcher, appears. Up the steps of the operatingtheatre—carefully—stretcher level and no jolting,please. No occasion for anxiety, for the men who handle thehandles of the machine—handles worn smooth from muchuse—have done this thing a hundred times before, and thereis no novelty in it all. Nothing calculated to produce tremulousawkwardness. Lift the stretcher on to the table—the padded,waterproof covered table. Now, hands beneath the body,, palmsuppermost, all together—lift. A swift hand withdraws thestretcher, and Atkins is on the table, a little nervous, a littleamused, and very uncertain of what is going- to happen next. Thebearers will withdraw. This they do, their stretcher now rolledand strapped, in accordance with I don't know how many printedregulations, and the door is closed.

SURGEON AND PATIENT

The operator smiles encouragingly at Atkins.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"I don't know, sir; pretty shaky. Will it hurt?"

The surgeon eyes the damaged arm, which, bandaged and splintedand pinned out of any resemblance to a human limb, lies acrossthe mans breast. He touches it gently, and lightly passes hishand over the bandages.

"Not a bit; you won't feel anything. You will have a littlechloroform, and it will be all over in a minute."

There is no sign of hurry anywhere. The other surgeons look onalmost apathetically. No show of theirs, thinks Atkins,brightening; they've only came to look on. Too many operators,the least sign of anxiety on their part, any business-likepreparation—all these are bad for the man on the table,Blessed with an imagination imperfectly matured, and measuringthe unknown against the standard of a very limited experience,too much activity in the operation room is apt to remind him of,let us say, a butcher's shop. And so everybody is more or lessapathetic, only one of the onlookers takes from a table a littlebottle half full of some crystal liquid, and toys with a nose-shaped arrangement of gauze.

"Let me see," he says reflectively, "you were in Rimington'sfight, were you not?"

"Benson's, sir," corrects the patient; keeping an apprehensiveeye on the bottle.

"Ah, yes, of course, Benson's. You were one of the gunnersthat stood to the guns,"—the patient nods—"you didvery well, naturally; the R.A. have done splendidly—thiswon't hurt you—I think I know some of your officers, andvery good chaps they are. Just breathe naturally and draw as muchof this stuff into your lungs as you can."

The sickening smell of "this stuff" fills the room as thelittle bottle drips, drips, drips on to the inhaler held justover the man's nose and mouth.

"You must have had a bad time—you need not answer me,only just breathe—a very bad time; but that's all over now,and we shall have you as right as a trivet—take a deepbreath, don't be afraid—we shall have you as right as atrivet in a minute or two."

Atkins breathes long and deep; now his breathing ceases for asecond or so, but the hand of the surgeon presses heavily on thebreast, and the respiration is resumed. Drip, drip, drip, andAtkins's eyes are half closed, and Atkins begins in a half-mumbling, half-sleepy tone to complain to his girl of herremissness in writing. She had promised to write every week, andhe hadn't heard for a month. Pretty fine girl she was. "Well,anyhow," he grumbles on, in the tone of a man talking in hissleep, with now and then a loud and angry word dying down to anunintelligible mumble—well, anyhow, let bygones be...mumble, mumble, mumble... Woolwich or Charlton... mumble,mumble...

MANIPULATING THE STRINGS OF LIFE

Where are the apathetic young surgeons who had been taking abored sort of half-interest in the proceedings? Their coats areoff; their sleeves are rolled back, and the operator himself, mybrown-eyed major, stands before the instrument cupboard selectingquaint-shaped things of steel and silver. No apathy now. Thesem*n are alert and quick, and cunning of hand. Here they are, whatthey really are—delicate manipulators of the strings oflife. Something glitters at the man's arm. Snip! The blue gauzebandages fall apart. A pair of forceps. The dressing is droppedinto a bucket, and the man's arm lies bare. There is nothing tosicken, nothing to offend. A bruised arm, somewhat inflamed, anda little red hole where the bullet went. On the inner side of thearm the wound is larger.

"Where's the photograph, Hime?"

The photograph is placed on the side table, and four headsbend over it. It looks a very unsatisfactory sort of photographif the truth must be told. It looks lake the badily-printedpicture of an amateur's first landscape. It looks like a time-exposure photograph of a moving object. Hold it one way and it isa landscape with a misty kopje in the background. Hold it anotherand it is a falling chimney. Look into it, and it is the X-rayprint of a badly shattered arm, with little specks of bone inplaces where any anatomical student will tell you no bone oughtto be. Knives and forceps and sponges. Pretty little knives thathave surely strayed from my lady's manicure case. Bright littleforceps that would not be out of place on the "Marquis of——'s dressing table.

THE RETURN OF CONSCIOUSNESS

You need not watch the operation unless you care to, but it ismuch less terrible to watch than to think about. Not enoughlight. One of the surgeons leaves the table and touches a stringat the wall. A green blind that covers the skylight springsnoiselessly up, and you see everything. It is good to watch thesehands, probing, fingering, pressing. To see the busy littleforceps slipping in and out of the red wreckage, and each timetriumphantly and unfailingly reappearing with something that ismuch better outside. How quickly it is all done! Before you canget your thoughts consecutively marshalled the arm has beenfixed. Wires and needles and ugly little bull-dog forcepsclinging tightly. Then—"Sponge, orderly!" Then white wool,and pink wool, and blue bandages, and a quick cleaning up of whatthe lady novelist calls "tell-tale stains," and then,consciousness for Private Atkins.

Consciousness that comes gently, heralded by much bad languageaddressed to somebody at the Crystal Palace, who refuses to lethim. get into a first-class railway carriage. Open your eyes,Private Atkins, it is all over. The apathetic gentlemen have puton their coats again, and are even more apathetic than ever. Thewhite-haired colonel with the smiling red face is talking to you,Atkins. How rude of you to go on mumbling threats against thisfantastic enemy of yours—a phantom enemy conjured up by thecrystal fluid in the little bottle. Then Atkins recovers, and issurprised that it's all over, and the colonel wipes his hands andsays, "Come along and look over the hospital," for the colonel isvery proud of the hospital, as well he might be. As for me, I donot see that he need go outside his operating-room to findsubject matter for pride, if the possession of the best qualitiesof hand and eye and heart be such.

STORYETTES OF WAR
THE HUMOUROUS SIDE OF THE CAMPAIGN

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), April 17,1902

BLOEMFONTEIN, January 12, 1902

There are thousands of incidents of war which are not ofsufficient importance to cable, which do not fit in exactly inone's weekly letters, which do hot make in the slightest degreefor history, but which, nevertheless, have an interest peculiarlytheir own, which renders their exclusion from printed record asheer waste of good material.

There is nothing particularly lurid in these stories which Iwish to tell you here, and, indeed, this letter is less acollection of short stories than a lazy recalling of incidents ofwar that at the time struck me as being out of the ordinary.

For instance, I remember what seemed to me to be a remarkableexhibition of those powers with which the lamented SherlockHolmes made us familiar which was exhibited by the staff officerof one of the columns to which I had the good fortune to beattached.

STAFF OFFICER AS SHERLOCK HOLMES

We were hot after De Wet in the Gape Colony, and there seemedto be some doubt as to whether we were on the track of the mainbody, or whether the wily Boer had detached a small party to leadus off his track. Every farmhouse we passed told us the samestory—no Boers had passed as far as the owner knew.

It was a straight-forward answer given in every case; and thefact that the farmer's forage was in every case untouched gavesome sort of credence to the story. At last we came to a farm;and the staff officer rode up to the stoep and made the usualinquiry. No; no Boers had passed nor stopped at the farm. Thestaff officer picked up something from the ground and examined itfor a moment.

"Have you any peaches?" he asked at length. Yes, the farmerhad some peaches, and quickly produced some, very glad to be ofservice to the officer and happy to supply his needs.

"Do you have a good crop of peaches every year?" was the nextquestion.

"Not such a good crop." was the reply, the farmer by no meanssorry to get off the embarrassing question of the passage ofBoers and on to the less dangerous topic of horticulture.

"Do you eat many yourself?" was the next question. No, theywere all prepared for market.

TELL-TALE PEACH-STONES

The officer thought a while, then, said to the astonishedfarmer: "Last night a large body of Boers came to your house andasked for food. You had none, but you entertained them as well asyou could with the best you had to offer."

The farmer for a time protested innocence but eventuallyadmitted that something of the sort had occurred. Askedafterwards how he had arrived at the truth of the story, thestaff officer pointed to some over-ripe peaches which had beenhalf bitten through and thrown away, and to a perfect litter ofpeachstones in front of the farmer's stoep.

"I could see," he said, "that somebody had been having a royalfeast of peaches; an as the man said that neither he nor hisfamily ate the fruit, it was evident somebody else had, and agood many somebodies too. Look at these rotten peaches; nobodywould bite these except in the dark, so it is evident that thevisitors called after sundown. A man who derives a certain amountof his income from the sale of peaches does not usually offer anyamount to even his friends, and the inference is that the peacheswere given in place of some more substantial food demanded by thevisitors."

Equally successful, though the task was certainly far easier,was the attempt of an irreverent and junior subaltern who,lighting upon an old camping ground, saw in a dozen emptychampagne bottles and a few dozen pâté de foigras pots traces of a certain crack cavalry regiment, and inan abandoned chest-protector indication of a general staff.

