Churchill hadn’t come to Bloemfontein to fritter his time away. Action, march, advance, that was the kind of idiom he wanted to convey in the Morning Post. The endless convoys of goods wagons and the daily procession of dark brown body bags were subjects he left for others to write about. He wanted to be on campaign again, accompanying the troops to the highveld. He had no military assignment there, but as a journalist he was impatient to be where the action was.
In that respect, his timing was perfect. In March 1900 the Boers were as good as played out, at least in the Orange Free State; in April they were back in top form. Under the inspiring leadership of the exiled President Steyn and their new chief commandant, Christiaan de Wet, they developed a new and more flexible strategy. They carried out one raid after another in the contested territory south-east of Bloemfontein. British headquarters reacted with astonishment and indignation. It wasn’t right. The capital had been occupied; the Orange Free State had lost the war; the Free Staters were supposed to surrender. As Lord Roberts put it in a personal letter to Queen Victoria after the fall of Bloemfontein, ‘It seems unlikely that this State will give much more trouble.’ That still left the Transvaal, but after the invasion of Pretoria the war wouldn’t take long, he predicted. A month later, in mid-April, Roberts still thought the same. There had just been a bit of a delay. Before advancing further north, they would need to deal with a few pockets of resistance in the south-east of the Orange Free State. His generals were growing restless.
Roberts didn’t foresee any major obstacles. He had confidence in his plan: firm military action against insurgents, backed up by the power of the written word. That was how he had operated from the start, his tone gradually hardening from conciliatory to threatening. Not for nothing did the Boers speak of Roberts’s ‘paper bombs’. He issued his first proclamation to the burghers of the Orange Free State on 17 February 1900, a few days before the battle at Paardeberg, calling on them to cease hostilities and assuring those who did that they would not be troubled. His second proclamation of 11 March contained an emphatic warning. He was about to occupy Bloemfontein and promised its inhabitants that those ‘staying peacefully at home will not be molested’. But if the British troops encountered resistance, he added ominously, they would have themselves to blame for the consequences.
After the fall of Bloemfontein, Roberts’s duplicity became blatantly evident. On the one hand, he put people off their guard by laying on festivities and brass bands. He also launched a bilingual newspaper, The Friend, for which he engaged the services of Rudyard Kipling, Poet of the Empire and author of gems like ‘Take up the white man’s burden’. But at the same time, on 15 March he issued a third proclamation, far more strongly worded than the previous two. It was an infinitely high-calibre paper bomb. Now, he added vindictively, punishment would be meted out to virtually any Boer who had ever pointed a Mauser at a British soldier. Moreover, those who refused to ‘lay down their arms and take an oath to abstain from further part in the war’ would be arrested and deprived of their property. Those who acquiesced would be given ‘safe conduct to their homes’.
Churchill’s views on the matter didn’t appear in the Morning Post. This was another subject he wisely avoided. Given his earlier appeal for reconciliation between Britons and Boers, he must have had reservations about the edict. What he did describe to his readers were the unintended repercussions of Roberts’s last proclamation. On returning home, many of the Boers who had laid down their arms and taken the oath were lambasted by their commandants and, in some cases, by their families as well. As a result, ‘most of them, from fear or inclination, rejoined their commandos . . . the lately penitent rebels stirred, are stirring’. In this way, Christiaan and his brother Piet de Wet, in particular, managed to raise a substantial army of insurgents. Roberts responded by sending several columns to break the resistance.
As a war correspondent, Churchill could choose which division he wanted to accompany, providing they would have him. He knew at once. It looked as if the critical encounters would take place in the vicinity of Dewetsdorp, about 70 kilometres south-east of Bloemfontein. Among those who were heading there was an Imperial Yeomanry brigade under the command of General John Brabazon. Churchill knew Old Brab well. He was, needless to say, an old friend of the family, and commanding officer of the 4th Hussars, with whom Churchill had begun his military career. Churchill bought a carriage and four horses, and on 17 April put them on the train to Edenburg—there was enough room going south—and from there rode alone to Dewetsdorp, ‘across a landscape charged with silent menace’.87
One can only guess what Marthinus Steyn thought of Roberts’s latest proclamation. It was a disgrace, a gift from heaven. Out of respect for Oom Paul, he had taken part in his peace initiatives, but in his heart he had more faith in fighting than diplomacy. In September 1899 he had been reluctant to go to war, but once hostilities broke out his doubts had evaporated. He visited the fronts, gave encouragement to the dispirited commandos, and emerged as the soul of perseverance, even when the war turned against them in late February 1900. Neither Lord Salisbury’s brusque reply to their telegram nor the capture of his capital city by Lord Roberts did anything to weaken his resolve. Roberts’s last proclamation of 15 March had given him an opportunity, which he grasped with both hands, to take some kind of action.
