1900
I had both the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes hoisted and celebrated the new century, along with my forty-sixth birthday, on the open seas. As we crossed the equator, the men underwent their ritual shave—a tradition among sailors, which I enthusiastically captured with the box Brownie I’d purchased for the trip.
But the voyage was nearly three weeks, and my cabin’s refurbishment had consumed most of the ship’s promenade, giving rise to the male orderlies’ grumbling at my indulgence. I had no patience for complaints from the personnel I’d hired, even less so for their zealotry; when I heard that some of the American nurses had smuggled religious tracts onboard, as if they were going to convert pagans rather than care for wounded soldiers, I ordered the tracts dumped into the sea. The nurses were so outraged that the British major suggested I make amends. I reluctantly ordered the boxes of sweets unearthed from the cargo hold and distributed, declaring sugar more conducive than prayer to our well-being.
The nurses were not appeased.
By the time we reached Cape Town, I was eager to disembark. Emerging into the searing South African sunlight in my wide-brimmed hat and crisp linen suit, I gazed in wonder at the imposing flat-topped mountain rearing over the city’s crescent-shaped colonnade—a sliver of British formality framed by an achingly blue foreign sky. The air was laced with sea salt and the aroma of fried shellfish; my stomach growled, sour from weeks of salted rations. Lowering my gaze to the quay, I found my son Jack waiting for me, flanked by a distinguished reception of the British High Commission, all in full-dress uniform despite the unbearable heat.
A kilted group of Scotchmen piped up “God Save the Queen,” as if I were an arriving dignitary. Obliged to endure the long-winded welcoming ceremony, I couldn’t keep from darting my eyes in concern to Jack. His left leg was swathed in a bandage.
“You’re injured,” I said, once the major had escorted the committee onboard to tour the ship and I could proceed to my accommodations in the Cape. “Is it serious?”
“It looks worse than it is. A clean shot through my thigh,” he said as I helped him hobble up the stepladder into the carriage. “I was in the battle to relieve Ladysmith. Others weren’t so fortunate. You cannot imagine the carnage.”
“Have you any word of your brother?” I asked anxiously. If the war had taken a turn for the worse, my elder son might face reprisals in a Boer prison.
Jack paused. “Don’t you know? Winston has escaped. It’s been in all the newspapers; I thought you must have heard by now. He was very daring. They’re calling him a hero.”
I sagged against my seat. “I hadn’t heard. I was at sea.”
“Well, Winston will be eager to tell you everything himself.” Jack went quiet again for a moment. “You should also be aware that despite the grandiose reception, many on the commission oppose your ship. No one can seem to agree whether it’s authorized under military law, and some insist it must be filled with the injured and return to England forthwith.”
“After we’ve come all this way? My ship has a modern operating facility, a convalescent ward, as well as expertly trained staff. We even have a major appointed by the queen. What on earth is there for anyone to oppose?”
“You’ll need to state your case before our governor, Sir Walter Hely-Hutchinson. Winston is staying at his home.” Jack smiled. “If you can charm Sir Walter as you do everyone else, you’ll have nothing to worry about. I’ll stand by you. Winston and I have both seen how our soldiers are perishing as much from gangrene as from Boer cannon fire.”
AFTER SCARCELY ENOUGH time onshore to regain my equilibrium, we set sail for Durban.
At the governor’s mansion, I reunited with Winston, who was underweight from a mild bout of dysentery—“The swill they gave us would sicken a hog,” he said with a grimace, reminding me of Randolph’s disparaging remarks about India—but otherwise, he appeared none the worse for his ordeal. As he regaled me with his “bold adventure,” as he dubbed it, I went through the pile of newspaper clippings featuring his covert escape. After keeping meticulous record of the guard patrols, he’d managed to climb the fence by the prison latrines and sneak into Pretoria, getting as far as the train station, where he jumped a carriage, riding concealed to the Transvaal border.
“Once we were across the border, no trains passed at night,” he told me, making me tremble at just how perilous his adventure had been. “For the next five days I had to go on foot. I managed to scrape up food from the natives, though I don’t speak their language. Following the railway line, I arrived in Middelburg, where there was a through service. It took me nearly sixty hours to reach Komatipoort, and I spent the entire time among coal sacks. The Boers stopped and searched the train periodically, but”—he laughed—“they obviously didn’t dig deep enough.”
The Boers also set a bounty on his head, alerting everyone to his exodus. Enthusiastic crowds cheered his arrival in Durban, lifting him onto their shoulders to convey him to the town square, where he delivered a rousing speech, after which the governor invited him to his home. He’d spent his recovery writing about his escape for the Post, which featured it on the front page.
“And here we are, together again,” he concluded cheerfully, as if it had all been a lark. “Tomorrow, I must return to the front to continue my assignment.”
“Tomorrow?” I exclaimed. “But I’ve just arrived—”
“No, no.” He held up his hand. “I have my charge and mean to see it through. Just as you have yours.” His voice turned somber. “Your assistance is desperately needed.”