KITCHENER STORIES

Naturally enough, Lord Kitchener is the centre of more thanone very good story. Asked by one of his staff whether he did notregard the mobile columns under his command as the backbone ofhis army, he replied laconically, "Yes, they are what one mightcall spinal columns."

Few people are aware of the extent to which Lord Kitchener"hustles" his own columns. No sooner does a column return fromtrek and report its arrival in town than a wire something likethe following arrives from the chief. "When will you be ready togo out again?" The following morning along comes another wire,"Why are you waiting?" followed a few hours afterwards by "Whyhave you not left?"

Then it is that the column commander, preferring the deadlysniper to the relentless man in Pretoria, hastens to get himselfout of range of the telegraph wire.

A short time ago a well-known cavalry regiment arrived at CapeTown and hastened to disembark. The disembarkation was carriedout successfully, and the regiment was quartered by nightfall atGreen Point Camp. Early the next morning came a "clear the line "message from "K." "I hope you are exercising your horses and men.I shall want you almost immediately." To this the commandingofficer replied,. "Propose exercising horses and men all daylong."

There was an interval of two hours, then "K.'s" second messagecame to hand: "What do you propose doing at night?"

WELL EXPRESSED

Another personality that figures perhaps in more stories thanany other soldier is General T——, whose vocabulary,extensive and peculiar, is the subject of many stories.

In the general advance towards Pretoria one of the mostpolished of our generals, I seeing a solitary horseman ridingabout under a heavy fire, sent an orderly to tell "that fool" toget under cover if he did not wish to be shot. The orderlyreturned with the information that he had delivered his message,and that the horseman had said many weird, things, among whichwas the intelligence that he was General T—— .

The polite general was pained that he had made the mistake,and asked the Orderly whether General T—— was muchoffended. "Much offended; sir!" said Atkins gleefully; "why, hetold me to go to ——, that is to say, sir, he saidyou were—well] to tell you the truth, sir, Icouldn't 'ave said it better meself!"

General T—— is a stickler for discipline, andduring his term of command in one of the big Free State towns, hegave strict orders that officers arriving at the station shouldreport themselves either personally to him, or to his staffofficer, or to his A.D.C.

His staff officer at the time was a gentleman by no meansfavoured of nature in the matter of good looks, added to which hewas a man of morose and taciturn disposition. The A.D.C. was agilded youth with a drawl and a vacant stare.

TRUE TO LIFE

There arrived in the town commanded by the general an officerof one of the Bushman Corps, rough of language and fearless ofgold lace.

It happened he was taking a morning liquor at the club whenthe general entered and was passing through the room in which theColonial stood, when he noticed that the Australian's face wasunfamiliar.

"Hi, you, sir," he roared, "who the devil are you?"

The Colonial rose and saluted. "Captain J——, sir,"he replied, "3rd Victorians."

"When did you arrive?" demanded the general.

"Yesterday, sir," was the reply.

"Why have you not reported yourself to me, sir?" demandedT——, adding a rider condemnatory to his listener'svisual organs.

The Colonial was riled. "I went to your office; you were notin, but I saw two officers."

"Who were they?"

"I don't know their names," said the Colonial.

"Describe them, then," said General T——."

"Well, said the Colonial desperately, for he had no gift oflanguage, "one was an ugly looking devil with a beastlytemper—"

Good," interrupted T——, "that's my staffofficer."

"And the other," continued the Australian, "was a silly ass ofa chap with an eyeglass."

"Right you are, my boy," said the satisfied general, "theidiot's my A.D.C. Sorry to have troubled you."

THE NIGHT OF THE DRIVE—IN A BLOCKHOUSE

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), April 26,1902

It was Smithy—Smithy who had been up to Wolverhoek withthe escort for a few tame burghers—who brought back thenews, and the blockhouse rejoiced thereat.

Smithy with his own eyes had seen it. First a puffing,clanking, rushing pilot engine slipping over the rise fromViljoen's Drift. A pilot engine hurrying desperately, and slowingonly that the grimy driver might clutch from the extended hand ofthe stationmaster his travelling orders. Then the pilot enginehad rumbled on, and in its wake came another smoky speck, alsovery much in a hurry. Not a pilot engine this, but a little trainwith guard's van, two saloons, some armoured trucks, and somevery important Highlanders scanning the horizon for hostileBoers.

A GLIMPSE OF "K."

And in one of the saloons, with pince-nez on nose and awicked-looking cigar bitten between square jaws, a man whomSmithy did not recognise, partly because his photographicpresentments are remarkably unlike, and partly because the viewwas fleeting. A man sitting before a table littered with papers,heavy-eyed, grey, forbidding, aged almost. A face difficult todescribe, except that it was a strong face, an inscrutable face.Smithy never saw him smile or Smithy would have been charmed, for"K." has a pleasing smile, a smile that has almost made me regretsix chapters of a monumental work of mine. Smithy did notrecognise him, but the obliging postmaster told him, and Smithybrought the news back to blockhouse on the other side ofHeilbron, and the blockhouse rejoiced, for the men, the commonmen, who do not analyse policies nor criticise methods, but onlyjust love a man for the sake of his manhood—to these peopleLord Kitchener's presence is very helpful.

So tonight—really last night—Smithy's five pals wevery happy in the belief that something was going to happen.Vague hints have come from Heilbron—whispers of greatmovements somewhere eastward of the rolling hills, of drivingcolumns, of 10,000 mounted beaters searching the cover, promisesof De Wet's capture and the destruction of his commando, have allhelped to stimulate an atmosphere already overcharged withexcitement; and now the great Lord K. himself has arrived tosuperintend.

IRON GIRDLE

No sleep for any of the blockhouse people to-night. The Boersmust on no account be allowed to pass through the blockhouselines, otherwise what is the use of Rawlinson with his twenty-five hundred men, and Rimington (tiger-skin, pugareed hat and redscarf knotted carelessly around neck, one can almost see the sun-scorched, wild-seamed face staring westward through thedarkness), and Elliott and Byng? They form a sixty-mile line, andmove so that the left flank of the one column touches the rightflank of the other; a slowly moving press slipping down the sidesof the blockhouse lines. Nothing can pass the driving columns byday. Nothing can break through the entrenched pickets by night.On the blockhouse lines must come the strain, and the blockhouseslearn this tonight, first from a few clearly expressed,uncompromising words from the man in the saloon carriage was upthe line, and them from Johnny Boer himself.

No sign of the enemy so far. The sun sinks, and the shadow ofthe little tin fort lies half way to Frankfort. No sign of Boers.It might be a sunset on the peaceful uplands of another land, sogolden and still is the land. The east is a steely blue, and adeeper blue, and a filmy grey, and a bluish black; and then, savefor a high floating strip of orange in the west and a star or sotwinkling weakly through.the nimbus, the world is dark. Thecorporal consults his watch by the aid of a lantern. Half-pasteight.

You are well into the first act by then, are you not? Thereare cabs dropping people at Prince's and picking up people at theCarlton, and there are late-comers treading on people's toes inDrury Lane. Very vexatious indeed. Smithy remembers a night hewas chucked out of the "Brit" over a trifling trouble arisingfrom such a matter. A six-foot navvy admonished for hiscarelessness had made improper references to the size of Smithy'sfeet. They are not very much in the humour for anecdote, thesehighly-strung friends of Smithy, and in the crude, homelyvernacular that obtains in the barrack-room, they intimate asmuch. Not that Smithy minds very much; he is not offended, andwould continue, but the corporal says two words, and my garrulousfriend is silent.

WAITING

Hours pass, and the night is black. If anything, the earth isblacker, and the difference between the two blacknesses is thedifference between a soot-bag and a velvet pall. Hours pass;sixty seconds make one minute; sixty minutes one hour; there arethree thousand six hundred seconds in an hour, and a second isquite a long time when you are waiting for something to happen.Twelve ö'clock now. Suppers, last trains and trim broughamsat stage-doors. Perhaps—

What is that?

From the west a long, thin, ribbon of white unrolls swiftly.Not a ribbon, either, but an unopened fan of rigid light. Now itmoves backward and forward. Now it sinks and sweeps, alongsomewhere out of sight, the silhouetted hillocks, their crests ina halo of light, alone giving indication of the beam's direction.An armoured train somewhere between Wolverhook and Kroonstad. Itssearchlight is playing on the great net into which De Wet isbeing driven. Then—

"THERE THEY ARE!"

Can you imagine a hum staccato? Or a short, chesty grunt? Thatis what it sounded like. Armoured train again, and this timeworking its quick-firing gun. See, the searching light is nowsteadfast. Domp! There goes the gun again, domp!and again, and yet and yet again, then silence and the lightgoes. Darkness once more on the veldt, but not for long. Quiteclose at hand from the Heilbron fort leaps one straight purpleflash, and then a bang that shakes the earth.

Now, blockhouse, it is your turn! There is nothing to fire at,but fire into the net. Crackle, crackle, crackle up and down theline. Flash, flash, flash at intervals of a thousand yards.Tonight is a Brocks benefit, a fireworks display of unprecedentedgrandeur, only the Boers have not come, apparently. Pray Heaven,says Smithy, in so many words that they have not gone in anotherdirection. There are some near at hand, for two miles away arocket sails slowly skyward and bursts. The Boers are at hand.Perhaps a commando, possibly a hundred, more likely fifty. Whoknows, it may be De Wet himself with the proverbial handful ofmen. The musketry fire crackles incessantly, and the naval gunbangs intermittently, but the blockhouses on either side of thefellow who sent up his warning rocket are looking carefully intothe night. Smithy's corporal gives few commands, but they aremuch to the point. Suddenly—

"There they are!"

