With Rifle and Bayonet: A Story of the Boer War

And outside, the Boers fired their guns, throwing shell everywhere, not even sparing the hospital and women’s laager, in which many women and children had already fallen victims. Protests had proved unavailing, and now the children and their mothers lived elsewhere, while all the Boer prisoners filled the hospital and laager, and ran the risk of being slaughtered by their friends outside.

Jack stayed only long enough to deliver his message and obtain some sleep. Then, loaded with despatches, he slipped from the town once more and cantered south, en route for Lord Roberts’s camp.

Chapter Twenty.
The Road to Victory

The month of January was just drawing to a close when Jack on-saddled in the market square of Mafeking, now almost battered out of all recognition by the tremendous and continuous shell fire to which it had been so long subjected, and, vaulting into his seat, settled his rifle across his shoulders, strapped on the water-sack which dangled on one aide, carrying a supply sufficient to last until he reached the Modder River, and, picking up the reins, trotted across the open space.

Quite a crowd had collected to see him off and wave him an adieu, and many a message was entrusted to him, and many a “So long, Jack, old horse!” followed him. Soon he was at the outskirts, where he passed the pickets, and pushed on, searching the ground in every direction with eyes which were now as sharp as a hawk’s. Once he almost stumbled on a Boer advanced picket lying on a small kopje, but a crouching figure and a big hat dimly silhouetted against the star-lit sky warned him, and in an instant he and his pony were lying prone upon the veldt.

“Wie gaat daar?” came in hoarse tones across to him, but he lay like a log, without answering; nor did he take any notice when a rifle flashed and a bullet buzzed some yards above him.

“I’ll lie where I am,” he thought. “They did not catch sight of me, but probably heard some suspicious sound. I’ll give them half an hour to clear away, and if they are not gone by then I’ll make a bolt for it.”

But there was no necessity for this, for suddenly the long naval smooth-bore gun now used in Mafeking belched out its home-made shell, and the picket lying in front of him rose to their feet and looked back at their own camp, where, a moment later, a dull, muttering roar and a brilliant spurt of flame showed that the missile had exploded.

In an instant Jack was on his pony again, and, turning slightly to the left, galloped away at his fastest pace. All that night he kept on steadily, and at daybreak hid up in a patch of mimosa bush.

By the following morning he was nearing the Modder River, and was on the point of concealing himself again when he caught sight of a figure some three hundred yards in front of him.

In a moment his pony was lying on the ground, and Jack was crawling, rifle in hand, towards the stranger.

“I could pick him off from here,” he thought, lying flat upon his stomach and taking a steady aim at the man’s head, “but he doesn’t seem to have noticed me, and I hate the idea of shooting a poor fellow without giving him a chance of making a fight for it. Besides, for all I know he may be an Englishman. Perhaps it is Riley. He left Mafeking with despatches a week before I got there, but he was new to the game, and might easily have come to grief. But otherwise he ought to have reached our camp long before this.”

Jack lowered his rifle, and, removing his hat from his head, looked long and carefully at the stranger through his glasses. To all appearance he might be either a Boer or an Englishman, for he wore a ragged sombrero on his head and a tattered shirt on his back. His face was turned in the opposite direction from Jack, and every now and again he raised himself upon his elbow and looked out across the veldt. Then, as if with considerable effort, he dragged himself a few paces forward and looked out again.

“I believe that fellow is wounded,” murmured Jack. “At any rate I’ll get closer to him, and keep my gun ready in case of emergencies.”

Crawling stealthily forward, he made a slight détour, and soon approached the stranger within fifty yards. At this distance his appearance was certainly in favour of his being English, and taking up a position behind a screen of leaves, Jack called out: “Hallo, there!”

Instantly the stranger turned his head, and stared about him in bewilderment. Then he answered, in a tremulous voice: “Hullo! Help me for God’s sake!”

There was now no doubt that he was a comrade in distress, and, jumping to his feet, Jack ran across towards him, only to find that the poor fellow had fainted. Placing him on his back, Jack sprinkled some water on his face, and soon had the satisfaction of bringing him round.

“Who are you, old chap?” he asked.

“I’m Riley, from Mafeking,” the injured man answered.

