Читать книгу Reports from the Boer War - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4
ОглавлениеReproduced from The Star (New Zealand), September 27, 1900
MEN WHO PRAYED TO BE PUT IN A TIGHT PLACE.
To say that they were extremely annoyed would be describing their feelings too mildly.
They were very savage, they forgot themselves slightly, and swore with force and originality. They cursed Rhodesia, they cursed Fate, they cursed their various Governments, but mostly they cursed their Governments—for they are a very political people these Australians, weaned on manifestoes and reared on Parliamentary debates. They cursed their Governments, knowing by heart their weaknesses, and ever ready to attribute the non- success of any undertaking—be it political, social or warlike-to the dilatory action of certain members of the divers Cabinets.
"The Government ought never to have sent us up here at all "—a Queenslander spoke with great earnestness—"if they wanted us to see any fighting. Got to Beira in April—now it's June, and—"
THEY WERE "OUT OF IT"
Pretoria was occupied. This was the news which had spread the wave of pessimism! over the little way-side camp on the Buluwayo Road—a camp on the fringe of the long, white road which wound south and dipped north.
The Sabakwe River trickled through the land, a stone's throw from the white tilted waggons, drawn tail-board to pole to form a rough laager,* and the heavy-eyed oxen stood knee-deep in its sluggish waters.
[* laager (Afrikaans)—a military encampment. ]
North—or rather north-east—several nights away, was Marandellas. South of that, and far, was Beira, and it was two months ago since they had left. Two months, and Mafeking had been relieved, Johannesburg entered, Pretoria occupied. Therefore the Bushmen, who dreamt not of Eland's River, and to whom Zeerust was a name in a gazetteer, grew despondent.
"Do you think there is a chance of fighting, sir?"
I could not answer the Victorian who asked, nor did I have the heart to reprove the Tasmanian who swore
CAME OUT FOR A FIGHT
"Well," remarked the Queenslander, "all I can say is, that if we don't see any fighting it will be a shame." He qualified shame. "We didn't come out here to be piffled through this country." There was an adjective before country. "If I wanted to admire scenery I'd have stayed in Queensland. If I wanted gold I'd have gone to Rockhampton. As for land! Well, if any of you fellers want land I'll sell you a run of 6000 acres of the best land in the world!"
They are peculiar, the men who are holding Eland's River; they are not soldiers as we in London know soldiers; they don't like shouldering arms by numbers, and they vote squad drill "dam silly." They are poor marching men, for they have been used to riding; they ride firmly, but not gracefully. The horses they prefer are great, rough up-standing brutes that buck themselves into inverted V's when they are mounted, and stand on their hind legs to express their joy. The Bushman will rid a horse for a hundred miles without thinking it anything extraordinary, and bring it in in good condition, but he cannot go for a couple of miles without galloping the poor brute to death. He is very careful how he feeds his mount, and would sooner go without food himself than his dumb friend should be hungry, but it takes a troop sergeant-major and three corporals to make a bushman groom his horse.
MEN WHO PRACTICE PATIENCE
They are very patient, these men; their training makes them so. They have learnt to sit by water holes and watch sheep, dividing their time between week-old papers and day-old lambs. Politics interest them; war— ordinary, every-day war that does not call for their active interference— interests them; but the price of wool interests them more than all these things. Russian famines distress them, Indian plagues alarm them, but the blue staring sky and the rain that comes not make lines around their eyes, and puts grey into their beards.
They have got their own method of going out to fight, and that method is as distinct from that of the regular Tommy, as Tommy's is foreign, to the C.I.V.*
[* C.I.V.—City of London Imperial Volunteer. ]
WORKMANLIKE "TOMMY" AND PICTURESQUE C.I.V.
Tommy goes forth to battle in a workmanlike manner. He seldom writes farewell letters, but grabs a hunk of biscuit, gives his water-bottle a shake to see how much he has got, buckles on his pouches and bayonet, and, with the instinct bred on a dozen barrack squares, smooths the creases out of his stained khaki jacket. Then he picks up his rifle and eyes it critically, jerks back the bolt and squints up the barrel—Tommy, the workman, is careful of his tools—pushes back the bolt, mechanically snaps the trigger, fixes his helmet firmly on his head, and steps out to join his company.
The C.I.V., when I knew him first, was somewhat self- conscious. His rifle was clean, his bandolier was ready to put on, his coat was nicely rolled, his puttees were evenly fixed; long before the fall-in bugle sounded he was ready for parade—for he was very keen. When the bugle sounded he picked up his rifle, not carelessly, as did his brother of the line, but reverently and with care. He adjusted his broad-brimmed hat, he patted his bayonet to see if it was there, and went out to face the pock-marked trenches with the proud consciousness that, at the worst, he would make a picturesque casualty.
A MATCH FOR THE BOER
The Bushman knows his rifle as the City man knows his walking- stick. He feels neither contempt nor awe for it. It is a commercial asset, a domestic property. Perhaps he keeps his wife in dresses by shooting kangaroos; perhaps he keeps himself in whisky by tracking wallabies. His equipment is scanty. He has a bandolier, perhaps a pouch, possibly a mess-tin, certainly a "billy." When the parade-call goes, he falls in with his fellows and numbers off from the right somewhat sheepishly. On parade he is a unit and has to do as he's told, and he isn't quite used to submitting his will to those of others in authority.
"Fours right!"
He wheels round awkwardly. If he makes a slip he causes his horse to buck to cover his confusion.
"Walk—march!"
He is off, and he feels easier. Then comes the splitting up of his squadron into little independent patrols, and he breathes freely, for with a couple of kindred spirits on a scouting trip he is a man once more with a soul of his own. He sees most things and acts quickly. Before the "ping" of the sniper's bullet has died away he is off his horse and under cover. Then, if the sniper is an intelligent man, he won't move about much, for when a Bushman has located his quarry he can lie quite still for an hour at a stretch, his cheek touching the stock, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.
These are the men who are holding Eland's River—men who live on "damper"* and tea—and whose progress through Rhodesia was marked by many dead horses and much profanity.
[* Damper—A traditional Australian soda bread prepared by swagmen, drovers, stockmen and other travelers. ]
They wanted to fight badly. They prayed that they might get into a tight place. Their prayer is answered.
If you knew the Eland's River garrison, you would not pity them—you would rejoice with them.
