Authors: Giles Foden
As he later recorded it: “To my astonishment, I noticed that the snake’s inside was pure white. I looked closer. It was white cotton wool. The skin was a silken umbrella case. The body was carefully wound round with black thread, and a long piece of cotton projected from the mouth—the place where the deadly fangs ought to have been.”
Maud’s china-blue eyes widened in amazement when Nevinson told him about it, and the affair of ‘the magic snake’, as it came to be known, provided much material for discussion in later days and weeks.
So did the grievous condition of Steevens, who continually asked for them to fetch his wife. Whenever the nurse came into the tent, he would think it was her. At other times he believed himself in a ship journeying homewards, and would cry out “Five bells! Five bells!” in a most distressing manner.
Nevinson suspected this last fantasy was due to Steevens’s memory of his final trip outside the cottage before his confinement, during which he had visited one of the naval gun emplacements. He had read Steevens’s notes on the subject, and could divine in them clear signs of delirium, for his colleague had written of being on deck among white-clad ladies in long chairs, of swishing through cool-blue water with the hot iron hills of Natal swimming away in the background. It was poetic, but pitiful.
Amours de voyage?
Hardly.
They had been feeding Steevens with Chevril. The bottled horse extract issued by the Commissariat was sustaining but frightful stuff. Far stronger than the Bovril in imitation of which it was named, it went off quickly, often smelling high when the brown bottle was opened. The brew was made by stewing the bones and flesh of the horses, the strength being raised by successive bouts of boiling and evaporation. It was said to be the intestines and other internal organs of the animals that gave Chevril its flavour, and since many of the animals had simply withered away, dropping in the street and lying there unable to get up again, it did seem likely that there could not be much taste in the muscles that had once been their pride, and were now simply meat.
Many of the Indians and Africans were dropping in the street as well, being on still skimpier rations than the Europeans, in spite of the sterling service they were now doing in trench-digging, domestic work and scouting. The young lad Wellington was now employing himself sneaking supplies through the Boer lines into Intombi Camp, and had been commended for it by Major Mott. No one had really been counting the casualties among these races, but Nevinson suspected that they suffered more than their fair share, given the paucity of shelter that was left to them. The Hindus especially were brave in the face of shellfire, looking on Destiny with fateful resignation. Rashid, former carrier to Gunner Foster, had since the latter’s death become famous in the town for falling reverently to his knees and uttering prayers at the approach of a shell from Long Tom.
At evening, with his stick under his arm, Nevinson took his customary constitutional. His route happened to take him up by the railway station. Unused for its true purposes since the beginning of the siege, the engine shed was now the soup manufactory where the corpses of the recently slaughtered horses were boiled up to make the Chevril and other new products which necessity had generated: jellies, lozenges and a rather ghoulish ‘sandwich spread’ made of pounded bone. Every day, huge red sides of horseflesh were run through the town in trolleys up to this place.
The vapours resulting from the boiling—which went on every night now—could be smelt a good five hundred yards away. Yet despite feeling queasy, Nevinson couldn’t resist having a look. He pushed open the large wooden door of the shed and went in. It was a veritable hell’s kitchen, filled with smoke and greasy steam. The men from the Commissariat had lit wood fires in the long trenches where the engineers had hitherto worked beneath the engines, and left them to burn overnight under seventeen large steel tanks. These cauldrons—in fact, iron trucks with the wheels removed—had been plastered round with clay to keep in the heat. Inside them (as Nevinson peered in) could be seen bluish joints of horsemeat, tumbling about in the simmering water. There was something hypnotic about this sight, and he stood there for a good five minutes watching pieces of flesh detach themselves from bones and flick up in the grey foam: every now and then a recognizable fragment could be seen—a piece of rib-cage, or a skull’s empty eye socket.
On seeing this, Nevinson had to avert his own eyes, though he was not so sickened that he failed to take advantage of there being no one about to scrape up a bit of fibrous matter from the bottom of an empty tank with his stick. At the same time as making him feel nauseous, the smells had made him realize how hungry he was; or more specifically, how he craved protein. He chewed this meaty residue as he walked back to the cottage, reflecting that it was rather like bits of mashed-up rope, and probably didn’t actually contain much nourishment. Still, it filled the belly, and he slept well that night.
The following morning was unremarkable except for the arrival by runner of a newspaper reporting the escape of Winston Churchill from the Boers. Apparently he had climbed over the wall of the place in which he had been imprisoned, and without maps or food had decided to head for the border with Portuguese East Africa, nearly 300 miles away. This he had achieved by following the railway and using the stars to guide himself. After diverse excitements, including hiding down a mine, he had secreted himself in a goods train and finally reached Delagoa Bay, and was now bound for Durban by the steamer
Induna
. Knowing that Steevens would be interested in the adventures of his old friend (who now had a Boer price on his head), and thinking it might help him regain his senses, Nevinson took the paper down to the sick man’s tent.
But before he even got to the tent, he knew that Steevens was in no condition to read the story. The poor man was singing, at the top of his voice and to the tune of ‘Three Blind Mice’: “Yes please, sirs! Yes please, sirs! Yes please, sirs!”
“He was convalescent yesterday,” said the nurse, who was sitting outside, “but he has been raving ever since he woke up this morning. I am afraid that he hangs by a thread.”
Nevinson pulled aside the tent flap and went in. The air was filled with a typhoid stench, and Steevens was thrashing about on the camp bed. On seeing his friend, he froze, looked him in the eye and said peremptorily, “On deck! Get me up on deck!”