“I was on my way to Lord Roberts, and reached here four days ago. I’d have got through safe enough if I hadn’t had the bad luck to be bitten by a snake. There is the beast over there. I put my blanket down and left it, to take the pony down to that stream behind the kopje, and on returning and seating myself at the end of the blanket, the brute suddenly sat up on his tail in front of me and struck before I could get away. You can see he hit my gaiter, scratched all down it, and then just managed to get to my skin through the canvas shoe I was wearing, owing to my boots having given out.”

Jack at once inspected the leg, and noticed that the gaiter, which was only half unfastened, was scratched from top to bottom as if with a sharp nail.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “That was three days ago, and you are alive now to tell me the tale! Then you are a lucky man, for that beast is a puff-adder, a most deadly snake! But for your gaiters you would certainly have died within two hours, and as it is, I don’t know how you escaped. What did you do?”

“I can scarcely tell you,” Riley answered weakly. “When I saw the beast and knew that I was bitten I was terrified, and could not collect my thoughts. Then I tried to remember what others had done under similar circumstances. I recollected that a knife and gunpowder were necessary, and I started to do something at once. With my knife I cut away the flesh round the red mark left by the snake’s fang, but I hadn’t the strength to break open a cartridge. Then I remembered that large doses of spirit were used, and having a bottle of hollands with me, I drank it down till my throat was almost scalded. After that I don’t recollect what happened. I suppose I must have become unconscious and delirious. When I came to again it was daylight; but I tumbled off into a heavy stupor, and on awaking found that another day had commenced. I was parched with thirst, but could not move a step, for my legs are paralysed from the hips. Thank God you have turned up, old chap! Give me another drink, like a good fellow.”

“What is to be done now?” asked Jack, as soon as the helpless Riley had satisfied his thirst. “I am bearing despatches to Lord Roberts, and must push on. Can you come with me?”

“Yes, if you lend me your pony,” replied Riley. “Mine must have strayed away.”

“Very well. You shall ride the pony, and I will walk,” Jack answered readily. “We’ll start to-night, and with a little luck ought to reach the camp by daylight.”

Taking the helpless Riley on his back, Jack carried him into a shady spot, and placed him on the grass beneath the overhanging branches of a large and solitary broad-leaved tree. Then mounting a kopje, and assuring himself that the surrounding country was clear of Boers, he collected a pile of dried grass and twigs, and set fire to it with his flint and steel. In his haversack he carried a piece of horseflesh, which had been given him ready cooked at Mafeking, and this he cut into slices and toasted over the flames. The meal was a welcome one to the poor fellow, who had so nearly lost his life alone on the desolate veldt.

“Thanks, Somerton, old man!” he said, looking gratefully at Jack. “But for you I expect all would have been up with me by now. Another day under this broiling sun, without water and food, would have killed me. I feel lots better already, and almost fancy the strength is returning to my legs. Do you know, I believe a little rubbing would do them good.”

“Then I’ll set to work at once,” Jack exclaimed cheerfully. “A bit of this horse-fat will act as a lubricant. Now let me begin.”

Taking each leg in turn, he smeared the skin with fat and rubbed it gently, Riley declaring that he already felt some improvement by the treatment, and begging Jack to repeat it later.

Now and again during the day Jack climbed to his lookout post again to see that no one was approaching, and during the afternoon both enjoyed three hours’ refreshing sleep.

When night fell Riley was almost able to support his weight on his legs, so rapidly were the effects of the snake-bite disappearing, and once Jack had hoisted him into the saddle he was able to retain his position there unaided.

“Now, old horse,” he said cheerily, “I am at your service. We are both of us bound for Roberts’s camp with despatches, and since I am more or less of a cripple and do not know the country, I place myself in your hands.”

“Then we’ll push ahead at once,” answered Jack. “Sing out if you are feeling knocked up, and be ready to be lifted off your saddle and lie down at any moment. The country a few miles south of this is full of Boers, who are always on the look-out for despatch-carriers.”

Taking the pony by the bridle, Jack stepped forward over the short grass of the veldt, and kept steadily on, hour after hour. Once or twice he listened eagerly, fancying he heard sounds, but on each occasion it was a false alarm, and after a moment’s pause he took the road again.

