How the routine of life at Harmony was broken in upon by news "from the
front" that April month in 1901, I shall endeavour to relate.
Hansie coming home one morning from a shopping expedition, found her mother
in a state of suppressed excitement.
Everything was as much as possible "suppressed" in those days—goodness only
knows why, for surely it would have been better for the nervous and highly
strung mind if an occasional outburst could have been permitted. Hansie
suffered from the same complaint, and had to pay most dearly in after years
for the suppression of her deepest feelings.
There is a Dutch saying which forcibly expresses that condition of tense
self-control under circumstances of a particularly trying nature. We say we
are "living on our nerves," and that describes the case better than anything
I have ever heard.
Our heroines, like so many other sorely tried women in South Africa, were
"living on their nerves," those wise, understanding nerves, so knowing and
so delicate, which form the stronghold of the human frame.
The external symptoms of this state were only known by those who lived in
close and constant intercourse with one another. Hansie therefore knew, by
an inflection in her mother's voice, that something out of the way had
happened when she said:
"I
have had a note from General Maxwell."
"Indeed! What does he say?"
"He writes that Dietlof has been made a prisoner, and he encloses a telegram
from the Assistant Provost-Marshal at Ventersdorp, in the name of General
Babington, to say that Dietlof is well, as was Fritz when last seen. See for
yourself."
Hansie grabbed—yes, grabbed—the papers from her mother's outstretched hand.
"'When last seen?' Mother, what can that mean? Why have the boys been
separated?"
"That is what I should like to know," her mother answered. "I wonder how we
can find out. We must ask to see General Maxwell at once."
That afternoon the two women called at the Government Buildings and were
shown into the Governor's office.
He
seemed to be expecting a visit from them, and Mrs. van Warmelo apologised
for troubling him, reminding him of the promise he had made on the occasion
of their very first visit to him, that he would help them if they came to
him in any trouble.
This he remembered perfectly.
"What is it you want me to do?" he asked.
"If you will be so good, we want a permit to visit our prisoner in the
Johannesburg Fort, where he will probably be kept until he is sent to Ceylon
or where-ever he may have to go."
"Certainly; I will do this with the greatest pleasure. But first we must
wire and find out his whereabouts. I'll see about the matter and let you
know at once."
Thanking him gratefully, mother and daughter took their leave.
"We should have asked permission to take a box of clothes and other little
necessaries for our boy," the mother said.
"Yes, what a pity we did not think of it! But surely there could be no
objection to that! Let us get everything ready at least, and ask permission
when we hear from General Maxwell again."
The largest portmanteau in the house was overhauled and carefully and
thoughtfully packed by the mother's yearning hands.
No
article of comfort was overlooked, no detail of the wardrobe considered too
small for her closest attention and care.
Presently Hansie came with her contribution, a thick exercise-book and a
couple of pencils.
"Put these in, mother, if you still have room. I am going to ask Dietlof to
write down all his adventures in this book for us to read afterwards. It
will help him to get through his time of imprisonment."
(This small act, I may add here, led to the publication of her brother's
book, Mijn Kommando en Guerilla-Kommando leven—On Commando, in the English
edition—which was begun in Ladysmith and written in the Indian Fort at
Ahmednagar and smuggled out to Holland under conditions of such romantic
interest: the first book on the war, written during the war and devoured by
the public in Holland long before it was allowed to reach South African
shores—a book famed for its moderation and its truth, direct, sincere
throughout.)
That Saturday night poor Mrs. van Warmelo never closed her eyes. She feared,
and she had good reason to fear, that her son would pass through
Johannesburg, and be transported to some foreign isle, before a word of
greeting and farewell could be made by her. The thought of the morrow's
Sabbath rest and inactivity intensified her fears.
The first thing she said to Hansie next morning was:
"You must go to General Maxwell and ask whether there is no news for us."
"But, mother, this is Sunday!"
"I
know that. You will have to go to his house."
"Oh, I could not possibly do that. What does he care about our anxieties?
Besides, I think it would be most indiscreet."
"I
don't care," shortly.