A black, bulky mass is sweeping over the plain between theforts. On they come, forty or fifty of them, heedless of therifle fire, heedless of the rocket that hisses aloft, forgetfulof everything except that outside the line lies freedom. Oh themad, mad clatter of hoofs and the unswerving, blind dash on thethe wire entanglements! Crash! The tinkle and rattle of ironagainst iron. The fence is down, and so is many a man and horse,for the blockhouses fire steadily, and the stink of cordite fillsthe little chambers, and the wail of bullets fills the air! Bang!-And the big gun is dropping shells in the direction of thedesperate fugitives. They are over the fence and away; they aregalloping madly to cover again. They at least have got throughthe iron girdle, leaving a few behind by the broken fence wherethe squealing horses lie. Just a few; we shall pick them up andbury them with the respect and homage which gallant men deserveof gallant men.

PEACE FACTORS
THE JUSTIFICATION FOR A GENERALSURRENDER
THE BURGHERS' FEAR

Reproduced from The Poverty Bay Herald (New Zealand), May 5, 1902

Daily Mail, April 3, 1902

We print to-day an important despatch from Mr Edgar Wallacedealing with the situation created by the Boer peace overtures.Our war correspondent carefully abstains from exaggeratedoptimism, but, despite the natural note of caution in hisremarks, it is clear that there is, as the Daily Mail hasconsistently pointed out for some days past, ground for hopethat, with careful handling of the Boer susceptibilities, asatisfactory outcome of the negotiations may be arrived at. Wealso print the chief points on which the negotiations willprobably turn.

KROONSTAD (0.R.C.), Monday, March 31, 1902

The Boer peace delegates are still here, and the situation isunchanged. In the meantime our columns are working withundiminished energy, and the Boer negotiations have not resultedin the least relaxation in any quarter of the vigor with whichthe war is being prosecuted.

In continuation of my telegram from Johannesburg yesterday, Imay state that while it is by no means certain that the peacenegotiations are likely to terminate satisfactorily, yet thereare certain points which need urging in respect of a possiblesettlement.

Many of the conditions of surrender of earlier days are nowovershadowed by larger and more important considerations. It ispossible that the question of the amnesty of all rebels may provenot so important as such questions, for instance, as theestablishment of responsible government after the war, and ageneral surrender of the Boer troops now in the field maypossibly be retarded by fear on the part of the burghers, who arenaturally most suspicious, that Great Britain does not intend togrant to them equal eights with British-born subjects. Theburghers fear that Great Britain intends to make the Boers a sortof subject race. This fear, I think, will be a great factor ininfluencing the action of the commandoes in the field, and Ishould say that, should anything come from the presentnegotiations, a definite assurance from England, specificallystating the Boers' status after the war, will assist in clearingaway a great obstacle.

Added to this, it must be remembered that our terms are now,as ever, "unconditional surrender," and should the Boer chiefsfavour this view, they have still to justify themselves beforethe commandoes. The promise of an early restoration ofresponsible government would be sufficient justification. Thoseunaware of the Boer character will probably take such a promise,which is merely one we certainly intend to fulfil, to besuperfluous, but, however unnecessary the assurance may beconsidered at home, it is undoubtedly important here.

POINTS AT ISSUE

We believe the following are among the chief points on, whichany peace negotiations will turn:—

1. The approximate time which must elapse before therestoration of responsible government is possible.

2. The status of the Boers after the war.

3. The banishment proclamation.

4. The question of amnesty.

To these may be now added the following most importantone:—

Advances by the British Government for rebuilding andrestocking Boer farms.

THE BACKBONE OF THE ARMY

Reproduced from The Southland Times (New Zealand), May 27, 1902

Who has heard about the sergeant since the war started? Whohas remembered the "backbone of the Army" we once heard so muchabout? The sergeant is not an officer as you know officers; he isnot a Tommy Atkins in the strict sense of the word. He forms thebourgeoise of the army; he is the medium between the brain andthe hand, and possessed of both himself. Officially he is not thedirecting force; officially he does not work himself, butoversees the working of others. As a matter of fact, he moreoften directs than does his officer, and works just as hard, anda sight more conscientiously than the private. In barracks and athome he is the autocrat of the barrack-square; he is a well-brushed, clean-shaved, pipe-clayed individual who turns up onparade at seven in the morning as well groomed as though he weredressed for an evening party. The recruits who have been turnedout of their beds with reluctance, and are half asleep andunshaven—there is seldom an inspection on the early morningparade—eye him with wonder and suspicion, and speculate onthe hour the sergeant rises, for smartness on the early morningparade is to them an uncanny thing.

He is a person who inspects the barrack room before thearrival of the orderly officer. He is a person who inspects thecompany on parade before the arrival of the company officer: whochecks the kits of the men before the arrival of the commandingofficer; who stands for ever between the officer and the man. Tothe officer he is a superior private; to the men he is aninferior officer; to both he preserves an equability of temperand an evenness of treatment.

This is the ideal sergeant, and in no rank or department oflife does the subject keep closer to the ideal than in the caseof the non-commissioned officer of the British Army. Of coursethere are fools of sergeants, just as there are fools ofcommissioned officers, and idiots of privates, and—Heavenforgive us— blithering war correspondents. The exceptionis, however, to find a really incompetent N.C.O.; nor is this tobe wondered at, since, moving between the Scylla of the mess-roomand Charybdis of the barrack-room, he must needs steer a carefuland efficient course if he wishes to float to that pension whichis his best summer isle. To some extent the sergeant has sunk hisidentity since he has arrived in South Africa. In the first placehe wears no chevron on his arm, except in some cases when thechevron is khaki and unnoticeable. Carefully bound round theshoulder strap is that chevron, and you would pass nine out everyten sergeants you met with no other thought than, "That's a fine-looking, well-seasoned old soldier."

What has the non-commissioned officer done since he has beenin South Africa? Nothing, if one may judge by the reference tohis work that one can find in the daily press. And yet what hashe not done? Officers' work, leading, commanding, encouraging.Tommies' work, working, fighting, enduring. There has been nopiece of work, however fine, however noble, however heroic, thathas not been performed as well by Sergeant Somebody-or-other asit was by Captain Somebody-else. There has been no hardshipsplendidly borne and lightly dismissed by Tommy that has not beenas silently endured and as quickly forgotten by the sergeant.Quick to fill his fallen officer's place, as quick to step backinto the ranks to fill the gap rendered by the fallen Tommy;watchful, alert; now encouraging, now bantering, now judiciouslyswearing, he never fails to bring his men up to the scratch; themen unconscious of the influence he holds over them; his officersgenerally insensible to what they owe him for the discipline oftheir men.

In South Africa, to all appearances, there is no greaternonentity than the sergeant. In the first place, one seldom meetshim; in the second, one does not recognise him when met. Then,again he is thrown still further into the background by thelegion of officers engaged in the war. Every second man onemeets, whether it be in Johannesburg or in Capetown, or inPretoria, has stars or crown upon his shoulder cord, so that oneinsensibly gets to think about the sergeant as an ordinary Tommy,of the same class, and of the same military value. As a matter offact, this is quite an erroneous view to take. So far as theactual military value of the men is concerned we could very welldispense with the services of six officers of the type one meetsin the big cities for every one sergeant. One good sergeant, froma strict utilitarian aspect is worth forty newly-joinedsubalterns.

A distinguished Australian officer told me a few months agothat his ideal regiment was a corps of Australians, officered bygood sergeants of British infantry. "The men to officerAustralians," he said, "must be men who know their work, know howto command other men, be perfectly capable of maintainingdiscipline without irritating the men by adopting tin-goddishairs."

At no period of the campaign has the sergeant played a moreimportant part than at the present stage. For now it is that theblockhouse system is reaching a point of perfection, and thesergeant finds himself in as responsible a position as he hasever filled. The blockhouses are garrisoned as far as possible byas many Guards, Line and Militia battalions as can be spared fromthe actual striking or aggressive army, and with one battalionstrung out over thirty miles of railway, it is obviouslyimpossible for an officer to be left in charge of every post. Itdevolves, therefore, upon the sergeants to take command of theseposts, and "stripey," as they call him in the marines, takes uphis new position of commander-in-chief of No. 777 Blockhouse as amatter of course, and without any feeling that he is doinganything out of the ordinary. His responsibilities are heavy, hisduties the dreariest imaginable. If anything goes wrong, if aBoer commando cuts the barbed wire fence that connects hisblockhouse with the next, and succeeds in crossing the line heholds, he will be tried by court-martial, and in all probabilitybe reduced. Not being an officer, he cannot buttonhole hiscolonel and explain things away, and if he is tried—as hecertainly will be—the members of the court will be neitherhis mess-mates nor men of his caste. He will grind, endure, andsuffer; perhaps he will contract enteric fever and die; perhapshe will be shot to death by an enraged commando that has failedto force his line, and turns its attention and its Mausers on thelittla yellow pepper-box of a blockhouse.

