That there is more than one man of the name of Jan Celliers in South Africa
I know, but there is only one Jan Celliers who can be honoured by the title
"Poet and Patriot," and that is the remarkable personality of our friend in
Pretoria, J.F.E. Celliers.
I
have chosen him as the subject of this chapter, not so much because of the
important, I may almost say revolutionary part he has played in the building
up of South African literature since the war, as on account of the unique
patriotism displayed by him throughout the war under circumstances of the
severest test and trial.
How he, after active service in the field since the beginning of the war,
came to be locked up in Pretoria as an unseen prisoner of war, an unwilling
captive between the green walls of his suburban garden, when the British
took possession of the capital on that stupefying June 5th, 1900, we shall
briefly relate in this chapter.
Mr. Celliers' experience was that of many good and faithful burghers.
The news of heavy Boer losses, the desperately forced march of the British
troops from Bloemfontein to Pretoria, the crushing blows in quick
succession, the departure of the Boer Administration from the seat of
government, the demoralisation of the scattered forces, and the painful
uncertainty of what the next step was to be—these things, combined with the
fact, in Mr. Celliers' case, of having no riding-horse or bicycle on which
to escape from the town, caused him to be surprised by the wholly unexpected
entry of the British forces into the capital. Just a brief period of dazed
inaction, a few hours of stupefied uncertainty, and he found himself
hopelessly cut off from every chance of escape.
He
planned escape from the beginning, for conscientious scruples forbade his
taking the oath of neutrality. Of the oath of allegiance there was no
question whatever.
There was nothing for it but to keep himself hidden until an opportunity for
escaping to his fellow-countrymen in the field presented itself.
The first three weeks were spent in the garden, but it soon became evident
that listening ears and prying eyes were being paid to discover his
whereabouts, and closer confinement was found necessary. Thereafter he sat
between four walls, reading and writing during the greater part of the day,
keeping a watchful eye on the little front gate through a narrow opening in
the window-blind and disappearing, through a trap-door, under the floor as
soon as a soldier or official entered the gate.
When darkness fell he left his cramped hiding-place, and gliding unseen
through the house and yard, this weary prisoner occupied himself with
exercises for the preservation of his health, running, jumping, standing on
his head, and plying the skipping-rope vigorously, under the protecting
shadows of the dark cypress trees.
The weeks went by, broken once by the intense excitement of a visit of one
of the burghers from the field.
Mrs. Celliers' brother, M. Dürr, had crept into town at dead of night
between the British sentinels on a dangerous mission for the Boers. A short
week he spent with his brother-in-law, sharing his confinement and making
plans for his escape. Then he was gone, and the old deadly monotony settled
over the house once more.
July went by, and August was nearly spent when at last an opportunity
presented itself, and Mr. Celliers, in woman's garb, bade wife and children
a passionate farewell, not to see them again for nearly two years.
With a cloak over his shoulders and a high collar concealing his closely
cropped hair, his wife's skirt on, and a heavy veil covering a straw hat, he
stepped boldly into a small vehicle standing waiting before his gate and
drove through the streets of Pretoria. For the time at least he too belonged
to the "Petticoat Commando." Mrs. Malan was in the cart, and had been sent
by Mrs. Joubert to escort him through the town.
The disguise was taken before a thought could be given to the possible
consequences of such a step. Spurred by the heroic attitude and fine courage
displayed by his wife, Mr. Celliers lost not a moment in availing himself of
the long-looked-for opportunity.
The thrilling adventures and hairbreadth escapes he went through in that
memorable flight for duty and freedom will no doubt be found accurately
recorded in his book on the war, which I know to be "in the making" at the
present moment. Suffice it to say that he reached the farm of a friend near
Silkatsnek in safety, where, he had been informed, he would find Boer
commandos in the neighbourhood.