In
the end Hansie had to go, and when once she had made up her mind she looked
forward with some pleasure to her little adventure, for there was no one of
the officials known to her for whom she had a more sincere regard than
General Maxwell. His house was but a few minutes' walk from Harmony, and
Hansie, looking up at the gathering clouds, hoped that she could be home
again before the approaching storm broke loose.
Our "brave" heroine trembled when she rang the bell, for all her distaste of
the task had returned with redoubled force, but her self-confidence was soon
restored under the genial warmth of the General's greetings.
He
did not seem to be the least annoyed or displeased at this intrusion on his
Sabbath privacy. And he was quite alone—not, as Hansie had feared to find
him, surrounded by a crowd of officers.
He
told her that though he had not been able to get news of her brother direct,
he knew that a large number of prisoners had arrived at the Johannesburg
Fort from Ventersdorp. He thought her brother would probably be amongst
them, and gave her special permits to Johannesburg and back, and also a
letter of introduction to the Military Governor in Johannesburg, asking him
as a personal favour to assist the ladies in their quest.
"If I were you, I would not wait for definite news, but go to-morrow on the
chance of finding him. Delay might bring you great disappointment. But, tell
me, Miss van Warmelo, are you not glad that your brother has been captured
and is out of danger now?"
"Glad? No, how can I be glad? It means a man less on our side—and he is a
man, I can assure you. If all the Boers were as brave and true—and such
unerring marksmen—the war would soon be over."
The Governor looked disturbed.
"It seems to me a strange thing for a girl like you to feel so strongly. Are
all your women such staunch patriots?"
"Not all, perhaps, but there are many who feel even more strongly than I
do."
The General kept her there and talked of many things, asked her innumerable
questions on the country and its people, and drew her out upon the subject
of the war.
Outside, the elements were raging, for the storm had broken loose, and the
rain came down in torrents, while the crashing thunder pealed overhead.
Hansie looked anxious, and the Governor said:
"It will soon be over. Are you afraid?"
"Oh no, I love our storms; but my mother is alone at home, and she does
not."
She told him, toying with her permits, of her curious collection of passes
and other war-curios, and he left the room with a friendly—
"Perhaps I can find something for you too," returning with a button from his
coat and a colonel's crown.
"The storm is over; let us see what damage has been done," and he led the
way into the garden, showed her the flowers, asked the names of shrubs
unknown to him.
"Oh, mother, the English must not be so good to us! It is not right to
accept favours at their hands, for it places us in a false position. Don't
ever ask me to go to General Maxwell again."
"Of course not. I quite agree with you, but I am very glad to have those
permits. Did you ask about the portmanteau and box?"
"Yes. He said it was all right, and promised to give permits, so that they
need not be examined."
They did not leave for Johannesburg, after all, on Monday, for a full list
of the names of prisoners from Ventersdorp arrived, but there was no van
Warmelo among them.
Telegrams were sent right and left, but there was something strange about
the whole affair, and no satisfactory answers could be got until five days
after the first tidings had reached Harmony. The prisoner was at
Potchefstroom.
Two more days of suspense and a note from Major Hoskins came, enclosing a
telegram—"Van Warmelo leaving to-morrow for Fort Johannesburg."
Great rejoicings! The women had begun to fear that their hero had been
whisked away to some remote portion of the globe, without one word from
them.
General Maxwell's letters of introduction acted like a charm when presented
at the various military departments in the Golden City.
Colonel Mackenzie, the Military Governor, gave the women a letter of
introduction to the O.C. troops, who directed them to the Provost-Marshal,
Captain Short, informing them that they would find him at his office in the
Fort.
The Provost-Marshal did not know that more prisoners from Ventersdorp were
expected that day. He thought there must be some mistake—unless—yes, there
would be another train at 5 o'clock that afternoon.
The ladies were advised to call again on Sunday morning and drove to Heath's
Hotel, where they had taken up their quarters. How quiet and deserted the
Golden City looked! How bleak and desolate, with the first breath of winter
upon it!
Poor Hansie had a shocking cold, and as she drove through the silent streets
with her mother all the miseries of the past eighteen months came crowding
into her aching heart and throbbing brain.