Perhaps he will come through the campaign all right, and in ayear or two will be back on the depot square with white cottongloves and a pacing-stick, teaching recruits to look like men. Hewill be still plain Sergeant Somebody, unless his seniors aredead or discharged, and he will be neither D.S.O. nor C.M.G., nora brevet-colour-sergeant, or hold any of the glorious positionsthat his officer will hold, or wear any of the beautifuldecorations that his officer will wear. He expects nothing fromthe war—promotion, honour, or decoration. The song of thepoet shall not praise him—for what inspiration has poetever found in the bourgeoise? He does not expect the leader-writer to remember him, or the general to pick him out fordistinction when despatches come to be written. And yet oursergeant is so often the saviour of the situation; so often thesnatcher of victory; so often the man who did the thing. Acentury has passed, bringing many changes, upsetting many hoarytraditions, exploding many fat, comfortable theories. It has leftone tradition untouched—the sergeant is still the backboneof the British army.

HOME AGAIN—THE END OF A PERIOD

Reproduced from The Thames Star (New Zealand), September 20, 1902

Even as unrelenting fate, so does Smithy dog my footsteps. Ileave him at Heilbron guarding stores; and two days later hisstrident voice hails me somewhere between Potchefstroom andKlerksdorp with a demand for "'pipers." I was not surprised,therefore, on boarding the good ship Dunottar Castle todiscover the pensive Smithy—no longer a common soldier, butofficer's servant with right to wear mufti—holding-forth toa confrère on the blessings of home life ascompared with life on the veldt, Kitchener as a strategist, andDe Wet as a fighter.

"'Ome! Think of it, co*cky," said, Smithy, ecstatically, "nomore trek, no more biscuit an' beef, no more De Wettin', butbreakfast in bed, and a pub at every corner!"

ALL OF THEM HAPPY

There were 380 Smithies on board, not all as eloquent, as myfriend, but every man as happy. I watched them troop inboard fromthe vantage place of the upper deck. Tanned, hardened, wirylittle men, released from work, released from school—thathard, hard school where the art of taking cover and sleepingcomfortably in the rain is taught in the kindergarten stage. Andthey were going back to England. "Think of it!" To England, whereyou people live and work and play without ever thinking you aredoing wonderful things in a wonderful country. It was theirreward that they might be allowed to do and be what you aredoing, and what you have been unconscious of—your blessedprivileges.

There was a man on the quarterdeck in khaki, with heavy goldlacing on the peak of his cap. A nice, comfortable, handsomegentleman, a little inclined to stoutness. The Tommies on boarddid not know him because they had never served under him. Smithyknew him, and communicated the news to the troop deck, and fourdays out Smithy, acting as a sort of deputation, from "forrard,"waited on me with the question, "Is Charley Knox goin' to get abig reception at Southampton?"

I opined not, and Smithy was bitter. "'Cos 'e ain't made asong about what 'e's done like ——" said Smithy. Thegeneral officer he mentioned I would not for the world name.

DOESN'T ADVERTISE

"Can't you put something in the paper about 'im?" askedSmithy, almost tearfully, for the men who served under Knox arevery jealous for their general. I promised. Will you kindlyinsert this?

General Sir Chas. Knox, K.C.B., is the best ofour younger generals. He has won his way to the honors that havebeen bestowed upon him by courage, endurance, and high militaryqualities...

He doesn't care twopence for the buttering of newspapercorrespondents, and as the truth would sound like fulsomeflattery, I will refrain, my dear Smithy, from pursuing thesubject. Suffice that he captured more guns than any othergeneral, and never got his portrait into a biograph series. Therewere other men of the Knox stamp on board, and their occupationswere various. Capper, for instance. You know Capper, who floggedthe rebels back from the edge of Capetown. Capper spent his timein taking the sun with a sextant and working out impossiblelongitudes. Once, off Sierra Leone, he made the alarmingdiscovery that we were thirty miles inland!

THE OTHERS THERE

Then there was Ewart—Colonel in the Army and kindlygentleman wherever to be. Ewart in canvas slippers, doing nothingin particular; reading a little, talking a little, is not theEwart I saw in December 1899, bringing back the battered ranks ofthe Highland Brigade from Magersfontein, the man who that earlymorning groped blindly forward in the dark, lit only by thethreads of fire that darted from the Boers' front trenches andthe fitful summer lightnings behind the looming kopjes. Not theEwart that stumbled in the trenches seeking his dying chief whattime Wauchope fell among his Highlanders. A strange change thisfrom that horrible field, bleak, sodden, carpeted with writhingmen, stinking with cordite, and humming with bullets, to thisgraceful ship slipping so easily over the sunny seas.

Here is a man in pince-nez gravely bending over a chess-board.He was with Methuen at Tweebosch, and could tell you things aboutirregular cavalry. His opponent was a prisoner of De Wet, andlived on mealie pap for two months. He, at any rate, is not anenthusiastic pro-Boer.

Burly and bluff, a typical country gentleman, Spens revivesthe glory of Hampshire, cricket with am oakum ball on a 20ft.pitch. Private soldier and general officer, company officer andjunior subaltern, their work is done, and how well done!

"SOMETHING LIKE HOME"

It is home! A chilly enough morning, with low-lying land onthe port bow, and a yellow light glaring intermittently from aslip of land to starboard. A hundred snowy seagulls sailingplacidly in the wake of the ship—a feathery escort for thehomeward-bound warriors who flock to the side and to the fo'c'slehead for a glimpse of green. The engines slow and stop—adead stillness and then a shiver from bow to stern as they arereversed. A little boat dances over the grey waters, a littleboat with a yellow light, and a rope ladder drops over our side.A silence, and then again the beat of the propeller—thepilot is aboard. And so past the Needles, white and solemn in theearly light. The channel narrows, and half speed becomes quarterspeed. Houses on both banks and tiny yachts lying at anchor tilla bend brings in view a dozen l steam yachts lying bow to stern,and in the centre a black two-funnelled vessel of peculiar shape.A man-o'-war, squat and aloof. A black, flat mass of metalbrooding on the waters. In her shadow another ship. A largeyacht—black, too, with three masts. Three masts that flythree flags. We move abreast, and swing round to port. Down comesour ensign slowly—we are dipping a salute to the blackyacht. Through your glasses you see the flag she flies. It is theRoyal Standard, and Atkins gazes with reverence. Smithy touchesmy elbow. "This is something like home," he whispers, huskily."Good old England! I—I wonder how the King is?"

BACK FROM THE WAR
THE RETURN OF SMITHY

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), September 20,1902

I told Smithy I would call upon him as soon as I had got(settled in London, so on Sunday I went down Bow way.

It was unfortunate that I should arrive at five minutes afterone. Montague (this is Smithy's Christian name) had just thisvery minute gone out, said Smithy's mother, apologetically. Afriend had called to see him, and he had just stepped round thecorner. Oh, no—the fact that his departure had synchronisedwith the hour of the opening of the "Bear and Man" had absolutelynothing to do with it. Would I wait?

WHERE HE LIVES.

I would, and the door of the front parlour having beenunlocked, the blind drawn up, and an antimacassar removed, I wasleft to admire a cheap engraving of the Crucifixion, flanked oneither side by portraits of Smithy's ancestors— somewhatfaded about the clothing, but remarkably distinct about the handsand beards; while Smithy's little brother was despatched to findmy friend. Smithy's small brother received his whisperedinstructions in the passage, and Smithy's young brother, in theinnocence of his heart, repeated his instructions with audiblehoarseness.

"Yes, mother—no, mother—all right, mother: agentleman waitin' for 'im, an' e' must come at once, an' 'e cango back an' 'ave 'is drink afterwards, an' don't tell thegentleman 'e's bin in a pub, an' not to bring any of 'is lowfriends back with 'im—an' say 'e's bin out visitin' 'isfriends."

And so Smithy's brother went on his errand speeded by theshrill assurances of Mrs Smithy that if he didn't hurry up she'dknock his blooming little head off. After this dreadful threatMrs Smithy came to entertain me. Having apologised for (1)Smithy's absence; (2) her untidiness; (3) the disorder of the"front room"; (4) the state of the weather; (5) the poverty ofthe neighbourhood; (6) the people next door; (7) herwidowhood—"Mr Smithy dead an' gorn these twelve years, whenMonty was so 'igh"—my hostess proceeded to Smithy'shomecoming.

EXPERIENCES OF HERBERT EVANS

"Yes, sir, very glad to see him. What with enteric andblockhouses an' one thing an' another, I never expected to seehim again. Well, he's finished' now, thank the Lord, and now he'sgot to start and find some work to do. You can't get your livingby bein' an 'ero, can you, sir? Before Monty went away he had avery good job. He was earnin' his thirty-five aweek—regular. That job's lorst. His master was very good, Imust say. He allowed me half his pay for twelve months, but evena master-man's got to live, ain't he? The War Office? Bah! Stuffand nonsense, I call the War Office. No, sir, Monty's got to findsome employment to work at. You can't, as I say, live onyour—your—"

"Military reputation?" I suggested.

"That's it. I remember a young feller by the name of 'Erbert'Evans that belonged to the people over the road—the housewith the brass plate—very respectable people, too. He comehome in the early part of the war, invalided from Ladysmith. Youshould have seen the fuss they made of that young man. They tellme that up in the City he was carried round the streets by realgentlemen with high hats on. When he came outside his door in themorning, dressed in the khaki that he brought home with him,people used to take him into the 'Bear' and treat him to anythinghe wanted. Beer, beer, beer all the morning—he might havebeen a member of Parliament the way they treated him. Well, byan' by people got tired of treating 'him, and he used to leaveoff wearing of khaki, and wearing a big South African hat withhis civilian clothes. Then he took to cadging pennies, and peoplestarted wondering when he was going to get some work to do."

