Authors: Giles Foden
Food, food: it was that which consumed them most, after the ‘mere fact’ of shelling. Even bad food: the sour, acidic bread, the grey potatoes and stringy trek ox. Eating this stuff seemed to make the bad dreams worse. She tried to steel herself at night now. As she well knew already, you could get lost like that in the tunnels: one or two of the women had become properly hysterical, and had to be taken away to Intombi. She had toyed with the idea of pretending, so she could get through to see Jane. But the council would have to sign the pass. Father would know, and he would see that her application was refused.
She had not seen much of him. Every now and then he would come down, bringing some little offering of food—dried peas, an onion—in a paper bag, but otherwise it seemed he was busy with his work. He had been made a member of the Alien Persons Committee, which was vetting those civilians the army thought might be passing information to the Boers. It seemed that this had become a serious problem, for the Boer gunners had managed to pick out two of the main ammunition magazines. As these had been hidden, the deduction was made that information on their whereabouts had been transmitted from within the town. Said the widow: “The spies would have done better to tell them the location of the food stores.” Food, again. Bella thought of the kitchen in the hotel: the big range, the implements hanging from their hooks. All that stuff was useless now, when all that was available for cooking was a few sticks, a tiny flame and a pot of boiling water. It was as if they had gone back in time to a prehistoric era; it was as if they were real cave-dwellers now.
For Neanderthals, they got along well enough. Sometimes, in the outer gallery, the gloomy atmosphere lightened unaccountably, and they had a bit of a sing-song. One woman had a grey parrot, which at least provided much entertainment for the children: it had to be covered up during shelling, however, as otherwise it would get nervous and start to hop about and squawk.
There were incidents, of course. Another woman was hit by a shell as she was washing clothes, and bled to death before a doctor could be fetched. One day, a piece of the bank broke, and a section of the tunnels was flooded: everybody helped to bail it out, passing pots and buckets from hand to hand. Soldiers came to dam up the broken bank. Tom was among them, but though he waved, he appeared too busy to talk to her. That hurt her feelings. Had he abandoned her now? Left her to the underworld of the tunnels? Perhaps he really was just too busy. Bella thought about all this for some while, and in the end persuaded herself that she could accept his lack of attention.
There were excuses: this was a siege, he was a soldier. In any case, her—she struggled for a word—encounter with him, and her already mixed feelings for him, seemed now to belong to another age: the time of the hotel. Now they were in the time of the tunnels, and everything was changed and distorted and full of upset. The only thing to look forward to was the dance that had been scheduled for Christmas Day. Bella had put aside a white blouse especially for it, and spent the long days in the catacombs dreaming of being whirled round by a khaki youth. The only thing was, he didn’t have Tom’s face. She was not sure whose face he had.
O
ffice of Commissioner of Police,
Pretoria, 20
th
December 1899
Honourable Sir,
Herewith I send you 3 portraits of the prisoner of war, Winston Spencer Churchill, correspondent of the ‘Morning Post’ of London, who ran away from the State Model School here presumably between the hours of 10 o’clock on the evening of 12
th
and 4 o’clock on the morning of the 13
th
inst. Further described as follows:—
Englishman, 25 years of age, about 5 feet 8 inches in height, medium build, stooping gait, fair complexion, reddish brown hair, almost invisible slight moustache, speaks through his nose, cannot give full expression of the letter V, and does not speak a word of Dutch. Wore a suit of brown clothes, but not uniform—an ordinary suit of clothes.
It is necessary to mention that the accompanying photograph is a copy of one taken most probably about 18 months ago. Be good enough to show the public (as far as possible) this photograph, and request your police and the burghers to keep a sharp look out for the fugitive, and if he is identified to place him under arrest at once. Should anything important come to light with regard to the said prisoner I request that you will inform me of the same without delay.
I have the honour to be,
Your obedient servant,
The Honourable Resident Justice of the Peace
SCHWEIZER-RENECKE.