On 19 March Steyn responded with two paper projectiles of his own. The first was formal and challenged the legal grounds of Roberts’s demands. The Republic of the Orange Free State still existed, he declared, and the government was doing what it had undertaken to do. Every citizen was therefore obliged to perform military service. Anyone who failed to do so or who laid down his weapons ‘without being coerced’ to do so was guilty of high treason.
His second reply was addressed to the people of the Orange Free State. It was an impassioned appeal to their loyalty. ‘Let us not be misled by this cunning ruse . . . The enemy now by fair promises seeks to divide us by offering a reward for disloyalty and cowardice. Could a greater insult be offered than to dissuade us from a sacred duty, thus betraying ourselves, betraying our people, betraying the blood that has already flowed for our land and nation, and betraying our children? . . . The man who has broken his solemn agreements with our people, will he now honour his deceitful promise?’ The first promises had already been broken. There had been ‘the shameful destruction of property at Jacobsdal, and in Bloemfontein the arrest of citizens who had trusted his proclamation and laid down their arms’. The capital was in the enemy’s hands, ‘but the battle is not lost. On the contrary, it gives greater reason to fight harder . . . Take courage and be steadfast in your faith. The Lord God shall not suffer His purpose for our nation to be obstructed. Persevere in the struggle. The darkest hour is just before dawn.’
Steyn didn’t stop at words. Two days earlier, on 17 March, a joint council of war had been held in Kroonstad, which had far-reaching consequences for the Boers’ military tactics—and the subsequent course of the war. The meeting was attended by Kruger and Steyn along with other top brass from both Boer republics, including their highest-ranking military leaders, the Transvaal commandant-general, Joubert, and the Free State’s new chief commandant, Christiaan de Wet. With surprising alacrity they agreed on a drastic change of strategy. Even Joubert, the ultimate advocate of defensive warfare, acknowledged the advantages of offensive action as favoured by De Wet, De la Rey and other generals of a younger generation. They would attack, but within limits, in smaller and more mobile units divided into companies of 25 men. They would dispense with their oxwagons and tighten up discipline. The idea was to avoid major confrontations and aim instead for the Achilles’ heel of the British army: their long, vulnerable lines of communication.
The only matter the two military commanders disagreed on was a surprising measure De Wet had taken a few days earlier. The British would want time to catch their breath after the capture of Bloemfontein, he reasoned, so he had taken the opportunity to disband his commandos and give them leave to go home. On 25 March they were to reassemble at the railway bridge over the Sand River, north of Bloemfontein. Joubert was aghast. How could he! De Wet admitted he had taken a risk. Perhaps some of them wouldn’t come back. But, he thought, his men had spent six months giving the very best of themselves, they were in low spirits after the British successes, discipline was slack, he had to do something. Those who did return would at least be motivated, and he’d rather have ‘ten with the will to fight than a hundred dragging their heels’.88
De Wet didn’t manage to persuade Joubert, but on 25 March he was proved right. All his men returned except those from districts that were effectively occupied by the British. And, indeed, they came with renewed vigour. His decision proved its worth in the successful surprise attack he undertook at Sannaspos on 31 March. Not only did his commandos and those under his brother Piet manage to put Bloemfontein’s water supply out of action, but they also seized 80 supply wagons and seven guns and took more than 400 British prisoners. It was a triumph that made a powerful statement: the war was not over, the Boers’ new tactics were successful.
De Wet gave a repeat performance a few days later, on 3 April, when he showed up unexpectedly at Mostertshoek, 60 kilometres further south. With an army of re-conscripted burghers and the commandos of generals Stoffel Froneman and A.I. de Villiers, he mounted a surprise attack against a British infantry unit under Captain W.J. McWhinnie. Reinforcements under Major-General Gatacre arrived too late—this was the blunder after Stormberg that proved fatal for Gatacre—and De Wet captured another 450 British prisoners. There was clearly a problem Roberts would have to deal with before advancing on Johannesburg and Pretoria.