TOO MUCH "SHERBET"

"Then somebody said they didn't "believe he was ever inLadysmith at all, and he used to have a fight every night, tillthe landlord of the 'Bear' got him run in for creating adisturbance. He got let off with a caution, and he left theneighbourhood. He got into trouble in Hoxton, and got six months.It upset his poor old mother dreadful—she is highlyrespectable. You can see the brass plate on the door as you gopast."

"You don't want Smithy to be heroised?" I asked.

"Well, sir, I'd like him to be an 'ero for a week; after thatI'd like him to work for his living."

Enter Smithy. Very sorry he was out, Smithy was. Hoped hehadn't kept me long, Smithy did. Couldn't understand what madehim forget I was coming, could Smithy. And what sort of a timehad he had? Strangely enough, his opinions coincided with thoseof his mother.

"Time of my life," he said, with a considerable sigh, "but toomuch 'sherbet'; it was all right the first day or two—butit—what's the word?—yes, palls. I used to think thatold Bobs was a bit too particular about booze, but, Lord! itmakes you tired! 'Ave a drink—'Ave one withme'—'What's yours?' from morning to night."

I think Smithy was genuine, but I was surprised, I admit.

"Time of my life, all the same. See me walkin' down thestreet, an' 'ear the girl next door say 'Come quick, mother,'ere's young Smithy wot's back from the war!'—fancy I don't'ear 'em, but I do. All the kids stop playin' as I go along; onesays to the other, 'That's the bloke that's bin out to SouthAfrica a-fightin' the Boers,' an' another says, 'What! 'im? Why,'e don't look as if 'e could fight co*ck sparrers!' I tell you,the kids know a thing or two down our street," added Smithy, withpride. "My girl was very glad to see me, too. I met 'er up in'Igh Street; she was lookin' in a shop winder, and I goes up to'er, gives 'er a dig. 'Ullo, you,' I says. 'Keep your 'ands toyourself,' she says, not knowin' me. 'Don't you know me?' I says,just like that; 'don't you know me?' 'Why, it ain't Monty, isit?' she says, quite put about to see me. 'It is,' I says; 'ain'tyou sorry to see me?' 'Not 'arf,? she says. So we went for awalk."

AND THOSE LEFT BEHIND

What did Smithy intend doing now? "I am going after a carman'sjob next Tuesday," said' he. "You see, it's all very well for old'K.,' and French, and that lot; they're bein' asked out toparties, an' quite right too, but drink soon knocks me over, an'I've got to get work to go to."

"Somehow," added Smithy reflectively, as I rose to go,"somehow I don't feel as if I ought to go boozing about. I s'poseI'm gettin' childish, but I can't help thinkin' of the boys whowent out with me and who haven't come back. Don't smile, sir, I'mgenuine. I went to a music hall on Wednesday night, and a fatgirl in tights sang about 'The 'eroes who died for theircountry,' or some rot like that, an' I got up an' walkedout—"

A little boy, shy and grubby of face, sidled into the room, arusty crape band on his arm. "What do you want, sonny?" askedSmithy, kindly. "Mother wants to see you, Uncle Monty," said theboy.

"All right, tell 'er I'm coming"; then, as the boy left theroom Smithy explained, "You don't remember 'Nobby' Clark, of ACompany, do you, sir? 'E was a Reservist, and lived in thisstreet. That nipper's 'is son. Poor old 'Nobby.' Let me see, whatfight- was 'e killed in?"

MR CHAMBERLAIN'S VISIT

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), December 31,1902

JOHANNESBURG, October 27, 1902.

HOW JOHANNESBURG RECEIVES THE NEWS

Last night we had a storm.

Over the city, like a big blue pall, hung the clouds, andforked lightning flickered along the tops of the buildings, fusedwires, and startled horses. Once or twice Johannesburg wasplunged into darkness. This morning the air is fresh and keen, achampagne of an air, a very elixir vitae.

The sun shines, the raindrops glisten on the trees, andJohannesburg goes forth to work in a white waistcoat and summersuiting. From Parktown, which is aristocratic, from Doornfontein,which is superior, they come.

Behind smart-stepping cobs, in rubber-tyred victorias, inwhirling, throbbing motor-cars, and skimming along on free-wheelbicycles. Not the Johannesburg we knew a year ago, nor six monthsago, nor even three months ago; but a wide-awake Johannesburg inyellow kid gloves, startled perhaps into reminiscences by thetrim London policeman who has taken the place of theZarp;* but beyond that forgetful of war, of long treks, ofthe clik-clok of the Mausers, of the snappy reply of the Lee-Enfields, of bully beef, biscuit and untidy weariness.

[* Zarp (Afrikaans)—a member ofthe Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek Politie (South AfricanRepublic Police). ]

JOHANNESBURG TO-DAY

This is Johannesburg of to-day. It is not even Johannesburg oflast week, for we change here as a budding flower, every hour andimperceptibly. I almost forget what a barriered door or a windowcovered with galvanised iron looks like. Grass grew in betweenchains a little time ago. I know it; but I know it just as I knewlast night that I travelled from Southampton to Madeira in twohours and took a cab from thence to Cape Town.

War and incidents of war are such dreams. Thus not a shop isclosed in Johannesburg; and if you want to make progress, youwalk in the roadway, and when you go to lunch you take a shillingmotorcab to your palatial residence, and read the second editionof the evening paper on your way. All of which means that we aregoing ahead.

This morning I went through the sunlit space which weassociate with high finance, and there was no grass between thechains. There were a hundred knots of men talking mines, prices,and prospects; there were exponents of deep levels, there wereenthusiasts dealing in Coronation Syndicates, there were expertsin real estate, and a crowd of men gathered round notices postedup by the obliging editor of the Rand DailyMail—which is me—informing nervous Johannesburgthat Mr Chamberlain was coming out to put to rights their littlegrievances, to make smooth the path of progress, and, in fact, todo all those wonderful things which Cabinet Ministers have thepower to do.

"A DISTINCT SCORE"

Mr Chamberlain's visit, if one may gauge by the portents ofto-day, will nor only be successful; it will be a distinct scorefor the British Government. Nothing could clear the air betterthan an announcement of this intention. Our faith in Lord Milneris in no way abated; our faith in his desire to further theinterests of this country is as strong and firm as ever it was.To cast reflection on his ability or to question the hold he hasupon the public is to invite immediate unpopularity. But we getideas in this country, we people who are not overburdened withconfidence in Downing Street, that Lord Milner's ideas may not bethe ideas of the Home Cabinet, that what as politic inJohannesburg and the Transvaal for the High Commissioner torecommend may not be the policy for the Ministers in DowningStreet to accept and act upon.

It is quite impossible, I am convinced, for any man who was inthis country so lately as six months ago to have any conceptionas to what are the feelings of the country to-day. If I may beallowed to intrude my own personal experience, I may say I wasastounded, when I returned after a short absence, to discoverwhat new conditions prevailed, what new situations had beencreated. When I left there had been no hint at a labour trouble,and no suggestion that there was likely to be any. The politicalassociation had not got beyond its dinner-party stage; theeffects of taxation had already been discounted after thepublication of Sir David Barbour's report; in fact, we did nottrouble to look forward into the future further than to merelyspeculate upon the difficulties likely to arise under therepatriation scheme.

A ROYAL WELCOME WAITING

I returned to find Boers forgotten and to find politicalagitation rampant, to find labour movements in course ofengineering, and to find that over all and through all ran thefear of excessive taxation, a fear which was momentarilyparalysing industry, and was in every way helping to strengthenthe hands of Lord Milner's would-be advisers.

I say would-be advisers, and by that I mean the gentlemenwhose confidence in Lord Milner was and is so weak that theyconsider that their direction or correction is essential to thewell-being and prosperity of this country.

Mr Chamberlain's presence must have one result—it mustgive refutation to the stories, widely spread, that dissensionexists between Lord Milner and the Colonial Secretary; it mustconvince the people of the Transvaal of the bona fides ofthe British Government to grapple with the situations whichexists there, and that whatever the taxation is and whatever lineMr Chamberlain pursues with regard to this country, he does witha clear and sane view from knowledge acquired on the spot as toour best requirements.

I think I voice the opinion of Johannesburg when I say that nocolony ever started anew life under fairer conditions than willthe Transvaal after Mr Chamberlain's visit. And Johannesburg'swelcome to Mr Chamberlain will be one which is inspired by theliveliest sense of gratitude, and a gratitude which is notaltogether that sense of favours to come which the enemies ofthis country are pretty sure to suggest.

South Africa has a very warm place in its heart for theColonial Secretary. To us Joseph Chamberlain is a person whosaved South Africa, a man with the courage of his convictions,and, what Johannesburg, properly enough respects above allthings, a business man. There is a royal welcome waiting for thisMinister of the King.