B
ella was applying what little powder and rouge she had left, or had been able to borrow, when the shell landed—so close that pellets of earth stung her face. It was a horrible thing to happen to a young woman on Christmas Day, especially one who had been happily anticipating going to a dance. After the explosion she fell grovelling to the ground and for several hours afterwards could only murmur, “Not hurt, not hurt.” Mrs Frinton took her in her arms and comforted her before putting her to bed.
So passed Bella’s Christmas morning. When her father came down to see her, he produced a letter from his jacket pocket and gave it to her.
“Happy Christmas, my love.”
It was from Jane.
Intombi Camp,
December 23, 1899.
My dearest Bella and Papa,
You will be pleased to hear that I am now fully recovered from my hysterics. I suppose I ought to tell you my story. When I was got into the train, they put me on a mattress and I was fed milk and biscuits—the only milk I have had since I saw you, as that commodity has long since run out. The journey was short, but even in my distress I was surprised when we just stopped and had to jump down in the middle of the veld, there being no platform of course, only a barbed-wire fence, inside which were pitched a vast field of tents and marquees.
I was put in a corner of one of these marquees, along with many other patients, some so badly wounded that I am ashamed I took my place there. A soldier who had lost his arm gave me a cup of stout, as I was still crying and shouting. You know that I normally detest it, but in a few moments I fell asleep. In the morning, I got talking to him, and he touched his tunic pocket and said, “Incase I kick the bucket, there are letters in here for my parents. I want you to have them.” The next day, he was dead, from loss of blood. This is a horrible place for making friends and losing them. Crosses are being put up in a field next door for all those who die.
There are some good and kindly nurses here. Nurses Wall and Rounsel have been especially sweet to me, and since my recovery I have been helping them in their work—which activity has helped me while waiting for all this to end and get back to you. Mostly I make arrowroot tea and distribute food—and talk to the patients, though there is a rule here that only the most ill must be petted or spoiled. The groans and cries of those with bad wounds, echoing out over the camp during the night, are too dismal to describe.
So do not let the fact that my spirits are higher than when I was with you last, persuade you that this is a pleasant place. In the day the heat in the tents is intense, and there are many scorpions, tarantulas and centipedesto contend with. Lately I have been helping in the fever tent, which is filling more rapidly than the wounds tent where I first slept. Now that I am ‘helper’ rather than ‘patient’ I sleep in a small tent: as I write, if I look up at the white roof of it, I see that the outside is dotted with thousands of black flies. They are drawn by the diarrhoea of the enteric sufferers, which gets everywhere, thereby infecting others, including many of the nurses and helpers. It often seems a hopeless business. The place smells terribly, and there are almost no medicines. Hardly a day passes but someone dies.
The rain is a blessing in lowering the temperatures, although it brings its own hindrances, sometimes pouring in under the canvas and washing us out. One day, a boot floated out from under a bed! We have also been struck by lightning, Nurse Rounsel being knocked down by a splintered pole. We have had to put upturned soda-water bottles on the poles as lightning conductors.
Lately, rations have been very scarce. In respect of this, I must report that I havemet a friend of ours—the young Zulu boy called Wellington, who staggered intoour camp one day with two heavy sacks of condensed milk and dropped exhaustedon the ground. When he rose up, after we had wiped his face with cold water, hesaid, in Zulu,
Pelindaba
—the end of the story. Bit by bit he told us what hadhappened: how the Boers had sniped at him all the way between the town and us. One bullet was deflected by the cans on his back. He is very brave, and it isto him that I have given this letter for delivery to you.
I very much hope that I myself will be delivered to you shortly, in the bosom of General Butter’s army: though his arrival has been so long promised and deferred that I am sick of hearing of it. Please both take care from shellfire.
I am,
Your most affectionate sister and daughter,
Jane Kiernan.
PS: I have drunk the dread Chevril, and to my surprise found it delicious and comforting, though the same cannot be said for the cow-heel jelly made from horse hoof, which is sickly and fermenting—it is also dyed mauve, I suppose as an encouragement.