Joubert didn’t live to see the first fruits of the new tactics. On 27 March, aged 69, he died in Pretoria of peritonitis. Friend and foe paid their respects. Unaware of the unpleasant surprise De Wet had in store for him, Roberts sent a telegram offering his condolences. Rudyard Kipling honoured him—a bit prematurely—as a steadfast defender of a hopeless cause. ‘But subtle, strong, and stubborn, gave his life / To a lost cause, and knew the gift was vain.’ In accordance with his last will, Joubert was buried on his farm in Rustfontein. At the railway station President Kruger took leave of his lifelong comrade-in-arms and favourite political rival. He spoke movingly of the old days, the days of the Voortrekkers and their sacred commitment to the Promised Land. He was the last survivor of them all.89
It was hard on the old patriarch. Jan Kock had been killed at Elandslaagte, Piet Cronjé captured and banished to St Helena, and now Piet Joubert gone as well. There was no one left of his own generation. He was 74, and the men who were now running the show in the Transvaal were far younger. Schalk Burger, Joubert’s successor as vice-president, wasn’t yet 50; the new commandant-general, Louis Botha, not even 40; and the state attorney, Smuts, was still in his twenties. State Secretary Reitz, in his midfifties, was the oldest, but sometimes so rash that he seemed half his age. He was completely different from his predecessor, Leyds, who, young as he was, had always been so thorough and vigilant. But Leyds was far away and out of reach, isolated in his European observation post.
Kruger’s voice was still firm and impressive when he addressed his people, but his eyesight had dimmed, his gait was less steady, and his thinking more often inspired by the teachings of the Old Testament. He spoke not of Roberts or international political relations, but of the strength of the lion and the king of Assyria. His faith remained steadfast, but he was losing touch with the world. He had allowed himself to be talked into the ill-conceived idea of a telegram to Salisbury and had proceeded to push it through, first in his own Executive Council and then past the 30-year-younger president of the Orange Free State. Immediately afterwards, without waiting for a reply from London, they had called on half of Europe to mediate.
As if that wasn’t futile enough, Kruger, with Steyn’s backing, went a step further. Why not send a delegation to Europe to persuade one or more of the powers to ‘intervene or assist’? The choice of delegates was easily made. The chairman representing the two Boer republics was Abraham Fischer, a lawyer and a friend of Steyn’s. He was accompanied by Cornelius Wessels, speaker of the Free State Volksraad, and A.D.W. Wolmarans, a member of the Transvaal’s Executive Council, with J.M. de Bruijn as secretary. The fact that none of the three delegates had any experience of diplomacy and that only Fischer spoke fluent English and Dutch—but no German or French—wasn’t considered a handicap. All three were given diplomatic credentials and set off in haste for Lourenço Marques. On 13 March 1900 they embarked on the Kaiser—an obvious clue to anyone who knew anything about European diplomacy.
Leyds was left to find out about the peace initiative from the newspapers. Even so, he was loyal to this foolhardy mission, as he had been to others in the past. He thought it would be wise to travel ahead to confer with his new colleagues. They met in Milan on 13 April in the presence of Hendrik Muller, the Orange Free State’s consul-general in the Netherlands. It was a frustrating experience for Leyds. He took pains to inform the delegation at length about political and diplomatic relations in Europe and the United States. In his opinion—which had recently been confirmed by his wellinformed Russian sources—they only stood a chance if they travelled on to Berlin without delay. Tsar Nicholas II was still willing to take some kind of action, but only if he was certain that Germany would cooperate. The French government was holding back so as not to jeopardise the World Exhibition in Paris. No other country, the Netherlands included, was in a position to do anything at all. Kaiser Wilhelm II held the key in his hands. There was no guarantee, but if the three ‘suddenly appeared before him . . . like Boers straight from the battlefield’ and appealed to ‘his conscience and magnanimity’, there was a ‘chance of moving him, touching a sentimental corner of his heart, stirring his vanity’.
The delegation listened politely, but cast Leyds’s advice to the winds. They had already decided to go to the Netherlands first, because of their blood ties with the Dutch, and as Muller strongly supported the idea they proceeded as planned. They arrived in The Hague a few days later and were given a warm reception, but the outcome was what Leyds had expected. Nothing. Prime Minister Pierson was happy to receive them, and their audiences with Queen Wilhelmina and subsequently the Queen Mother, Emma, were cordial and hospitable. But in the talks that really mattered, their official meeting with the foreign minister, De Beaufort, on 26 April, Fischer, Wessels and Wolmarans were unceremoniously fobbed off. De Beaufort had no qualms about the way he dealt with them. Fischer more or less made the grade. He was ‘the smartest, much like an Englishman’. But in his diary De Beaufort described Wessels and Wolmarans as ‘peasants with the cunning, guile and distrust of their kind, who felt superior because they were the leading and ruling class in their country’. Naturally they knew beforehand ‘that the Dutch government would do nothing’, but in spite of this they were ‘bitterly disappointed when I explained . . . that any step we might take would turn the British public against them and that would only be to their detriment’.