By midnight they were abreast of Kimberley, and two hours later, after making a wide détour, they caught sight of the twinkling fires in the British camp.

“Now we’ll have to be extra cautious,” whispered Jack. “If we are challenged by a Boer, leave the answering to me.”

“All right, Somerton!” Riley answered. Then suddenly pulling Jack by the coat, he exclaimed: “Hush! What is that? Look over there!”

Jack looked in the direction indicated, and caught sight of a dusky figure some thirty yards away. Instantly he let go of the bridle and unslung his rifle.

“Who goes there?” came a loud hail at this moment.

“Friend!” shouted Jack.

“Where from? Answer quickly, or I fire!”

“From Mafeking, with despatches,” Jack replied unsuspectingly.

“Advance, friend, and give the countersign!” the sentry now called out; and as soon as Jack and Riley had approached within ten yards he shouted, “Halt! Lay down your arms at once – you are prisoners!”

“Trapped, by Jove!” shouted Jack, snatching at his rifle; but before he could lift it a dozen other dark figures rose beside the sentry and covered him with their weapons. To resist would have been madness, and a minute later Jack and his friend were disarmed and being taken back towards the Boer camp at Magersfontein, Riley still mounted on his pony.

“What hard luck!” cried the latter bitterly. “We were within a couple of miles of our friends, and after all the trouble we had taken we deserved to get in safely.”

“Yes, it was rough luck,” Jack agreed cheerfully. “But it is the fortune of war, and there is no use worrying about it. I should not have minded so much if I had had a fight for it. To be taken without firing a shot is humiliating. But now we have nothing to do but to escape. I’ve managed that once before, and I’ll do it again if the chance comes.”

“Then I hope you’ll take me with you,” said Riley eagerly. “I’ve no special wish to spend my days a prisoner in Pretoria.”

Soon after sunrise that morning the two prisoners were brought into the enemy’s camp, and Riley was at once taken to the hospital and placed in charge of a Scotch surgeon who had been commandeered by the Boers. Jack was taken across to a large bell-tent, standing apart from the others in an open space, and ushered into it. It was most elaborately furnished. The floor was carpeted, and there was a handsome brass bedstead and a writing-table, seated behind which was a short, shabby, and vindictive-looking man, with iron-grey beard and whiskers, unkempt and undipped, and almost concealing a powerful-looking mouth, and eyes which flashed fiercely at the stranger Englishman. It was General Cronje, a man who had taken a prominent part in the first Boer war, and who had earned for himself the contempt of all Englishmen for his treacherous behaviour.

“Who are you?” he demanded, looking searchingly at Jack’s face.

“I am Jack Somerton, a despatch-rider, and now a prisoner in your hands,” Jack answered coolly. “Where are your despatches?”

“I don’t know, general,” was Jack’s calm reply, for, sharp of wit, he had torn and scattered his papers on the veldt the instant after being taken prisoner.

“Search him!” cried General Cronje. And then, as soon as Jack’s clothes had been thoroughly examined, he ordered him to be taken away.

Careless of the black looks with which the general favoured him, Jack swept his hat off and stalked unconcernedly out of the tent. He was then taken across to a large wagon laager, and given in charge of an armed sentry.

Ten days passed quietly, and during that time he was well treated, and was on good terms with his captors. On the 14th of the month there was a sudden stir in the camp, and mounted men galloped in and out.

“What is the matter?” Jack asked the young sentry who was in charge of him.

“Our scouts say that your countrymen are moving,” the Boer replied. “General French – that is what you call him, I think, – has been active. He and a lot of English guns and horsemen marched on Sunday to Ramdan, and next day pushed on to the Riet river. There was a fight, and we gave way, as it is not policy to prevent a foolish man running his nose into a trap. I hear he is now at the Rondeval Drift, on the Modder River, where we are again playing with him. Some fools here say he threatens our flank, but our general knows better. You will see, we shall eat up your general, and then we shall march south to Cape Town.”

Jack did not correct him, but smiled secretly, hoping and believing that the big movement of which he had carried the first tidings to Kimberley and Mafeking was at last actually begun. He knew that for more than a month much work had been going on in the British camp, and if the news he had just learnt were really true, it was extremely probable that Roberts and his troops were about to strike that blow at the Boer forces which should mean the turning of the tide, and a full compensation for all the care and thought taken in making their preparations.