Disappointment awaited him, however. The commando had withdrawn to the
north, followed closely by thousands of British troops whose proximity to
the farm made it dangerous, not only for him, but for the people who
harboured him, to remain there longer than one night. A farm-hand, a trusted
native servant, was asked to undertake the task of escorting Mr. Celliers to
the Boer lines. After some hesitation he consented. The risk was great, but
the promise of £20 reward when the war was over acted like a charm, and the
two set forth before break of day on their perilous adventure.
Here and there the tiny light of an outpost on the open field warned them to
make a wide détour. The crackling of the short burnt stubbles of grass under
their feet caused them to hold their breath and listen with loudly beating
hearts for the dreaded "Halt! Who goes there?"
When the light of day began to break over earth and sky, the Kaffir, in
evident anxiety, warned the Baas to hide in a large dense tree while he, the
Kaffir, went on ahead to reconnoitre. He departed—not to return again, base
coward that he was, and the unfortunate man in the tree waited for hours
until it dawned on him that he had been deserted at the most critical
moment. He stepped from his hiding-place, quickly deciding to walk
nonchalantly forward, the open veld leaving no possible means of pursuing
his way under cover.
He
passes many isolated homesteads, some ruined and deserted, others inhabited
by aged people, delicate women, and little children only. One and all they
shrink from him when he relates his story. They do not trust him—he may be
in the employment of the British, a trap set for the unwary; their homes are
closed to him. He pursues his way wearily. What is that approaching him in
the distance? With straining eyes he is able to distinguish a group of
horsemen coming towards him, and with lightning-like rapidity he turns from
his course and jumps into the washed-out bed of a small rivulet flowing by.
A group of startled Kaffir children gaze at him in astonishment. The riders
come in clear view—not horsemen, but a number of Kaffir women with
earthenware pots on their heads. These they fill with water, and mounting
their horses depart the way they came.
With renewed hope and thankfulness at his heart our traveller resumes his
course in the lengthening shadows of the short winter afternoon. At last he
reaches a German mission station.
No
refuge for him here! For the inhabitants are "neutral," but he is informed
that a few days before 20,000 British troops had passed that way in a
northward direction, in hot pursuit of the Boer commandos fleeing to the
Waterberg district. The benevolent old missionary directs him to a small
farm in the neighbourhood where a Boer woman lives alone with her little
children. Perhaps she can give him some idea of the safest route for him to
take. But no, the woman turns from him in extreme agitation, refuses to
answer his questions, and is so evidently distressed at his appearance that
he turns away and withdraws to the veld to think. What now? What now?
He
is sitting on the outskirts of the great bush-veld, that endless stretch of
forest-growth, dense and dark as far as the eye can reach. Shall he enter
that, unarmed, without provisions or water and totally ignorant of the
direction to take? He shudders. The blackness of the night is creeping over
the scene, and over his soul desolation and despair.
"I
must return to the mission station," he decides at last. "Surely they will
give me refuge for the night!"
Slowly he drags his weary limbs across the veld, hesitatingly he presents
himself, falteringly he proffers his request. A moment's hesitation and the
family circle opens to receive him, its members crowd round him with words
of comfort and small deeds of love. They are not doing right, but they will
do well. Nothing is left undone to restore and refresh the exhausted
fugitive, who soon finds himself in a perfect haven of domestic happiness
and luxury.
As
the evening wears on, the small harmonium is opened, and while the younger
members of the family are singing sweet part-songs together, our hero turns
over the leaves of a small book he has found lying on the table, a book of
German quotations. His eyes are attracted by the following lines by Dessler:
Lenkst du durch Wusten meine Reise,Ich folg, und lehne mich auf DichDu gibst
mir aus der Wolken SpeiseUnd Tränkest aus dem Felsen mich,Ich traue Deinen
Wunderwegen,Sie enden sich in Lieb und Segen,Genug, wenn ich Dich bei mir
hab.
They are like balm to his troubled soul, and he commits them to memory for
future use. God knows the future looks desperate enough to him, for he feels
that he cannot remain in this haven of rest. Consideration for the safety of
his kind friends forbids this. He soon departs, having heard that, for the
present at least, the western direction is open to him, and, in taking this,
his tribulations begin afresh.