I turned to Sir Walter, a distinguished man with slick black hair and a huge mustache, whose weary countenance betrayed the toll of overseeing the war. He gave me a nod. “Your help is indeed most welcome, my lady. We have thousands of injured and far too few to tend to them. Given the dire conditions, we cannot quibble over the details.”
Winston guffawed. “And as every stiff upper lip on the High Commission knows, pulling rank is the only way to get anything done.”
Ignoring his levity, I said to Sir Walter, “I’ll put my ship to whatever service you deem necessary. But I should like to see these dire conditions for myself.”
Sudden silence fell. As Winston’s mouth quirked in an attempt to curb another outburst of mirth, Sir Walter replied, “My lady, I fear it is no place for a woman.”
I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Half of my staff are female nurses. We also brought extra supplies, which my subscribers, the majority of whom are also women, personally charged me to deliver.”
Jack said, “I could accompany her to Ladysmith. It should be safe enough now.”
“Not that our mother needs anyone to keep her safe,” interjected Winston. “She just came all the way here on her own ship.”
Sir Walter hesitated. “I suppose I can make an exception. The injured must be transported here for care, so I’ll put a train at Lady Randolph’s disposal.”
EQUIPPED WITH A khaki uniform and my box Brownie, I embarked with Jack and a military convoy to Ladysmith, where my son had been injured in the battle to take back the city from Boer incursion. I found the landscape stunning in its parched beauty, trying in vain to snap photographs of brightly colored birds startled by the train’s passage from their perches in the umbrella-like trees, and herds of graceful impalas bolting off into the shimmering distance.
As we approached Ladysmith, the earth turned charred, the air acrid with a pervasive stench that Jack told me was rotting horseflesh. Carcasses began to appear alongside the tracks, horses shot down with their saddles still on their backs, festering. I had to avert my eyes, though within the city itself, there was no looking away. Ladysmith had been retaken at a terrible toll, most of the city in ruins, with makeshift infirmaries erected amidst the rubble, where the exhausted medical staff could barely summon gratitude for the supplies we’d brought.
An agonized litany lifted from endless rows of cots holding men who’d undergone amputations without chloroform. While the nurses accompanying me helped prepare the most badly injured for transport, I went among the men with Jack, pausing to clutch beseeching hands, to murmur words of comfort—all those desperate faces merging into a mosaic of despair. In every pair of eyes, I saw my sons. I saw George. I saw every youth whose zeal to serve Britain could be reduced to this maimed helplessness.
By the time I returned to the train, I was fighting back tears. “All of this,” I said to Jack. “So much suffering and loss. For what?”
“Imperial honor.” I met his eyes, marking his unvoiced contempt.
“It’s not worth the lives of so many,” I said.
“No,” he replied. “It is not, though nobody in charge cares to hear it.”
IN DURBAN, THE ship physicians operated on the urgent cases. Six thousand injured soldiers from Ladysmith awaited transport home, with many in urgent need of rehabilitation. Under the circumstances I couldn’t deny Sir Walter’s request that my ship convey the first three hundred to England. By now, I was eager to return, my wires to Leonie having gone unanswered, leading me to fear George had taken such umbrage at my refusal to stay and wait for him that he’d forsaken me. Profoundly affected by my experiences, I was determined to do as Consuelo advised. I would marry George and persuade him to seek a living outside the military, just as I’d begged Jack to do. My son reluctantly agreed, his leg injury deemed sufficient to qualify him for discharge from the Hussars. He’d seen enough of this war, he told me.
Before I left, Captain Percy Scott, commanding officer of the HMS Terrible, invited me onboard his vessel to view his 4.7 naval gun, which he wished to christen in my honor. His crew gave me an empty shell as a keepsake, and we took a photograph together by the massive gun. Winston was so delighted that he included the photograph in an essay he wrote about my war efforts for the Post, published under the headline LADY BOUNTIFUL.
When we docked in Cape Town, the High Commission made its displeasure known. They sent orders for me to discharge every patient onboard to the woefully understaffed hospital there and wait for others from the fronts, endangering those who’d undergone recent surgeries and must reach England in time for further treatment.
“I will not,” I informed the commission’s medical officer. “The Maine is here solely because of my determination. We shall depart as scheduled and return once we’ve delivered those currently under our care. If need be, I’ll cable HRH himself to back me up.”
The officer sniffed. “And seeing as the Maine would be the first to deliver the wounded of Ladysmith home, far be it from us to interfere in my lady’s bid for glory.”
“Glory?” I echoed in revulsion, suddenly perceiving the envy behind the command. “You think such flagrant sacrifice holds glory?” He went white at my tone. “Some of these men will never walk again. Never have children or enjoy a day without pain. How can any of it be glorious for me or the empire?”
Turning heel, I stormed back to the ship. At dawn, we lifted anchor.
During the voyage home, the staff performed several more operations. We lost only three patients. The rest were delivered in Southampton, where I disembarked on April 30 to a pounding rain and a resounding welcome. Winston’s essay had captured popular admiration, with new funds pouring in for the Maine, though as I caught sight of Leonie waving from the quay with George glowering at her side, I knew I’d not sail to South Africa again.
I would be Mrs. Cornwallis-West now if it was the last thing I did.