On the following morning a wild-looking Boer galloped up to General Cronje, who was sitting smoking and sipping coffee outside his tent, and in an excited voice informed him that the British had crossed the Modder and had captured five laagers, full of stores, 2000 sheep, and a large number of cattle.

Jack happened to be near the general at the time, and his guard, who was a friendly young Boer, interpreted what was said.

At first the news evidently caused the general some excitement, and he rose to his feet and walked restlessly up and down. Then he suddenly sat down, lit his pipe again, and smiled sourly.

“Let them take the laagers,” he said in a rasping voice. “What does it matter? We shall take them back again. These Englishmen are brave, but they are fools, and have no cunning. You shall see. We will turn on him and eat up completely this General French and his men.”

Three other Boer leaders were standing near at hand, and as Cronje finished speaking, two of them nodded sagely and ejaculated: “Ja, Ja! we shall take the English soldiers. They are not wise.”

The third, however, who was a Free State burgher, differed.

“These English are not such fools as you think,” he said shortly. “I tell you, there is a big force advancing on our flank, and unless we do something, and at once, we shall ourselves be captured.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, you are too timid!” exclaimed Cronje fiercely, turning on him and scowling angrily at him.

The Free State commandant was on the point of answering back, and commencing a quarrel with his superior, when two more horsemen galloped up and reported news of the gravest importance. General French, accompanied by a column of some 10,000 mounted men and guns, was pushing straight forward for Kimberley, and the British foot were following, and already threatened the road to Bloemfontein.

Instantly all was confusion in the Boer camp. Valuables were hastily thrown into wagons, and within a very short time Gronje and his forces were in full retreat, a long column streaming across the veldt on the way to Bloemfontein, while a second and smaller one went north. Behind them they left all their stores, and even their dinners, which in the hour of departure they were unable to eat.

Jack was marched between two ruffianly-looking Boers with the first column, and watched with secret satisfaction the confusion that reigned everywhere, and the downcast looks of the men who had boasted only a few hours before that the British were in their hands.

At the head of the column, sullen and dejected, rode Cronje, and on either flank and far behind were Boer skirmishers ready to guard the long line of wagons.

All day they pushed forward, resting frequently to allow the tired oxen and mules to lie down. At night a laager was formed, but by daylight the long column had taken the road again, and was pressing forward in feverish haste towards Bloemfontein. Then came rifle shots in the distance, and with his glasses, which had fortunately not been taken from him, Jack made out men in khaki marching across the veldt some miles away.

They were the plucky soldiers of General Kelly-Kenny’s division, and now, having come up with the enemy after forced marches, they showed that they were determined that he should not slip through their fingers.

On the following morning Cronje and his forces were completely surrounded and hemmed in, for the British troops had engaged fiercely, and had compelled the Boer general to laager in the dry bed of the Modder river and stop his progress towards Bloemfontein. Then foot by foot they had crept round him, and on Sunday morning, when Jack looked out, men in khaki were all round, and he knew that Cronje and his force of some 6000 Boers were doomed.

In the camp were a few other English prisoners, including Riley, and these at once set to work with spade and pickaxe, and, copying the methods of the Boers, dug deeply into the ground and then tunnelled beneath it, forming large bomb-proof chambers. And in these for four awful days they lived, never daring to emerge save at night. And all the time the British troops swept the laager, which was spread over an area of some two miles, and devastated it with lyddite and shrapnel, killing most of the draught animals and setting fire to the wagons. But no one has ever equalled the Boers at trench-digging. In a marvellous manner they constructed bomb-proof chambers, and sat there for the most part safe from the British fire. But others of them tried to keep down the volleys of our soldiers, and amongst these death was soon busy.

On the 27th of February, celebrated all over the Boer dominions as Majuba Day, Cronje and his forces capitulated unconditionally, and, throwing down their arms, marched as prisoners into the British camp. With them were many women and children who had come from their homes to Magersfontein expressly to celebrate Majuba Day.

It was a glorious success, our first real one. And added to it all was the news that General French and his mounted men had relieved the invested and sorely-straitened town of Kimberley on the 15th.

