THE BOER WAR.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Volume X, Issue 498, 8 February 1900, Page 8

THE BOER WAR.

(Fbom Our Special Wae Correspondent with General Lobb Methuen.)

(all Rights Reserved.)

FOR THE RELIEF OF KIMBERLEY.

THE FIGHT AT MAGERSFONTEIN. Modder River, December 27. When I landed at Port Elizabeth I found that there were four separate commands about to take immediate action against the Boers. The column for the relief of Ladysmith was concentrating at Frere, in Natal ; General Gatacre was confronting the Boers at Stormberg, near the Orange Free State ; General French was approaching a point more westerly, and General Lord Methuen, with his Kimberley relief force, had scored several successes against the Boers namely, at Grasspans, Belmont, and Modder River. Now, the question for me was : Which of these commands would be the most interesting to join, from a journalistic and artistic point of view. It took me but a moment to decide, and I came to the conclusion to share the adventures of Methuen’s division. The relief Kimberley and the rescue from the clutches of the Boers of that great PATRIOT AND SCHEMER FOR THE HONOR and enlargement of the British Empire —Mr Cecil Rhodes —would probably appeal more to the sentiment of the British and Colonial public than any of the other heroic phases of the war. There was also another and a most interesting reason why I should choose Methuen’s column. The smart contingent of colonial troops from New Zealand, New South Wales, Victoria, Tasmania, Queensland, and Canada were either with that general’s field force or protecting his lines of communication; and here was an opportunity to see what our gallant brethren of the Antipodes and America were capable of. Luckily for me, Colonel Fairholme, of the Royal Artillery, was commandant at Port Elizabeth, and it was owing to his courtesy that the necessary passes for the front were sent on from Capetown to De Aar Junction, where I found them awaiting me. While I was marking time in Port Elizabeth I met two well-known military officers. Onejwas the smart übiquitous Major Stuart Wortley, who had just arrived from Italy and Spain, where he had been purchasing mules. Wortley is always a success, and fortune had favored him even with mules, for out of several thousand animals the losses on the passage to the Cape were only ten. The major was now hastening to join his regiment in Natal. Another remarkable identity passing through Port Elizabeth was the

FAMOUS YOUNG ENGINEER, GIROUARD, who now sported on his shoulder strap the star and crown of lieut.-colonel. But a year ago he was simply “ Mr Girouard,” of Nubian Desert fame. He had vacated his post of director of Egyptian railways for a time to give his valuable services to the Cape Government lines, acting under military regime. Almost immediately on leaving the old Dutch Port, one is confronted with the stern reality of war. All the important culverts and bridges on the way to De Aar are vigilantly guarded. The serviceable colonial volunteer corps, the Prince Alfred’s Guards, were watching the line as far as Naauwpoort. At one of the bridges en route, where the Boers a few days ago had destroyed the permanent way, a Prince Alfred sentry was keenly surveying the plain beyond, with his rifle ready to hand. A notice board stood near, on which was enscribed the significant notice, “ Trespassers will be prosecuted. — By order.” At Rosmead all trains are now stopped for the night, and are allowed to proceed at dawn, owing to the possibility of the line being tampered with by Boer emissaries under cover of darkness. This stoppage brings one seven hours late to De Aar,. and we arrived at the famous stragetical Junction at 9, instead of 2, in the morning. From this point westward the line is entirely in the hands of the military. Luckily my companion and I were delayed but a few hours at the station, and were allowed to proceed to Orange River by the kindness of the colonel of the Cornwalls in the same train with that regiment, which was hurrying up to the front. The country from De Aar north-westward is almost as arid in appearance as some parts of Western Australia, but broken here and there with little avenues of poplars, which end in a clump of bright foliage, where from its snug shadow peeps some little Dutch homestead Though little water is seen, small fl’cks of sheep and goats and sleek oxen browse on the scanty grass and salt turf. Kopjes (pronounced coppy) stud the undulating plain like purple islands in a sea of gold under a cobalt sky, till a green fissure winds its way for miles and miles across the plain, and the white tents of a regiment stud the veldt (called felt), and the Orange River is reached. Dp to this point all had gone well with we warcorrespondents —for Mr F. Wilkinson, of the Sydney Daily Telegraph, had joined me en route —but here AN ALMOST DISASTROUS DELAY

awaited us. Cn presenting ourselves to the commandant we were informed that no further war correspondents were allowed at the front, in spite of our passes issued by the Commander of the South African forces at the instigation of the London War C ffice. Here, within seventy miles from our goal and after six weeks tedious ocean voyage from Australia, we were about to be thwarted in our endeavor to get to the front. Things had been looking rather gloomy for war correspondents, two men had already been sent back from the Modder River. One young gentleman who had probably threatened the