ISHMAEL

Reproduced from The Ashburton Guardian (New Zealand), August 15, 1903

CAROLINA, June 6, 1903

The driver told me laconically enough that this was a goodplace to outspan, and so I slipped from the cart in which for twohours I had been jostled over the ribbon of road that bindsCarolina to civilisation —represented by the bleakest ofwayside stations on the Delagoa line. It was not an idealoutspan. The rolling countryside was a black waste from my feetto a smoky horizon. The farm was three roofless walls and achaotic heap of masonry, and what had at one time been aflourishing fruit garden was now a bedraggled row of quincetrees.

Five women and a litter of children stood stolidly regardingme as I walked to the farm door. Five women in rusty black ofvarying ages. Seventy to fifteen—and all wives. The Dutchspeak no English hereabouts, unless it be "All right," or "Yes,yes." They understand the meaning of "coffee," too, and after Ihad exchanged a limp handshake with them all—solemnly andwith no glint of good humor to mar the sacred ceremony, theymotioned me to the armchair in the pokey little room and, sittingaround me on biscuit-boxes and upturned tins, regarded me blanklyand without comment.

There was a curious similiarity in their experiences. They allregarded the British soldier as a very fine fellow; they had allbeen inmates of concentration camps; they had all been treatedremarkably well; but—and eyes grew bright withtears—they had each lost a child. A few hundred paces fromihe forsaken camps, under the red earth, with only a glass bottlestuck on a little mound, and inside the name off the childwritten in sprawling characters on a half-sheet of common note-paper, there lay the Boer women's tribute to, the war god. Butthey did not hate the British; rather they spoke of us withkindness. The coffee was excellent, and so was the home-bakedcake, as I politely remarked. The old lady sniffed and grumbled alittle at the compliment. Before the war she could have given mebetter; in fact, before the war, when the homestead in which shehad lived for close on forty years was intact, when well-orderedrows of fruit trees blossomed where now was desolation; when herherds dappled the green of the rolling hills, she oouldhave——

But, and this is the remarkable thing, she spoke no ill wordagainst the British. Her husband had died in India a few monthsago, her son had been killed, her farm destroyed, her cattlestolen, her furniture burnt for firewood, and yet there was noword spoken which might be offensive to me. And yet in thatwithered old breast the fires of hate and passion burnt. In thekindling eye and the trembling hand you could see it. Againstwhom, if not against me, who without doubt had wrought themischief?...

There was a jabber of voices outside the door—men'svoices—and the thud of hoofs. Two impatient horses frettingunder a light rein stampled round and round, their riders talkingthe while. The men had returned from visiting a neighboring farm,and were exchanging excited sentences with the old vrouw.

"Where?" she asked, speaking in Dutch, and shading her eyesfrom the white glare of the noonday sun.

One of the men pointed, and I followed the direction of theman's outstretched finger. A solitary horseman came tripping overthe rise, and, catching sight of the group at the door of theouthouse, checked his mount to a walk, and came slowly toward us.The old lady spoke quickly and fiercely to the men about her,and, clapping spurs to their horses, they galloped toward thestranger. Curiosity made me follow them. For a time both partiesreined up within twenty yards of each other, and the conversationwas conducted in a series of shouts. Then they drew nearer eachother, and the interview proceeded in more normal tones. "What doyou want?"

The stranger was a fine-built Boer of about fifty. A brownbeard streaked with grey covered his breast, and a big pipe hungfrom his lips. Evidently a well-to-do-man, if the gold watch-guard that hung from pocket to pocket was any indication.

"I have run short of meal," he answered, pleasantlyenough.

"Well?"

"I don't want to go to Carolina till tomorrow, so Ithought——"

"Well?"

"Well, have you any to spare?" The question was askedcarelessly, but the stranger eyed our man closely, and took afirmer grip of his sjambok. Our man advanced a littlecloser to the new-comer. Dutchmen, as a rule, are phlegmatic, butour farmer's face was distorted with passion, and as he spoke hisface grew more and more livid.

"Meal for you! Ne, Jan! If you were lying out there onthe veldt dying of starvation I would not give you the smell of adishclout. If you were lying out on the veldt and a grass firelicking round you, and you not able to move, I would die before Ilifted a hand to help you! You dog—you murderer,you—"

He was half choked with his anger, and the man against whomthe invective was directed sat with bowed head, his pipe in hishand, and never answered a word. Only when the second man startedwith a flow of invective he looked up drearily and put up hishuge hand as though to stem the torrent of abuse.

"Is it to be always like this, and you my own sister's sons?"he asked, as the second man exhausted himself.

"Ja!" was the quick answer from both men. "Always,always!"

The stranger slowly turned his horse's head in the directionfrom which he had come. I do not think I remember ever havingseen quite so dejected a picture as the man and beastpresented—he with his shoulders humped and his head bent,it with its shambling walk and uncouth appearance. I was amazedat what I had heard, and walked back in silence to the farmbehind the two brothers, for such I judged them to be.. Up tillnow they had scarcely noticed me, but the old lady introduced meto their notice. One of the men nodded his head.

"You are a Britisher?" he said in English. "We fight—youfight, two, three years—finish. You thought you right, wethought we right; we fight, we beaten— soh!" And the "soh"was very expressive. "But," and the speaker shook his fist at theretreating figure of his uncle, "he's Dutch Boer, who should hefight?" I ventured to think the gentleman in question would havebeen profitably employed in taking pot-shots at the British."Soh," said my companion grimly, "but he fight Boers—cursehim for a Nation'l Scout!"

LORD MILNER—THE AUTOCRAT OF SOUTH AFRICA

Reproduced from The Southland Times (New Zealand), September 19, 1903

In a few weeks Lord Milner starts on his holiday trip toEurope. The people do not know upon what date, and strangelyenough the people do not seem to care.

Lord Milner's position is one which does not seem to bearanalytical, contemplation. It has become a habit almost of theloyalist of other days to shrink from any attempt at analysis ofLord Milner's policy. The men who a few years ago shoutedthemselves hoarse in their praises of the great pro-consul: themen whose support it was that strengthened the HighCommissioner's hand in the troublous times when it needed supportmost—these men, representing the great political andfinancial forces of South Africa, show a natural hesitation inbringing forward either argument or influence against theretention of his Excellency any longer in the sphere in which hehas worked so much good for the Empire.

THEN AND NOW

That Lord Milner has accomplished much, that he has shownhimself in the best sense a keen opportunist, that he hasdisplayed to a remarkable degree the power to assimilateimmediately the conditions which to former Ministers were merelyvague and shadowy, and to grasp at once popularfeeling—particularly when that feeling was one ofa*ggression towards an ancient enemy—there can be noquestion. He has shared in his time a popularity which Rhodes atthe height of his fame did not surpass, and has enjoyed anundivided confidence both with the British and the Colonialpeople, which no plenipotentiary, and certainly no CabinetMinister has yet evoked. I And now? Now Lord Milner is regardedby a section of the Colonists—and a section largelycomposed of your Rule-Britannia-Uitlander-Colonists of prewardays—in very much the same manner as Mr Chamberlain isregarded by the ultra-Tory set at St. Stephen's. They were withhim—up to a certain point. Up to that point their interestscoincided. They had one cause and a common shibboleth—ifanything they shouted loudest. But that point has been reachedand passed. Lord Milner's gallant company of encouragingloyalists recovering from their delirium recognised—as theymight have done before—that their officers, the men who hadshouted loudest with them, who had led the cheering, and who hadtold them through recognised media what they thought and how,thinking as they did, they should act—these men were men ofmoney.

THE GOVERNOR'S DIFFICULTY

So a large section repudiated their officers and steppedaside, confident that the Governor would follow suit. Lord Milnerprobably finds the same difficulty confronting him as hissupporters of other days find. You cannot repudiate thecapitalists of today who were the reformers of yesterday any morethan you can brand as "autocratic" the qualities you were oncepleased to applaud as "unswerving firmness." The malcontents notethe change of condition and fail to appreciate the absence ofchange in men and qualities—and of their failure is born agrievance which premises to make Lord Milner a most unpopularGovernor and incidentally a casus belli in the threatenedrevolt of the democracy against the power of the omnipotentcapitalist. The fact that a great man's previous good works mustgo for nothing; that the wearing labours which rescued SouthAfrica for the Empire should be lost sight of in a bittercontroversy which has its origin in the question of Asiaticimmigration; that popularity gained by firmness in advocating"pro" should be extinguished by an equally firm advocacy of"con," all this is very pitiable—and very natural. Publicopinion is a "fickle beastie" and such is Lord Milner's positionthat I can see no way by which he can regain the confidence oferstwhile supporters without forfeiting the trust reposed in himby an influential minority—and unfortunately in the countryit is the moneyed minority that counts. If in the years to come,when I am a dithering old man, I am asked by my great-grandchildren who was the most honourable public man I have evermet I shall, I am sure, answer without hesitation, "Lord Milner,some time High Commissioner of South Africa."

THE STRONG MAN

I do not think I have ever met a man whose absolute integrity,whose fine logical mind and noble principles have appealed to meas do Lord Milner's. He is a strong man rather than a safe man,for in his strength lies the weakness that renders him less safethan sure. He is an autocrat. His best lovers must allow that. Heis amenable to argument, but not in essentials. He is anarchitect of Empire, who will, on advice, alter the frontelevation of his edifice, but whom the very gods would notpersuade to deviate from the ground plan he has decided upon.Personally a man of charming manners, suggesting the aristocraticpublic servant or the dilettante litterateur rather thanthe statesman, the High Commissioner, while accessible to anybodywho has reasonable excuse for interviewing him, is at the sametime unapproachable to those with whom his convictions clash. Andnow he goes home on his holiday and Johannesburg, unstirred butrespectful, stands hat in hand watching with curious eyes the manthey all but worshipped a few years ago. Do they wish him toreturn? I half think not.

