The exquisite summer of 1901 was drawing to a close.
January and February had been months of unsurpassed splendour and riotous
luxury in fruit and flowers, each day being more gorgeous than the last. The
glorious sunsets, the mysterious and exquisitely peaceful moonlight nights
were a never-ending source of joy to our young writer, thrilling her being
with emotions not to be described.
Each morning at 5 o'clock, while the rest of the idiotic world lay asleep
within its cramped boundary of brick and stone, Hansie revelled in the
beauties of Nature, abandoning herself to at least one hour of perfect bliss
before the toil and trouble of another day could occupy her mind.
The garden being so situated that its most secluded spots were far removed
from any sights and sounds which could remind one of the war, Hansie had no
difficulty in turning her thoughts into more uplifting channels during the
peaceful morning hour, spent, when the weather permitted, in her favourite
corner under the six gigantic willows below the orange avenue.
And the weather in those days nearly always permitted!
Most of the entries in her diary she made in this fair spot, alone, but for
the sympathetic presence of her big black dog. The morning solitude was
amply atoned for by the dozens of young friends who joined the "fruit
parties" every afternoon, filling the air with their gay voices and
wholesome, happy laughter.
Four or five young men and a bevy of beautiful young girls were amongst the
most constant visitors at Harmony. The girls, often referred to in Hansie's
diary as the "Four Graces," were certainly the most exquisite specimens of
budding womanhood in Pretoria.
There was Consuélo, tall and slender, our languid "Spanish beauty," with her
rich brown hair and slumbrous dark-brown eyes; there was our little
Marguerite, fresh and fair as the flower after which she was named, an
opening marguerite in the dewy daintiness of life's first summer morning;
there was Annie, spoilt and wilful but undoubtedly the fairest of them all;
and then there was her sister Sara, Hansie's favourite, with a girlish charm
impossible to describe. Her creamy white complexion, her lovely soft brown
eyes, her winning smile and tender voice—what could be more delightful than
to sit and watch her as she moved and spoke with rare, unconscious grace,
clad in a snowy dress of fine white muslin!
One sweet summer morn, a Sabbath, if I remember correctly, when the air was
filled with the fragrance of innumerable buds and blossoms, Hansie sat in
the accustomed spot, with her diary on her lap. She was not writing then,
but, with a slip of paper in her hands and a gleam of mischief in her eyes,
she was repeating with evident enjoyment a few catching lines.
"Oh, Carlo, this is lovely! I must learn these verses and recite them to the
girls when they come this afternoon! Listen, Carlo."
FROM KITCHENER TO SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR
Sunday
I
am taking measures once for all to clear my reputation; I swear to give de
Wet a fall that means annihilation.
Monday
A
brilliant action by Brabant, the enemy has fled, Their loss was something
dreadful; ours—one single Kaffir dead.
Tuesday
De
Wet is short of food-stuffs, his ammunition's done, His horses are all
dying, and he's only got one gun.
Wednesday
The cordon draws in round de Wet; he now has little room, He only can escape
one way—by road to Potchefstroom.
Thursday
De
Wet is now caged like a rat, he's fairly in a box, Around him grouped are
Clements, Cléry, Methuen, French, and Knox.
Friday
An
unfortunate event occurred—I report it with regret, A convoy with five
hundred men was captured by de Wet.
Saturday
A
Kaffir runner says he saw de Wet's men trekking west, With ammunition for
two years, and food supply the best.
Saturday (later)
A
loyal farmer told our Scouts de Wet was riding east, Each man, beside the
horse he rode, was leading a spare beast.
Carlo wagged his tail sympathetically.
Overhead the sky was of the deepest, richest sapphire blue, paling away to
the horizon to the most delicate tints, against which the distant hills
showed up in bold relief.
"Gentleman Jim," one of the native servants, was evidently enjoying his
Sunday too, for he loitered in the garden, plucking up a weed here and there
and watching the bees at work, the busy bees who know of no day of rest.