B
ella’s shell was not the only one to fall on Christmas Day. Two others came in also. These did not explode, however, wooden plugs having been substituted for their fuses. On inspection, it turned out that they had been painted in the Free State colours and engraved ‘With the compliments of the season’. One was empty, the other filled with plum pudding. Another practical joke—the last word in Boer humour—was played by a burgher who crept down to within range of Green Horse Valley and emptied the magazine of his Mauser into it, calling out, “A Merry Christmas, rooineks.”
Dutch jokes excepted, the main presents exchanged at Christmas were mementoes of the bombardment. These now had a marketable value in the town. A go-pound shell, which must have cost the Boers about £35, would fetch £10 second-hand, which was a considerable sum. These were not the sort of presents likely to make the youngest among the besieged very happy, however, and a scheme was organized by Colonel Rhodes to entertain the two hundred and fifty or so children who remained in the town. Four big trees were erected in the auction rooms and decked with whatever decoration could be found. In the spirit of the Empire, the trees were labelled Great Britain, South Africa, Australia and Canada: they were, respectively, a pine, a thorn, a blue-gum and a fir.
Moreover, and even though it was 103 in the shade, a Father Christmas was contracted in the figure of Major Mott, who stalked round the town with branches of pine and a red cap covered with cotton-wool. When he came down to the Klip, the children poured out of the burrows by the river bank and trooped up into town after him as though he were the Pied Piper.
The Natal Mounted Rifles organized a mounted band, swinging a pair of oil-drums across the withers of a horse and making cymbals from the ends of kerosene tins. Other regiments celebrated the festive season in their own particular ways—with championship football and boxing matches, tugs-of-war, donkey derbies, and egg-and-spoon races, as the whim took them. The exigencies of the siege meant that mules were substituted for donkeys, and stones for eggs, but the enjoyment was not diminished.
That was the official version. Saving the matter of the Hamelin-like children, Christmas 1899 in Ladysmith was in fact characterized by people pretending to enjoy themselves. The lack of rich food and copious drink was keenly felt by all. The Green Horse had a very thin time of it, their experience of the festivities being among those described in a letter Tom Barnes wrote to his sister on New Year’s Day.
67111 Tpr Barnes, T.
Green Horse Valley,
Ladysmith,
January 1, 1900.
Dear Lizzie,
So, Christmas and New Year have passed and we are still imprisoned in this hole. Rather a grim Xmas. We did get so far as making a pudding out of some stewed pears, but it was hardly splendid seeing as it was cooked in our camp kettles and had no sugar in it—a foolish thing from start to finish. I had my last pipe afterwards: precious little tobacco here now until Perry arrives. God speed him and save him from Boer bullets—and me from their shell, which fall every day. I cannot get the hang of this country, burning hot one minute and throwing it down the next, leaving everything underwater. The wet brings thousands of flies into our tents, and sometimes we have to sit on our saddles, such is the flow of water under the canvas. The people who have tunnelled themselves against the shelling are constantly being washed out, including the young lady from the hotel. I am afraid to say that she has not been paying me so much attention lately, but we are all tied up with siegework—which is to say, survival.
I had a bit of excitement today. While on picket duty I spotted a flashing in a clump of trees. We had been told to shoot on sight when seeing such, as there is a considerable problem with spies in the town. This I did, but as I was aiming at the flashing amongst the greenery I only hit the traitor’s instrument: which I suppose pays tribute to my shooting, but did not please Lieutenant Norris, as I missed the culprit. On reaching the clump of trees, I caught a glimpse of a hefty figure disappearing down the slope. I did, however, discover the broken hand mirror with which he had been signalling, and a distinctive bootprint with a V in the middle. The authorities are on the point of arresting a man through the link of the mirror, but I doubt they have a case on which to convict him.
A farmer called Grimble died this morning, bombed while he was ploughing, which is not something you can say happens to us in Warwickshire. I had had a talk with him only last week. He said they can and do get two crops of everything here during the year, except tobacco; sad to relate that he will not be getting any more, thanks to Brother Boer. They are slovenly farmers here and very much behind the times as regards implements. Most of the ploughs are of the old-fashioned beam type and have one little wheel like a horse hoe. They just rout, not plough.