There is no open rupture between the Governor and the people;crowds still cheer him in the street, for I think they love theman even as they are suspicious of the master. They do not wantto fight him; they would rather fight another man carrying outhis policy.

If he does not return Johannesburg will sigh regretfully butthankfully, as the man sighs who has seen his loved ones over thesea before the first shot is fired. If he returns—but that,as somebody else would say, is another story.

AFRICA TO-DAY—THE BEATEN BOER

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), October 22, 1903

JOHANNESBURG, August 1, 1903

It is considered rather bad form to talk about a war thatraged a few years ago. It used to be THE war—indeed, itused to be war, the very embodiment and symbol of abstractcarnage. Sometimes, nowadays, a young—a refreshinglyyoung—ex-Yeoman turns up from England; full of enthusiasmfor the days that were; primed with recollection of pitchedbattles, and an uncanny accuracy of detail; a young god of war,descended from English skies to disturb our calm craft that floatupon the Lethe—and to remind us of days when shares stoodhigh on the market. We look at him. curiously, uncomfortably.

A PAINFUL SUBJECT

We try to change the conversation to weather, or the cost ofliving. We grow pallid at his reckless approach of a forbiddensubject, or prickly warm at his unconscious solecisms. We do notcare to dwell upon our mistakes—as who does? We wouldrather not think about our irretrievable blunders, and you haveonly to go to Johannesburg to realise how much of a blunder thepeople of that town think the war was, and now very glad theywould he if it had never occurred. This is—as I havepointed out before—not so much because the good folks ofthe Gold Reef City have become unpatriotic, not because they havediscovered a latent love for Krugerism, previously unsuspected,but by reason of the fact that the years of famine are succeedingthe years of war, and the good citizens have healthyappetites.

War is therefore a painful subject; in addition to which it isa very stale subject; and, worse still, it is to seventy men outof a hundred the veriest "shop." Long ago the averageJohannesburger discovered that it was impossible to brag abouthis connection with the Imperial Light Horse and to tell thethrilling story of Elandslaagte, without discovering in hasaudience an unappreciative section consisting of a squadronleader, a troop sergeant-major, and a couple of corporals of thesame distinguished regiment, and this, naturally, was to say theleast embarrassing. And so the heroes get weeded out, and thenewcomer wounded in six engagements and recommended for the V.C.found very soon that he was a very commonplace person indeed. Sothe great B**r w*r subject is one which we deal with in mentalasterisks, so to speak, and we are consequently grateful to ourfriend the Boer that he is content to respect our reserve and co-operate with us in this taboo.

WHY HE SURRENDERED

For the Boers talk less of war to-day than they have evertalked in the course of their national life. At the time of theirsurrender they realised that they were in a bad way. They didno£ think they were badly beaten, and if their attitudetowards us was one of frank surrender, there was, if notexpressed, at least implied, a suggestion of magnanimity towardan overpowering enemy that they had the power and half theinclination to further harass. They surrendered because they weretired of the war—ninety-nine out of every hundred burgherswould tell you that. It was the spontaneous excuse of theincoming commandoes— simply given without qualification andwithout amendment. "We are tired of the war—so wesurrender." It was a reply given in no tone of boastfulness: withno suggestion of anything but a natural and logical reply to thequestion, "Why did you give in?"

It was the hundredth man, the man who spoke good French orGerman, and whose first act on arrival at the British camp war toask for a bath. He it was who shrugged his shoulders and answeredwith a laugh: "Because we were hopelessly beaten!" The terms ofpeace were signed, and the Boer was turned loose on thecountry—and he talked. Not loudly or traitorously orharmfully. He had surrendered, or rather his leaders had for him:for his part he would just as soon have gone on fighting:something might have happened. Who knows? A European war in whichGreat Britain was embroiled might have been the Boer'sopportunity. He was now a faithful subject of King Edward, and hewould be sorry to see Russia or Germany fighting his own country;but if he had not surrender——

HIS FIRST IDEAS OF US

All of which pointed to one fact; and a very interesting factit was. The Boer, sharing a characteristic which is beautiful inthe Briton, but is a trifle alarming when in the Boer, did notknow when he was beaten. And the Boer out of the country—heof St Helena, of India, of Ceylon—he came back. He was veryanxious to explain to the Boer in the country exactly how it washe had been taken prisoner in the early days, and quite willingto adopt the theory, already sub-consciously propounded, that thewar had ended because the fighting burghers were tired of theconstant trekking and the unsettled life of the commando.

The British were as tired—everybody knew that. So therehad been a formal surrender of the Boers, a mutual agreement thathostilities should cease and amicable arrangements whereby thedignity of neither should suffer. It was quite reasonable, thisview. You remember how we fell over one another in our desire toweep on the necks of our late foes, how the splendid good-fellowship of the British was made manifest. Our dearest friendis not dearer than the foe we have just thrashed. That is anational trait, but the Boer is no student, no thinker. Accordingto his lights there could be but one explanation for oureffusiveness. We were glad to get out of the mess at any price,for, like him, we were tired of war, weary of our constantreverses and the too frequent humiliations, for which ourperiodic victories were a most inadequate compensation. After awhile he began to find things out, did the Boer. Every day thatpassed robbed him of his complacency.

BITTER AWAKENING

The days of war were not very far behind him when he began torealise a great truth, and it has so sobered him that he does notseem like the Boer we knew of other days, but rather a civil,quiet-spoken improvement on the old pattern—improved out ofrecognition. For the truth that has come so slowly is the factthat he is a badly-beaten man. The men whom he had expected tomeet, the brother, the father, the friend—what of them? Hehad believed that they were with other commandoes, or at theworst, in the hands of the hospitable British. When war was over,he waited for them to appear, with all the pleasure ofanticipation. The missing ones came not, but in their place came,or sent, the folks who had seen them die or had helped to burythem. This was the first sobering draught that came to the Boer.The Boer losses were much heavier than he had been led tobelieve.

In Great Britain there are, unfortunately, many homesdesolated by war; there are vacancies which even time, that felldestroyer of ideal who turns the beautiful to commonplace, cannever fill. But think of a nation no single member of which buthas lost a relative.

I think I am right in saving that no one Boer family in SouthAfrica came unscathed through the war, and not one-third of thelosses were ever realised until the war ended. The little villagecliques were broken and scattered, the little makeshifts forsociety were devastated, the dorp oracles whose illogical periodshad filled the sunlit spaces where the drowsy oxen, dozed, whoserude fingers had spun the wheel war-ward—what of these?Dead, or, worse still, traitors. Leaders still remained, but theywere leaders whose life energies had been devoted to promotinghostility to Britain, and whose faculties other than thedestructive had become atrophied by long disuse. Relationship,comradeship, society, all had been changed. The national idealscould no longer exist; they must be reconstructed. The homes theyhad lived in, the towns they were born in, wrecked and levelled,gave them no tangible hold on the past, afforded them no looseend to which they might splice the new life to the old andresume. It meant a fresh start all over again; new grooves, newaspirations. The war had done more than kill, it had made chaos.They were beaten, hopelessly, irreparably. The Boers realisedthis very slowly, for it is not in the nature of things that theyshould think quickly, and realising it they have become agentler, a better, and a more friendly people.

THE SLUMS OF JOHANNESBURG

Reproduced from The Southland Times (New Zealand), November 7, 1903

Take my arm and come with me. Swiftly through the streets ofJohannesburg, past the shops ablaze with light, past theloitering crowd that saunters idly, past the thronged theatreswhere bursts the melody and spasmodic cadences of applause reachthe ear through opening doors.

Keep out of the light—the cold, white steadfast lightsthat line the mile-long streets; let us creep away, into theside-ways where are the tumble-down tin shanty of Ramsammy andthe dirt-begrimed windows of Petriwski—Isaac, the son ofJoseph—behind which this very man is threading a needle bythe light of a flickering candle. You will see him still at workwhen you return, this same Petriwski; well into the night he willwork, plying his needle and dreaming alone of—who knowswhat? Then he will draw a filthy blanket over his greasy form andsleep till the morning sun awakens him, and then again the needleand the day-long dream and the candle's successor. But ourbusiness is not with him; only we must pass the road in which hedwells before we get to the east. He sits in his filth and histoil, and the memory of Poland is a boundary post between Eastand West, between Orient and Occident.

THE TIN TOWN

Beyond, the houses grow bewilderingly various. Shops,leisurely started with some dim idea of being beautiful, havefinished by becoming patchily tin. The builder has neverfinished. Unsentimental necessity grasped him by the throat,thrusting him aside to make room for a hundred aliens.

They did not object to unfinished work. The window-sashes werenever painted, and some of the panes were never put in, and to-day, behind red-painted sashes and glassless windows theproscribed of Poland live happily enough. We are out of the rangeof the white merciless arc light—that disciple of Truththat emphasises our wrinkles and traces the patches on ourthreadbare coats. Here the light is more mellow, more pleasing.It is a yellow light and none too bright, and here the houses aretin. They are bright enough. There is music here. Vice, gildedthinly, has its votaries, its high priest, and its temples—little tin-temples scented with Florida water.