When Jack entered Lord Roberts’s camp he was greeted by many friends and acquaintances, and eagerly questioned as to his experiences. Then he was conducted to the general’s tent, and gave the verbal messages entrusted to him by B. – P.

“Now, Riley,” he said, as soon as he was at liberty once more, “what are you going to do with yourself? I am going to Kimberley, and if you have nothing particular to take you down to Cape Town you had better come with me. A week or so’s rest will do you all the good in the world, for you are still far from strong upon your legs.”

“There is no reason for me to go anywhere in particular, old chap,” Riley answered. “I have no friends down this way, and may just as well stay in Kimberley till the road to Mafeking is open again. Yes, if you have business in Kimberley I will go along with you.”

“Well,” said Jack rather shamefacedly, “I cannot say that it is exactly business that takes me to the town. The fact is I am engaged to Miss Eileen Russel, and am anxious to find out how she is.”

“What, Eileen Russel, daughter of the colonist whose house was bombarded at the commencement of the war!” cried Riley in astonishment. “Yes, his house was attacked,” answered Jack, smiling.

“By Jove, then, you must be the fellow we all heard about!” shouted Riley, seizing Jack by the hand; “and now I understand why I could not make out where I met you before. Of course it was in Mafeking, and I remember you left us, to ride north. Good heavens, man! to think that we have been together all these days and you have never mentioned it! Why, the fame of that beating you fellows gave the Boers close to Kimberley has gone everywhere. Shake hands again, old man, and when we reach Kimberley I shall make a point of seeing this young lady and telling her what a brick you are.”

Two days later Jack and his friend left the English camp, and, passing through the lines of the Canadian troops, who had distinguished themselves for their bravery during the whole campaign, and especially in the attack upon the Boer laager, they trotted across the open veldt to Kimberley.

Tom Salter was the first to meet them, and at once conducted Jack to the house in which the Russels had now taken up their quarters.

“There you are, lad,” he said kindly, patting Jack on his broad back; “the girl’s in there, just crying her eyes out for you, and fancying you’ve been hurt. The news came over yesterday that you had been found in Cronje’s laager, and as nothing was said as to your being dead or alive, she has naturally been in a state of anxiety ever since. You go in, old boy, and I’ll take care of Riley. We’ll come along in half an hour and have a yarn.”

There is no need to tell of the joy of the meeting between stalwart Jack and his future bride. Of this be sure, the half-hour flew by so quickly that it seemed to be only a few minutes before Tom and Riley turned up again.

“What do you think of the town now?” asked the former, eyeing Jack quizzically. “I can tell you, my lad, it’s a tremendous relief to be free from those Boers and have plenty of good food and water again. I shall never forget that day when General French marched in. You’d have thought we were a lot of babies. The street was crammed with yelling crowds of pale, sickly-looking men, who had lived for weeks on less than half the accustomed amount, and I know that many a one was too feeble to choke back his sobs. And the women and the kids – God bless them! – just held up their arms and blubbered. I felt just like a girl. But it’s all over now, and we’re beginning to live like decent folks again, up in the air and daylight.”

“Yes,” Jack agreed, “you have had a terrible experience, and have come out of it wonderfully. Now it will be our turn to advance upon the Boer towns and retaliate.”

Far into that night they chatted, and then, bidding Eileen and Frank Russel good-night, Jack accompanied Tom Salter to his quarters. On the following morning he did not awake with that feeling of strength and vigour to which he was accustomed, and all day long was depressed by a feeling of weariness and lassitude. That night he was in a fever, and on the following morning was too ill to get out of bed.

Four months of hard work and exposure had told upon him. Weakened by his wound and by his stay in Ladysmith, Jack had fallen a victim to the foul water and odours of the Boer laager at Paardeberg, and had been struck down with typhoid fever. From that day, for more than three weeks he lay helpless and almost wholly unconscious, tended by his future wife and by another good Samaritan in the form of a soldier’s wife.

And while he lay in bed, fighting for his life, the British troops had been scoring successes. Scarcely had the news of the capture of Cronje and his force and the relief of Kimberley reached England when the glorious message was flashed along the cables that Ladysmith had been relieved on February 28th, after ten days of very heavy fighting.