After this disillusioning meeting the delegation decided there was nothing to be gained by staying on in the Netherlands. As their next destination they chose the United States. This, too, Leyds considered a pointless exercise as long as the Republican president, McKinley, and his state secretary, Hay, were in government. But again he gave in to Fischer and his associates. He went so far as to escort them on the first leg of the voyage, from Rotterdam to Boulogne-sur-Mer. On 3 May they embarked on the Maasdam. A thousand well-wishers were on the quay to see them off. Their presence at least helped to sweeten the bitter pill they had been made to swallow. They had won the hearts of the Dutch people.90
That same day, 2 May 1900, after spending seven weeks in Bloemfontein, Lord Roberts resumed his advance to the north. It had taken a huge effort, but now everything was in place. The men had recovered their strength, their equipment was in order, the gaps in the ranks caused in combat and by the typhus epidemic had been filled, their supplies replenished and—last but not least—the Boer resistance south-east of Bloemfontein had been crushed. More accurately, Christiaan de Wet, who had been prowling around there with some 2500 Boer fighters for the previous few weeks, had been driven away. It had taken ten times as many troops to accomplish this, 25,000 divided into five columns, but step by step they had gained ground. At one point, they had almost surrounded De Wet, but at the very last moment he managed to slip through their fingers—not for the last time.
It hadn’t been a major battle, more like a series of intermittent skirmishes, with much manoeuvring back and forth on both sides. This was the kind of action Churchill couldn’t resist, even though he was no longer wearing the cockade of black sakabula tail feathers on his hat. On 19 April he arrived in his carriage and reported to Brabazon’s brigade, near Dewetsdorp. Old Brab was delighted see him and at once launched into a litany of complaints about his superior, Major-General French, the liberator of Kimberley. It was entertaining enough—Churchill always enjoyed a bit of quality gossip—but he had really come for the action. Two days later he left with the colourful cavalry units under Brabazon’s command, among them Montmorency’s Scouts with their distinctive death’s head insignia. Raymond de Montmorency, after whom the unit was named, had died two months earlier and Angus McNeill was now their commanding officer.
It was the same McNeill whom Churchill lured into an adventure that could have cost him dearly. On a reconnaissance they came upon a group of Boers who were making their way to a koppie two kilometres further on. McNeill asked Brabazon’s permission to intercept them. It was granted. ‘Mount, mount, mount, Scouts!’ he cried, and, to Churchill, ‘Come with us, we’ll give you a show now—first-class.’
And that it certainly was, at any rate for the objective observer. A thrilling race between 200 Boers and 50 Scouts. Whoever reached the hill first would be able to take cover and fire on the enemy. In full gallop Churchill fell to musing about the triumphant mission he had taken part in at Acton Homes three months earlier, except on that occasion they had had the advantage of surprise. Now the boot was on the other foot. Barbed wire stopped them about a hundred metres from the hill, and they were forced to dismount. A few men were trying to cut through the wire, when suddenly they saw the heads and shoulders of ten or so Boers.
This was nothing at all like Acton Homes. It was Chieveley all over again; the armoured train. ‘Grim, hairy, and terrible’, and how many more were there behind them? ‘Too late,’ McNeill shouted, ‘back to the other kopje. Gallop!’ The Boers opened fire, the Scouts leapt onto their horses and sped off. As Churchill was putting his foot in the stirrup, his horse took fright at the sound of gunfire, bolted, broke loose and galloped away.
There he was again, on foot as at Chieveley, an easy target on the open veld. This time he had his pistol at hand, but what could he hope to achieve against who knows how many Mausers? He turned on his heel and, for the second time in this war, ran for his life. It looked as if his luck had abandoned him. ‘Here at last I take it.’ The words flashed through his mind. Suddenly, as before, he caught a glimpse of a tall man on a grey horse. Would he be captured again?
Then he caught sight of the skull and crossbones: a Scout. ‘Death in Revelation, but life to me.’ He called out, ‘Give me a stirrup.’ The rider slackened his pace, Churchill ran towards him, leapt up behind him and flung his arms around him. He clung to the horse’s mane. Bullets whistled past his ears, his hands were covered in blood. The horse had taken a bullet but it continued to run. Four hundred metres, five hundred, the gunfire died down. It looked as if they were going to make it. Churchill heaved a sigh of relief.
The rider didn’t. ‘My poor horse, oh my poor fucking horse; shot with an explosive bullet. The devils! But their hour will come. Oh, my poor horse.’ Churchill tried to console him. ‘Never mind, you’ve saved my life.’ But that didn’t help. ‘Ah, but it’s the horse I’m thinking about.’ No more was said. They reached the safety of the next koppie. He had escaped again.91