"Bring me some grapes, please, Jim," Hansie called out to him.
"Yes, little missie," with alacrity. "What you like? Them black ones or them
white ones?"
"Some of both."
He
walked briskly to the house to fetch a basket and disappeared into the
vineyard, returning shortly with a plentiful supply of luscious grapes.
"Thank you, Jim. Enough for a week!" Hansie laughed, and he looked pleased
as he went off in the direction of the river.
A
few moments later, half concealed by the shrubs and rank grass with which
the lower part of Harmony was overrun, Hansie noticed two stooping figures
in khaki, moving forward cautiously and then making sudden dashes at some
object, invisible to the girl. She watched them intently, wondering who the
intruders were and what their game could be, until they came so near that
she was able to distinguish what it was they nourished in their hands.
Butterfly nets!
A
pair of harmless Tommies, spending their Sunday morning in catching
butterflies and the other insects of which there abounded so large a variety
at that time of the year.
They did not catch sight of the girl until Carlo sprang up barking
furiously, and then they started back in consternation and surprise.
"Lie down, Carlo," Hansie commanded sharply. "Good morning," to the men.
"Good morning, miss," respectfully; "I hope we are not intrudin'."
"Certainly not. Are you catching butterflies? Show me what you have got."
The men produced their spoil with pride.
"Will you have some grapes?" Hansie asked, handing the basket to one of
them, who helped himself gratefully and then passed it on to his comrade.
The latter, evidently not of a very sociable disposition, took a bunch and
walked off in pursuit of more butterflies.
The first soldier, however, squatted down on the ground at some little
distance from the girl and began to talk, as he ate the grapes with great
relish. At this point Carlo raised himself with the utmost deliberation,
yawned, stretched himself, and sauntering (I cannot call it anything except
sauntering) slowly towards his mistress, laid his full length on the ground
between her and the Tommy. Then he went sound asleep to all appearances, but
his mistress observed that when the soldier made the slightest movement, the
dog's ears twitched or an eyelid quivered.
Slowly eating his grapes, the man glanced curiously at the book on Hansie's
lap.
"Are you sketchin', miss?" he asked.
"No; writing."
"Poetry?"
There was no answer.
"I
am one of Lord Kitchener's body-guard," he went on presently. "We are
encamped near Berea Park on the other side of your fence. We were in
Middelburg last week and I saw one of the Boer Generals, General Botha."
Hansie's heart bounded. She looked at the man incredulously.
"Indeed! How was that possible?"
"Quite simple, miss. Lord Kitchener invited the General into town to have an
interview with him. His brother—I think his name is Christian—came with him.
I acted as their orderly."
"Tell me more, tell me everything," the girl's voice shook with
ill-controlled emotion.
"There were five or six other men with them. They arrived at about nine in
the morning and stayed until half-past four that afternoon. They had lunch
with Lord Kitchener. A fine man the General is, well set up, big and
broad-shouldered."
"Yes, I know." Hansie could not withhold those words.
"You know!" he exclaimed in great surprise. "Do you know General Botha?"
"Yes, indeed. And what is more, he is my General."
The soldier looked at her in ludicrous amazement.
"Are you a Boer? You don't look like one, and I never heard any one speak
better English."
"I
don't know whether what you are saying is meant as a compliment to me, but I
don't like being told that I don't look like a Boer, and I certainly would
not be pleased if you took me for an Englishwoman."
The poor Tommy looked troubled and muttered something about "no offence
meant, I am sure."
"Now please go on and tell me more about the General. Did you hear anything
of what he said to Lord Kitchener?"
"Nothing, miss, except when he went away. They shook hands very hearty-like
and the General said, 'Good-bye; I hope you will have good luck.' That was
all."
"Good luck! What do you think he could have meant?"
"We don't know, miss, but we think he meant good luck in Natal, for Lord
Kitchener went yesterday and I hear there is some talk of peace."
Hansie sat silent for a long time, turning these things over in her mind.