At a loss as to what to do, Nevinson sat down and read him the article about Churchill. Every now and then, as he read, Steevens moaned, or shouted a scrap of verse:
There was an Old Person of Troy
Whose drink was brandy and soy
…
MR WINSTON CHURCHILL’S ESCAPE
Details Of His Journey
From our special correspondent
By Eastern Telegraph Company Cable
Chieveley Camp, Monday 5.35 pm
Mr Winston Churchill has arrived here. He tells us that the Boers treated him with kindness and even unselfishness. When he refused to answer questions, they admitted that it was not fair to put them, and they were scrupulous not even to contradict a prisoner in argument. He returns with very high opinions of the Boer military genius. Before leaving Pretoria he left letters for the officials regretting that the circumstances did not permit him to take a formal farewell.
In a special edition published yesterday, the
Morning Post
prints the following telegram from Mr Churchill:
Lourenço Marques, December 21, 10 pm
I was concealed in a railway truck, under great sacks. I had a small store of good water with me. I remained hidden, chancing discovery. The Boers searched the train at Komati Poort, but did not search deep enough, so after sixty hours of misery I came safely here.
I am very weak, but I am free. I have lost many pounds weight, but I am lighter in heart.
I shall also avail myself of every opportunity from this moment to urge with earnestness an unflinching and uncompromising prosecution of the war.
On the afternoon of the 12
th
, the Transvaal Government Secretary for War informed me that there was little chance of my release. I therefore resolved to escape the same night, and left the State schools prison in Pretoria by climbing the wall when the sentries’ backs were turned momentarily. I walked through the streets of the town without any disguise, meeting many burghers, but I was not challenged in the crowd.
I got through the pickets of the town guard and struck the Delagoa Bay railroad. I walked along it, evading the watchers at the bridges and culverts. I waited for a train beyond the first station. The 11.10 goods train from Pretoria arrived, and before it had reached full speed I boarded it, with great difficulty, and hid myself under coal sacks. I jumped from the train before dawn, and sheltered during the day in a small wood, in company with a huge vulture who displayed a lively interest in me. I walked on at dusk. There were no more trains that night.
The danger of meeting the guards of the railway line continued, but I was obliged to follow it, as I had no compass or map. I had to make detours to avoid the bridges, stations, and huts.
My progress was very slow, and chocolate is not a satisfying food. The outlook was gloomy, but I persevered, with God’s help, for five days. The food I had to have was very precarious. I was laying up at daylight and walking on at night time, and meanwhile my escape had been discovered and my description telegraphed everywhere.
All the trains were searched. Everyone was on the watch for me. Four wrong people were arrested. But on the sixth day I managed to board a train beyond Middleburg, whence there is a direct service to Delagoa.
News in brief
THE PLAGUE
Oporto, Wednesday
There was one fresh case of plague here today, and one death from the disease.
Election Intelligence
SOUTH MAYO
Mr John O’Donnell and Major John MacBride of Westport, County Mayo, who is at present leading the Irish Brigade of the Transvaal Boers, were yesterday (says the
Globe
) nominated at Claremorris to contest the vacancy in the representation of South Mayo caused by the resignation of Mr M. Davitt as a protest against the war. Several papers were handed in on behalf of each candidate, and afterwards a large public meeting was held. The polling takes place on Monday.
The Theatres
THE YEOMAN OF THE GUARD AT SADLER’S WELLS
The leading members of the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company who are this week playing Gilbertian opera are all well known to audiences. Miss Lina Carr, who is once more prima donna, was effective as usual, and she was very well supported by Mr Leon Graham as Fairfax. The humours of Miss Billington’s gaoler were enjoyed as on many previous occasions. Sergeant Meryll was represented by Mr Kavanagh and Dame Carruthers by Miss Kate Forster, and another performance none the less successful for being familiar was Miss Gaston Murray’s as Phoebe. Mr Workman was to have played Jack Point the jester, but owing to indisposition he was replaced by Mr Alfred Beers.
The Gondoliers
will be given this evening and
The Mikado
at the matinee on Wednesday. The rest of the week’s programme includes
Trial by Jury
and
Utopia Limited
.
Letters to the Editor
TAM O’ SHANTERS
Sir—I am given to understand that wool Tam-o’-Shanters are very beneficial as sleeping caps for soldiers. I shall be pleased to provide sufficient wool for at least 200 caps, if a number of ladies volunteer to make them. I sincerely hope that a few of the ladies of Manchester who have the time and can do this class of work will communicate with me at once, so as to get the task in hand as early as possible.—Yours, &c.,
(Mrs.) T. M’Cormick, Director, Crosby & Walker Limited, Oldham Street, Manchester, November 18, 1899.
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…
which he took with a spoon
,
By the light of the moon
,
In sight of the city of Troy
.
N
evinson stayed with Steevens late into the night, dozing in the nurse’s chair outside the tent. At about 3
AM
, he was awoken by rifle fire. Nothing new in that—except that it seemed very near. On getting up to investigate, he discovered that the Boers were making a concerted effort to storm the town from several directions, concentrating their attack on the crucial point of Caesar’s Camp, which along with Wagon Hill next to it was the strategic key to the town’s defence.
He rushed up to General White’s headquarters to see what was happening. The place was chaos, with staff officers, signallers and messengers running in and out, bringing news of a battle of increasing intensity. The new field telephones came into their own that night—it was the first time they had been used in combat. As each line rang, and the message came down the gleaming wires that streamed across the town and its surroundings, a signaller would take advice from a post commander and pass it to a staff officer, who would then shout to General White the latest developments. Above the hubbub could be heard the squeal of the dynamos as the telephone operators wound them up, and then spoke in a gabble before the charge ran out.