On March 7th still more news was sent to England, for on that day Lord Roberts attacked a large force of burghers at Poplar Grove, on the road to Bloemfontein. For days they had slaved to dig their trenches, and these extended for miles and miles, while Presidents Kruger and Steyn themselves were there to cheer on their followers. But all to no purpose. We were not going to advance across an open plain and break our forces against an impregnable position. Instead, our cavalry and guns swept round towards the rear, and in an instant the Boers were galloping away towards Bloemfontein, leaving the labour of weeks behind them, and refusing to listen to the entreaties of their presidents, who were also compelled to join in an ignominious flight.

Pressing forward, Lord Roberts again attacked the enemy at Driefontein and dispersed them, killing 102. Driven from post to post, the Boer forces melted away from the neighbourhood of Bloemfontein, the capital of the Orange Free State, and on March 13th the town was occupied by the British without further opposition.

Then came suggestions of peace from President Kruger, demanding independence for both republics; and in reply the English Government refused to assure that independence, and declared its readiness to fight to a finish.

When Jack was at last well enough to be moved, and was taken down country and placed on board a ship, the Orange Free State burghers were throwing down their arms in all directions, a column was marching to the relief of gallant Mafeking, and our armies, the one in Natal and the other at Bloemfontein, were preparing for another crushing stroke.

Eileen and Frank Russel accompanied Jack, and on the same ship were Wilfred and his father and mother.

And how was the news of their coming received at Frampton Grange?

Almost every month had brought news of Jack, news of his daring and of his pluck People who knew Mrs Somerton wrote to congratulate her, while the neighbours for miles around made a point of calling to express their admiration of her stepson. And at length, from cordially disliking Jack, the two inhabitants of the old Grange had caught the general infection, and were as loud as any in his praises. He was weak and ill, and moreover he had much to blame them for, for neither had shown him much kindness after his father’s death; but they determined to make all that good to him, and when at last our hero did arrive at his old home, and, stepping from the carriage somewhat weakly, assisted the beautiful and blushing Eileen to the ground, both Mrs Somerton and Frank were there to greet them with a hearty welcome, while Frank Russel, who was also one of the party, had no cause to complain of his reception.

A minute later a dapper little man, with clean-shaven face, jumped from a trap which had just driven up, and Dr Hanly rushed forward to shake Jack by the hand.

“My dear old boy,” he cried excitedly, roused for once out of his usual placidness, “how glad I am to meet you! What a monster you have grown, and what a name you have made for yourself! Dear, dear! and it seems only yesterday that you went off with a thigh done up in plaster and as stiff as a ramrod, and here you are returning a little weak after your illness, but a man, every inch of you, and with a lovely lady by your side. Lucky dog! Introduce me. Miss Eileen, I shall take the liberty of an old man and a very old friend of Jack’s, and shall give you a kiss. You are a lucky girl, let me tell you, for amongst all our plucky lads there is only one Jack Somerton. Well, there is Mrs Somerton calling us, and – ’pon my word, here is old Banks.”

It was indeed a splendid welcome. No sooner had one shaken Jack by the hand than someone else appeared; a gardener, a groom who had seen some service, and now there was fat old Banks, who had been reinstated, waddling up, beads of perspiration on his smiling face, and his hair almost standing on end with excitement.

“Master Jack, it’s just going to be like old times again,” he murmured, and then shook his hand violently and coughed loudly to get rid of the big lump he felt sticking in his throat.

A home-coming after a long separation is the greatest of joys, and Jack’s was indeed a happy one. Everyone seemed to have a kind word for him, and, what he appreciated far more, a welcome for Eileen Russel.

At home, then, happy and contented, we will leave him, anxiously watching the doings of his comrades out in Africa, and patiently waiting for that day when Eileen should become his wife.

And, meanwhile, his days were fully occupied. Invitations poured in upon him to dine with the gentry round about, and many a time was Jack compelled against his will to narrate his doings with the gallant British troops. And chief of all those tales, the one most appreciated, was that describing the defence of Caesar’s Camp in Ladysmith, and how he had stood there shoulder to shoulder with the Highlanders and riflemen, keeping the Boers at bay “With Rifle and Bayonet.”

The End