What would the meeting be like to-morrow? Would he be changed? And what
would he have to tell? The question still remained whether he would be
allowed to tell them anything about the war at all——
Suddenly a brilliant thought flashed into Hansie's mind.
"Oh, mother, let us go to the Braamfontein Station and see the train arrive.
I know we won't be allowed to speak to him, but we may at least wave our
hands and look at him."
Her mother was delighted with the thought, and at 4 o'clock that afternoon
they took a cab to Braamfontein Station.
The train had been delayed, and would be in at 6 instead of 5 o'clock, so
they were told, but, for fear of having been misinformed, they decided to
wait at the station.
Cold, dusty, pitiless, the keen wind blew on that unfriendly platform. There
was no ladies' waiting room—in fact, it seemed as if the rooms had all been
utilised for other, perhaps military, purposes.
It
is incredible the amount of suffering that can be crowded into one hour of
waiting!
Thank God, at last the train steamed in.
Armed troops and an unusually large number of passengers alighted on the
platform, but there was not a prisoner to be seen. The desperate women
walked up and down, keenly scrutinising every face they passed, until they
heard a well-known, highly excited voice calling out "Mother! Mother!" to
them from behind. They turned and saw their hero tumbling from the train, an
armed Tommy at his heels.
There are no memories of the moments such as those which followed.
Things must have been rather bad, for when Hansie looked round again the
armed soldier had turned away and was slowly walking in another direction.
Blessed, thrice-blessed Tommy!
To
this day when Hansie thinks of him she remembers with a pang that she did
not shake hands with him.
"May we walk with the prisoner as far as the Johannesburg Fort?" Hansie
asked.
"Certainly, miss."
How the people stared and turned round in the street to stare again!
And now that I come to think of it, it must have looked remarkable—a
ruffianly-looking man, carrying a disreputable bundle of blankets, a tin cup
and water-bottle slung across his shoulders all clanking together, and a
small Bible in his hands, with a well-dressed lady on each arm and an armed
soldier behind, guarding the whole!
The prisoner was a sight! The old felt hat was full of holes, through which
the unkempt hair was sticking, and the dirty black suit was torn and
greasy-looking—but the face, except for the moustache and unfamiliar beard,
was the same, the look of love in the blue eyes unchanged.
It
seemed like a dream, incredibly sweet and strange, to be walking through the
streets of Johannesburg in uninterrupted conversation, carried on in Dutch,
with him, and to be able to ask the burning questions with which their
hearts had been filled all day—why he was alone, where he had left Fritz,
how and where he had been captured.
Everything was explained on that memorable walk, simply and briefly
explained, for the time was short, and under the circumstances Dietlof would
not give any details of information concerning the war, considering himself
bound to silence by the guard's trust in him.
He
had been promoted to the position of commandeering officer by General Kemp
and had been in the habit, for some time past, of leaving his commando for
days at a stretch on commandeering expeditions.
About four days before his capture he had left his people again for the same
purpose, and on this occasion he had fled before the enemy for three days,
falling into their hands through the death of his good horse through
horse-sickness.
His brother Fritz was under General Kemp with Jan and Izak Celliers (this
was the first news Mrs. van Warmelo heard of Mr. Celliers' safe arrival on
commando, after the adventures undergone by him and described in Chapter
IX), and a few others of his most trusted friends, but what they must have
thought of his inexplicable non-appearance Dietlof did not know, but he
feared they would be undergoing much anxiety on his account.
Near the entrance of the Fort mother and daughter took their leave, thanking
the soldier warmly for his kindness to his charge, whom they hoped to see
again the following morning.
Very different was the meeting then!
The prisoner, a forlorn object, stood between two guards, before the
Provost-Marshal's office, when the cab containing the two women drove up.
Hansie jumped out and was going up to her brother, when one of the soldiers
said to her:
"You may not speak to the prisoner."
"But I may kiss him!" Hansie retorted, throwing her arms round his neck and
giving him a kiss which could be heard all over the Fort.
There was a general laugh, and Mrs. van Warmelo promptly followed suit.
Dietlof was called into the Provost-Marshal's office and cross-questioned,
while his mother and sister waited outside impatiently. What a lengthy
examination! Quarter of an hour, half an hour passed, then he appeared with
a soldier, who said curtly:
"You may talk to the prisoner for half an hour in English!"