The tin town continues beyond this, but the lower end issilent. So silent that you might think you had by accidenthappened upon a colony living up to the standard set by the moralMr Franklin. Early to bed they apparently are. No sound breaksthe silence of the quiet night, no light gleams in any window, nosmoke rises from the crazy courtyards. Early to rise you knowthey are, for daybreak sees this little colony alive, with bamboorod and laden basket, chattering, running, loading, and trading.For this is the Chinese quarter.

Knock softly on one of the iron gates. There is no answer.Here is a door, "The Hoki Laundry." Knock here, and if anybodycomes invent some laundry urgently required by a fictitiousclient. But nobody will come.

CHINATOWN

But I have not brought you here for the pleasure of knockingat an unresponsive door. I knew all along that it would not beopened to you. But in a few minutes the gates of Chinatown willbe opened to us, and Chinatown, obsequious and smiling, willgreet us with injured surprise and lamblike innocence. For thepolice are very close at hand; all the while we have been walkingthis way they have been shadowing us on either hand. You may nothave seen them, but they have been close enough. And now—watch. They appear like magic from side-streets and unsuspectedalleys. In ones, in twos, in threes. And they are coming towardsus. Did I tell you we have one of the chiefs of police withus?

There is no noise, no melodramatic whistle. A whispered wordof command, and two men have scaled the iron gateway and havedropped into darkness on the other side. A second more, and thegate grates open on rusty hinges, and we are inside. It is ratherdisappointing at first. There is nothing suggestive of theFlowery Land—no pagodas or tea- houses or joss-houses, onlythree sides of a garbage-strewn square, ranged around which arethe sordid tea-shanties of John. But it strikes you immediatelythat nobody is asleep. In fact, everybody is wide awake. A dozenChinamen of all sizes and ages are sitting around a red-hotbrazier, on which some mess is stewing, and all the little housesthat have not lights have smouldering wicks—which issignificant.

Somebody flashes an electric torch over the deserted hovel.The hastily-extinguished candle still glows, and its smell fillsall space. There is a closed door in one corner of the apartment.The sergeant puts his shoulder to it, and the sergeant being aman of many pounds, it gives. There is a passage, and there aresome steps leading downward, and there is another door outlinedin light. This yields to a push.

THE GAME OF FAN-TAN

We—that is, you, the police, and I—do notapologise, even though we have obviously broken up what promisedto be a successful evening. The curiously-coloured boardsupported on a trestle table, and the weird, pawn-like piecesscattered at our unceremonious intrusion, are implements employedin the game of fantan. It is an institution that Ho Ki, the Chow,carries away from his fatherland, it is the outward and visibledemonstration of his patriotism. John Ho Ki, Wun Hi, Ho Ku, andChow Ke, in no wise perturbed, sit around the wall of the dug-outin which this classical game is played. There are four vacantplaces at the board, and there is a trap door near the roof towhich a ladder ascends. The banker has departed. Gambling is acrime, even in Johannesburg, and the players fall in, outside,from whence they will march to the police-station with greatdocility.

There is another door leading from the gambling-den. It islocked, evidently from the other side, but the sergeant'sshoulder is better than a skeleton key. Crash! The room is bareexcept for a frame bed and a table. On this is a candlespluttering in its socket. On the bed lies a man who does notmove, his eyes are half-closed, his hand grasps a pipe, and thesickening stench of opium fills the room.

"Wake up, Johnny, where's your pass, eh?"

Leave them to arouse him, and follow the police captain to thejoss-house. The priest opens the door of a tin shanty, in no wisediffering from the dozen about, except that the interiorresembles for all the world a large-sized tea-chest turned insideout. Here, gold on black, certain moral precepts of Confuciuscrawl up the walls like so many auriferous spiders. On the altaris a small image of a black-bearded god. Before the altar, joss-sticks, wooden swords, spears, and tinselled baubles. Not so veryinspiring, and certainly nothing to justify the unpleasant scowlof the priestly custodian.

Now back again to the opium room. There is a group ofpolicemen round the bed of the dreamer.

"Can't you rouse him?" I asked.

Then I looked and saw how unnecessary was my question. TheChinese have a pretty little cemetery of their own nearBraamfontein.

SOLDIERS OF MERCYA BATTLEFIELD PEN PICTURE

Reproduced from The Star (New Zealand), July 25, 1905

Sometimes elaborate military organisations fail. Army formsare filled, requisitions prepared, orders signed in accordancewith regulations, but there is a hitch. A thousand miles away therope of routine may have jammed between a colonel's officialismand a subaltern's enthusiasm, and the tug you give at this endbrings no response from the other.

When organisation fails in the Army you depend on the men.

After it is all over you say, "The men were splendid," then goto work to fashion yet another unbreakable system, which willco*ckle up at the critical moment as sure as Eve ate apples.

Because the men were splendid, to-day (May 25) the King isgoing to the top of Gun Hill to unveil a grey granite obelisk tothe memory of a few hundred soldiers of the Royal Army MedicalCorps who gave their lives for their country.

I call them the Corps of Unconventional Heroes, because, aseverybody knows who has read his story-book or studied hisChristmas presentation plate, the only way for a soldier to diein a war is on the field of battle with a rifle in his hand, anda vision of his mother in the top left-hand corner.

About twenty of the corps died this way—without therifle—in order that convention should not be hopelesslyoutraged, but the remainder died unpleasantly and uncleanly ofdiseases contracted while nursing their comrades.

PROCESSION OF SICKNESS

The Boer war is ancient history. People have gone out ofmourning now, and many have married again. We talk familiarlyenough of the sacred dead; we have reached the point where thetalk of that dreadful war only conjures up a picture of anincreased income tax as its most horrible consequence. ThereforeI do not hope to arouse any enthusiasm for these men— goodmen they were, poor fellows—who died at their posts, notwith the swiftness of they who...

Had their battle cries
To cheer and charm them to their death...

but slowly, painfully, heroically.

From sunrise to sundown they met the constant procession ofsickness and suffering that came to them.

They were the pioneers of mercy, they went to places where theSisters could not go; they, set their tents down on furrowedbattlefields and went out with lanterns to glean the harvest ofwar.

All night long I have seen them, grim will-o'-the-wisps,bobbing over the uneven face of the veldt, eclipsed in gullies,rising faintly by boulder-strewn kopje. They went outerratically, they came back steadily, painfully, slowly, walkingstep by step and keeping time, and that which they swung betweenthem was a something that in the morning had been a laughing,lusty man.

SURGERY BY CANDLELIGHT

They came reeling out of tents in the early hours of the dawnwith blood-caked arms and stiff fingers, with aching eyes.

With only a guttering candle stuck in the lantern to help themthey picked little knives from their velvet-lined cases, as thesurgeons asked for them.

There were fires burning nearer the tents, where a noddingcook made coffee. The stragglers came up to the fire, smelling ofchloroform, gulped their coffee, and went back to their work.

They have traditions in the corps of officers and men whodashed into the firing line to bring out the wounded. Traditionsthat embrace the work of an officer who held on to the femoralartery with his finger and thumb throughout one long, long nightand saved his man. But the greatest tradition of all is that themen of the Royal Army Medical Corps worked patiently,uncomplaining, in the fever-stricken camp at Bloemfontein,working a minimum of eighteen and nineteen hours out of everytwenty-four, living with the men they nursed, dying with the menthey nursed, and sleeping the last sleep in the dreary graveyardthat lies outside the town.

Their heroism, their devotion, their divine unselfishnesscannot be exaggerated.

Trite it is to call him blessed who, in the hot passion ofbattle or on the impulse occasioned by some sudden danger, laysdown his life for another; but what shall we say of men who sawthe death ahead and did not shirk, who had the danger calculatedwith a mathematical nicety and did not fear?

Englishmen, who are proverbially undemonstrative, and who seekfrom their vocabulary of sport their superlatives of eulogy, willsay truly and fittingly that they "played the game."

APPENDIX—CONTENTS OF
"UNOFFICIAL DISPATCHESOF THE ANGLO-BOER WAR"

1. The City Of Refuge
2. The Fabric Of Hate
3. The Rebel And The Psalmist
4. The Rain That Stopped
5. De Wet's Plan
6. Price Of Peace
7. To Arms!
8. Amateur De Wets
9. The Birth Of A Corps
10. The Shadow Over The Land
11. The Better Path
12. The Coming Of De Wet
13. Plumer's Flight
14. Homeward Bound
15. The LastFight
16. Why We Lost De Wet
17. Profit And Loss
18. A Nice War
19. Tragedy
20. That Victorian!
21. Doing Nothing
22. "Previously Unreported"
23. Atkins
24. A Veldt Aldershot
25. That Tired Feeling
26. A Sunday Morning
27. America's Bid For The Rand
28. Sops To Sentiment
29. In Death's Eye
30. A Day In Kent
31. "Cannot Accept Responsibility"
32. Tips That Pass In The Night
33. Trumps Without Honours
34. The Intervening Black
35. Heroes Of The Cotton Waste
36. Reconstructing—An Estimate
37. Forces Despised
38. Rebellion Made Easy
39. Related Justice
40. The Coming Struggle
41. What Shall Be The Verdict?

THE END

Roy Glashan's Library
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