powers that be for some imagined slight on the part of the staff, with the thunder of his journal, the “ Swillwell Advertiser,” or some other important rag, had passed through Orange River station, under escort en route for Capetown. Another, I heard, had been too fond of the luxuries of the local sutlers—not a dry good a tore—and had received full permission to go where—to use a music-hall refrain—“ the booze was cheaper.” No wonder generals in command do not love war correspondents, when journals are so indescreet regarding their choice of men to represent them. But in our day there are so many gentlemen of means who are willing to pay their own expenses and go for the “ fun ” of the thing, that papers cannot resist the temptation of doing things on the cheap and advertising from “ our special.” Anyway, in spite of the serious rebuff at Orange River, I thought I would have a shot personally, so I wired to Lord Methuen asking permission to proceed, and early the next morning I RECEIVED THE WELCOME REPLY, “ Certainly. Glad to see you. May come at once.” Trains were running with troops and munitions pretty frequently to points northward, but not so far as Modder River. The next train to that spot would not leave until nine that night, and we would probably arrive at the front at dawn. Still, I felt confident we should be in time for the battle. Hitherto, 1 had always been lucky. Why should fortune fail me now ? The waiting for the train that Sunday at Orange River, though a better experience enough at the time, probably saved me from a terrible calamity —which I wae soon to learn. With my necessary pass in my pocket and a lighter heart, I looked round the camp. This important post was well secured, the surrounding kopjes were mounted with artillery and a strong scouting force was always on the alert, while the Cornwalls had just relieved a regiment pushing further to the front. The unit of New South Wales infantry, under that smart voung Australian, Captain Legge, had just entrained for Belmont —a point higher up the line where the Boers might give trouble. It was simply remarkable how this little unit had been licked into shape , during the journey from Sydney to the Cape. It had impressed every command it had passed through from Capetown to Orange River. What surprised many Imperial officers was its perfect equipment and mobility. It seemed to want for nothing

BUT THE WORD “ FORWARD,” and the little contingent would gather itself and its belongings together, and move from one point to another without the slightest bustle or fuss. The refreshment room of the Orange River Railway Station seemed to be a small Imperial Institute, judging by the number of its Colonial patrons —New Zealanders, Queenslanders, Canadians, Victorians, and Cape Colonists —who congregated within its walls to taste, for the last time for many a day, the sweets of civilisation. Here Major Bailey, on special service from Australia, had the first staff appointment of the contingent. Major King Hall, one of Kitchener’s successes on the line of communication in the Soudan was camp commandant, and Captain Banon had the arduous post of traffic manager. For several nights and days this vigilant young officer had hardly had the proverbial forty winks, and dozed at night on a stretcher placed on the platform, awaiting the arrival ot and hurrying forward the numerous trains, loaded with troops, horses, mules, artillery, bully beef, and hard tack. Lieut. Cartwright, engineer, of Canadian Pacific Railway fame, had brought his experience to bear on reorganising the Orange River depdt, and had rigged up temporary sidings and sheds, converting the drowsy little station into a South African Crewe in less than ten days. At 9.30 that evenit g my companion and I were informed that our train was ready, and we were tumbled into the guard’s van with a halfdozen men of the A.T.C., and a general cargo of sheeps’ carcases, potatoes, and flour. A thunderstorm had been raging for many hours, the rain had come down in veritable sheets, and the line for many miles was hidden by the flood. The water had dripped between the warped planking of the roof of the vtn, making our life anything but a happy one for many hours. However, with a carcase of lamb for a pillow, a sack of potatoes for a mattress, and a trickle of water from the roof to soothe my fevered brow —for the atmosphere of the caboose was some 102 above zero—l fell asleep till dawn. About halfpast three in the morning we were shunted while an empty goods passed us. The driver of the passing train :old us that

THE ARMY HAD MARCHED the night before from Modder River, and our guns had already opened fire. At four we steamed over the temporary bridge beside the fine iron structure over the Modder River which the Boers had destroyed, and in a few minutes the Modder Station was reached. The Crown and Royal Hotel opposite the station, had not yet opened its hospitable portals, a red flag denoting that it enjoyed the patronage of the headquarters staff. But there was no bustle or sign of military, though reveille had long since been sounded. The British army and its general had evidently left Modder River for good, and was on the march to Kimberley, With the instinct of an old campaigner, I suggested to my friend that we should forage around for a cup of coffee before we joined the fighting. Guns were pounding away, and shells could be easily seen bursting on the enemy’s position. Though intensely exciting, I knew it was only the lever de rideau to the day’s drama So we stirred up one of the hands of the hotel, kindled a fire, and commenced the day’s hard work in a sound and proper manner with hot coffee, filled our pockets with biscuits and our . bottles with water, and started for the battlefield on foot.

Young Lieut. Pritchard, one of the engineers of the great Nubian Desert Railway during Kitchener’s campaign, was in charge of the station, and advised us to keep to the right of the military balloon, which was now a distinct mark in the sky. About two miles of

tramping brought us in full view of the field. It was a beautiful morning ; the previous night’s deluge had laid the dust, and the air was fragrant and balmy. Before us lay almost a level plain, through which the dull muddy, or Modder, river trickled its way on our right flank. In our immediate front the BOER POSITION OF MAGERSFONTEIN stood out like a rocky island in a green sea. Shells were bursting from our Lyddite gun, a 4 point 7 from H.M.S. Doris, scattering rock and stone from the kopjes on the tail end and head of the Boer position—for Magersfontein looked for all the world like the effigy of an abnormal camel, with its head and elongated neck stretching westward, and with its hump and hindquarters squatting towards the river. At this point a bloody assault was waging to cover a still bloodier assault which had failed. Shell after shell from our howitzers split the rock anH tore up the earth round the Boer position, but there was no sign of any activity on their part. The sullen mountains emitted no smoke, no flash of fire streaked their purple flanks, no living s oul was seen ; yet the sharp bark of the Mausers, and spitting and hum of the passing bullets, told us that it was dangerous ground within a mile of THE DEATH DEALING ROCK.