I
forget how many minutes of the precious thirty were lost in groping
desperately for some topic of conversation suitable to the occasion, and
safe! but when at last they found their tongues, they talked so fast that it
is doubtful whether the Tommies understood anything.
Hansie longed to ask her brother whether the Provost-Marshal knew anything
of their escapade the night before, but dared not, hoping that the men
concerned were under the impression that this was their first interview with
the prisoner.
He
told them some of his war experiences and the fights he had been in, for the
Provost-Marshal had given him permission to speak of his personal
experiences of the war.
One incident Hansie remembered particularly, because of a curious
coincidence connected with it.
In
describing the battle of Moselikatsnek, under General de la Rey, in which he
and Fritz had taken an active part, he told his mother and sister of a young
English officer, Lieutenant Pilkington, whom he had found lying alone in a
pool of blood among the rocks and shrubs. Dietlof tended him, giving him
brandy from a flask which he always carried with him for such purposes, and
laying grass under him on the hard rocks. The poor man was shockingly
wounded, and it was evident that his case was hopeless. He held Dietlof's
hand, imploring him not to leave him, but Dietlof was the forerunner of the
seven burghers who were forcing their way wedgelike through the English
ranks in order to compel the enemy to surrender by attacking them from
behind. He considered it his duty to go forward, but assured the dying man
that the comrades who were following in his wake could speak English and
would care for him. The donga was strewn with dead and dying English.
In
the meantime the younger brother Fritz was tending a soldier with a terrible
wound in the head. The seven men were now advancing steadily from one ridge
to the other, but Dietlof had reached a point on which the burghers from
behind were bombarding with their cannon, and as the rocks flew into the air
he found it impossible to proceed.
He
therefore returned, and the captain sent a dispatch-bearer down with orders
that the cannon-firing should cease.
For a moment Dietlof went back to the wounded lieutenant, where he found
some of his comrades assembled, and while they stood there the unfortunate
man, exhausted by loss of blood, drew his last breath.
Through incredible dangers the seven burghers forced their way through the
donga until they reached the point from where they could attack the enemy
from behind. It was a most critical moment, for they were exposed to the
constant fire of their own burghers, under Commandant Coetzee, as well as
that of the enemy, but soon they were relieved to see the white flag
hoisted, and were then joined by the rest of the commando.
The English could not believe that the party which had attacked them from
behind had consisted of only seven men.
Colonel Roberts, Lieutenant Lyall, and Lieutenant Davis were taken with 210
men of the Lincolnshire Regiment. One officer escaped while the burghers
were disarming their prisoners and yielding themselves to the spirit of
plunder with which every man is possessed after a severe struggle for
victory.
Of
dead and wounded the burghers had lost thirteen or fourteen men, but the
seven forerunners, who had been exposed to the greatest dangers, escaped
without a scratch, while the enemy, in spite of the fact that they had been
under cover throughout, lay dead and dying in large numbers.
Strange to relate, a letter from an English officer fell into Dietlof's
hands some weeks later, and in glancing over it his eye fell on the words,
"Lieutenant Pilkington is also dead—you know that famous cricketer."
And still later Hansie heard from her brother that one of the seven men,
Field-cornet von Zulch, who afterwards joined him as prisoner of war in the
Ahmednagar Fort, told him that he had received a letter from Lieutenant
Pilkington's mother, begging for more particulars of her son's last moments.
Many wonderful experiences were related, many glimpses given into the
conditions of commando life. The young man dwelt lightly for a moment on his
hardships and privations, saying, "Mother, do you know those woollen Kaffir
blankets with yellow stars and leopards, and red and green half-crescents?"
"Yes," his mother answered expectantly.
"Well, I once had a pair of trousers made of that material."
Everyone laughed.
"But there are worse things than that," he continued; "unmentionable
horrors—things you pick up in the English camps and can't get rid of
again——"
Hansie understood.
"You will find a tin of insect-powder in that wonderful Indian juggler of a
portmanteau," she said, "and don't forget to use the blank exercise-book."
The thirty minutes were over, and they were considerately left alone for a
few moments——