"But what is all this accursed war about, miss? We soldiers know nothing
except that we have to fight when we are ordered to do so."
"Of course you know nothing. An English soldier is nothing but a fighting
machine, not allowed to think or act for himself. Discipline is a grand
thing, but Heaven protect a man from the discipline of the British army. The
war? I will tell you if you want to know. The war is a cruel and unjust
attempt to rob us of our rich and independent land, and England is the tool
in base and unscrupulous hands. You suffer too, I know, and all my heart
goes out in sympathy to the bereaved and broken-hearted Englishwomen across
the seas. Their only comfort is their firm belief that their heroes died a
noble death for freedom and justice. Did they but know the truth! They died
to satisfy the lust for gain and greed of gold of mining magnates on the
Rand."
"Suffer, miss! As long as I live I will not forget that march from the
colony, through Bloemfontein to Pretoria. Fighting nearly every day and
marching at least thirty miles a day, on one biscuit. There was no water to
be had! Will you believe that for three days not a drop of water passed my
lips? And I heard the other fellows say, not once, but a thousand times,
'Would to God that a bullet find me before night!' Our tongues were hanging
from our mouths and our lips were cracked——"
"Stop!" Hansie cried, putting her hands to her ears. "I do not want to hear
another word. These things cannot be helped, and your officers suffered
too!"
"The officers! When at last the water-carts came, we had to stand aside and
watch while bucketsful were being carried into the tents for their baths!"
There was silence again.
"If I were an English soldier, I would run away," Hansie said.
"I've had enough, God knows, and when I get home I mean to leave the Army
and take up my old work—carpentering. The war can't last very long. England
is mighty—but I wish the bloomin' capitalists would come and do the
fighting, if they want this country and its gold-mines."
"There are only a 'few marauding bands' left, so the English say," Hansie
answered bitterly. "But remember what I tell you now. South Africa will be
soaked in blood and tears, and a hundred thousand hearts will be broken here
and in your country, before the mighty British Army has subdued those 'few
marauding bands.'"
The soldier's face grew troubled once again.
It
was a good, strong face—a patient face—and it bore the marks of much
suffering, endured in silence and alone.
He
rose and took off his cap.
"You've been very good to me, miss. I wish I could be of some use to you."
"Run away from Lord Kitchener!" she said, laughing. "I would be very sorry
indeed if you fell by the hand of one of my brothers."
He
looked at her sympathetically.
"How many brothers have you in the field?"
"God only knows," she answered sadly. "There were two left when last we
heard of them. The third has been made a prisoner."
The soldier took his leave and Hansie lost herself in reverie.
And when at last she roused herself, she wrote with rapid pen:
"Two Tommies have been in our garden, catching butterflies——" We know the
rest.
That afternoon about ten or twelve young people assembled in the garden and
were later joined by several members of the Diplomatic Corps—Consul Cinatti,
Consul Aubert, and Consul Nieuwenhuis, the most frequent visitors at
Harmony.
The topic of conversation was connected with General Botha's visit to Lord
Kitchener in Middelburg, and when Hansie told her friends what she had heard
from the soldier that morning, they expressed their conviction that every
word he said must have been true.
And the latest official war news, in rhyme, the dispatch from Kitchener to
the Secretary of State for War, came in for its share of attention,
occasioning no small amount of merriment.
Oh, happy afternoon! Oh, memories sweet! Oh, long departed days of good
fellowship and mutual understanding! Bright spots of gold and crimson in our
sky of lead!
Mrs. van Warmelo never at any time encouraged evening visitors. They were
all early risers at Harmony and their life could not be adapted to the
artificial, the unnatural strain of modern civilisation.
So
the quiet evenings were spent by the mother in reading and writing, while
the daughter gave herself up to the indulgence of her one great passion,
music. Scales and exercises, Schubert and Chopin, and invariably at the
end—before retiring for the night—Beethoven, the Master, the King of Music.