Yet the Highland Brigade that morning had tried to rush the strongest flank. The wounded from the heroic enterprise were yet dragging their bleeding bodies along the turf towards the “ first aid,” and the heaps of dead and dying were still where they fell under the frowning berg, which, like a dog snarling over its bone, dared any to come near. I had arrived early enough on the battle-field, and not too early. My delay at Orange River saved me probably one of the greatest shocks of my life—if not my life itself—and I have experienced in warfare not a few.

I had been with the Black Watch in many a fight, and no doubt would have thrown in my fortunes with them in this disastrous charge if I had arrived the previous night. I learnt of the ghastly affair from a colleague, who received his baptism of fire with the Brigade that morning. We met on the battlefield by accident, and he told me in the simplest manner that he had marched with the troops through the rain. At an early hour before dawn the brigade came to a halt in quarter column, about thirty yards in front of a precipitous berg, enshrouded in mist. The battalion was beginning to deploy when, from front and right flank, from earth and apparently, from the sky, a deadly hail of bullets TORE THROUGH THE BRIGADE. Companies fell like one man, not a Highlander could pull trigger so sudden was the deluge of lead. Soon there was a dark mass of struggling men. Then came conflicting orders. Some heard the charge, others the retreat. Finally Wollen found himself, with many others, crawling along from bush to bush, nursing Mather Earth, from the deadly hail, and, exhausted and worn had met me, apparently much astonished that he should happen to be alive, for the bullets seemed to shriek between his legs, arms, and fingers, and to whistle past his ears- It was certainly a strange and terrible ordeal for a baptism of fire, for, as he said to me: “ Why, there was no show for the money.” Not a Boer was to be seen, not a puff of smoke, and there was hardly sufficient gloaming to set off the flash of the Mausers. There was no sight of the enemy, but there was death all round. But the Highlanders had not suffered THE CRUEL SEARCHING FIRE FOR NOTHING. Beaten back by the Mauser bullets they came across an outlying trench, which they had passed in the night. This work was held by the Scandinaviar contingent who, unlike the Boers, met our men face to face, and a death struggle ensued at of the point of the bayonet, which was, no doubt, quite a refreshing incident to our gallant Highlanders after emerging from the ghastly death trap of the Boers. I saw a few of the wounded of this advance trench. The Scandinavian in command had a bayonet-thrust through his stomach and was dying. He signed to me that he was thirsty. I lifted him up and gave him a cup of condensed milk. A wounded companion lying by his side said, in very good English : “ It no use to give it him, sir, it only comes out of the hole in his stomach.” This was true, but still the poor fellow had the sensation of the refreshing draught passing down his throat. IT WAS HIS LAST DRINK. I can see his eager, hungry look even now, and though an enemy, I wish I could have done more for him. A few hours afterwards he was buried by the side of the heroes of the Highland Brigade. Hot fighting still continued on our right. The Guards and all available troops were pushed forward to check any attempt of the enemy to follow up our reverse. It was strange to see the skirmishing line of the Gordon’s come within the zone of the enemy’s fire. It was my first experience of smokeless powder —with both forces — and there was a strange weirdness about it that struck me forcibly. There was absolutely nothing to denote that men were in bloody conflict, but the ever trickling stream of wounded. Men moved forward—front, half-right, half-left —and bringing their rifles to the ready no puff of smoke denoted they had fired, and no sign but a sharp report from the enemy’s trenches marked the point from which one of our men HAD RECEIVED HIS QUIETUS. The sharp crackle of the rifles was incessant. I think I have said there is little for the picture-maker in modern warfare. Troops are all dressed in monotonous color, the tone of the landscape. There is no apparent distinctive rank, for the respective grades are ripped from the shoulder - straps ; officers carry rifles and bayonets, from general to corporal; the Highlanders wear a kharki apron to hide the target

of the kilt; the lances of the troopers are colored the same hue; cannon are painted kharki, and even war correspondents have been compelled to dye their piebald or grey horses with Condy’s fluid to avoid the vigilant eye of the Boer ; snipe. The enemy’s position at Magersfontein was too strong for Methuen’s little force to attack. Some fifteen thousand Boers were lying behind most perfect defensive trenches, from the head of the Camel Rock to its tail, and in rifle-pits on the plain as far as the river on our flank, some six miles of earthworks. It was a task that a general with 20,000 men would think twice before tackling, and Lord Methuen had little over half that number. This incident of Magersfontein is the first check up to date of the only victorious general in the campaign. Belmont, Grasspans, and Modder River were all positions of considerable strength ; but Magersfontein is a TOUGHER NUT THAN ALL TO CRACK. Frederic Villiers.