Unused to exercise as he has been during the long months of his confinement,
this traveller, in pursuing his course with so much patience and steadfast
determination, now finds himself hardly able to walk. The tender feet are
swollen and bleeding to such an extent that he finds it impossible to remove
his heavy boots. Halting, stumbling, he continues on his way.
By
good fortune he meets with another Kaffir guide, who leads him to a small
Kaffir hut and revives him with a draught of Kaffir beer. A few moments'
rest, and they are on the way again.
The day was far spent when they reached a Kaffir kraal, and here Mr.
Celliers sank down in agony of mind and body, too great for words. More
Kaffir beer was respectfully tendered to him and he drank it gratefully,
meanwhile watching with dull interest the Kaffir babies, jet black and stark
naked, except for a small fringe of blue beads about the loins, as they
crept around him, like so many playful kittens.
He
was not long allowed to rest, the good guide urging him to make a final
effort, and encouraging him with the assurance that he would find a farm not
far distant, the home of Mr. Piet Roos, of Krokodil Poort.
This goal was reached that night, and a cordial welcome given to the poor
exhausted traveller, although he was warned that he could by no means
consider himself safe on the farm, as the British passed it nearly every
day. Nigh three weeks he spent there, taking refuge under the trees of an
adjacent hill by day and sleeping under the hospitable roof by night. As
time went on and the visits of the Khakis became rarer, he became more at
ease, and often worked with the farmer and the women in the fields, helping
them to dig sweet-potatoes, and assisting his host in the work of sorting,
drying, and rolling up the leaves of the tobacco-plant. He also became an
expert in the art of making candles, and took active part in the other small
industries carried on in that frugal and industrious household, and the
evenings were spent in poring over maps, geographical and astronomical,
which his host happened to possess. Many were the questions put to him, and
long the discussions about worlds and suns and planets, while the busy
fingers plied and rolled tobacco leaves, but these discussions generally
ended in a sigh, a shake of the head, and an unbelieving, "there must be
something solid under this earth," from the sceptical host.
The time was now approaching for the fulfilment of his heart's ambition, but
there is still one small incident to relate before we leave our hero. One
day, while he was still on the farm, he was passed by a Kaffir, whom he
questioned as to his destination. The native replied that he was on his way
to Pretoria, and the happy thought occurred to Mr. Celliers to ask this
native to let his wife know that her husband was in perfect safety.
Now the remarkable part of this incident was, that that unknown native took
the trouble to deliver his message faithfully and conscientiously, and it
was only after the war that Mr. Celliers heard from his wife that she had
received news of his successful escape from a strange Kaffir, who said he
had been sent by her husband. This is a striking instance, well worth
recording here, of the sagacity and fidelity of some members of the heathen
tribes.
It
was on September 13th that unexpected deliverance came in the shape of a
Boer waggon in search of green forage for the horses on commando. Mr.
Celliers instantly decided to accompany the waggon back to the lager, and
prepared himself for departure that very day. Tender, grateful leave was
taken of the good friends who had harboured him so long, and he drove away,
seated, with his few worldly possessions beside him, on the top of a load of
green forage.
The next day he arrived at the lager of Commandant Badenhorst's commando on
the farm Waterval near the "Sein koppies," and now we close the chapter with
the following words, which I have translated from his diary:
"The crown has been set on my undertaking. God be thanked, I find myself
again amongst free men, with weapon in hand. For the first time in the past
four months I feel myself secure. There is no one, on my arrival, who gives
one sign of interest or appreciation; one burgher even asks me why I had not
rather remained in Pretoria.
"This stolid and philosophic view of life is characteristic of the Boer and
certainly does not discourage me.
"Excitement and enthusiasm do not appear to be the children of the great
solitudes, the slumbering sunlit vastnesses; nay, rather do they spring from
the unbroken friction of many spirits, sparks bursting from the anvil of the
great, restlessly driven activity of the world."
Mr. Celliers remained in the field until the war was over.
