War's Brighter Side Part 38

BY MARK THYME.

(_From the Household Brigade Magazine._)

WITH APOLOGIES TO RUDYARD KIPLING.

When you've done your meat and jipper--when you've 'ad your go o' beer-- When your duff 'as filled the corners of your shape-- P'raps you'll kindly spare some sympathy, and drop a silent tear For a gentleman in khaki at the Cape.

'E's an absent-bodied beggar--as it's needless to relate-- An' 'is most frequented pub'll fail to find him, For 'e doesn't get a chance to chalk 'is drinks up on a slate 'Cause 'e's left Three-thick and Drug-'ole far behind 'im.

_Lime-juice mixed with water the colour of mud (Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we), Bully beef and rooty, and where shall we find a spud?

Pa.s.s your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_

Now we falls in of a mornin', an' we knows there's work to do Simultaneous with the risin' of the sun; We can see 'em on the kopjes, and their numbers isn't few, An' it's more than rather likely there's a gun.

When we get within "fixed sights" it's ten to one the blighter's gone, And an absent-bodied beggar we shall find 'im, For 'e mounts 'is 'orse an' offs it when 'e finds us comin' on, An' e' never leaves a drop o' drink be'ind 'im.

_Pile arms! Lie down! Now let the Transport come!

(Am I 'ungry and thirsty? Wait till I let you see!) Bully beef and rooty, and somebody's pinched my rum.

Pa.s.s your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_

There's a chap called Wilfrid Lawson as is always on the squeak, An' 'e turns the liquor question inside out; But a bloke can do a gallon--if the tiddley's fairly weak-- Without actually going on the shout.

But the absent-bodied tippler feels a temporary check When 'e tastes a kind of something to remind him, There's a Boer up the river with a stone around 'is neck 'As a filter what old Cronje's left be'ind 'im.

_Fill mine! Mine too! (Smells like a bloomin' drain!) Fill at the nearest water, spite of the M.F.P.

Bully beef and rooty, and something's give me a pain, Pa.s.s your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_

Don't you fancy I'm a-grousin'. You can look me in the face An' judge if I'm a coward or a cur, When I tells you 'ow I scrambled up each blood-an'-thunder place Without any 'esitation or demur.

Still, your absent-bodied comrade's got a thirst what's run to waste, And 'e'll show you in the future, when you find 'im Back in Wellington or Chelsea, as 'e's not forgot the taste Of the beer what 'e's at present left be'ind 'im.

_Wayo! 'Ere's luck! Drink to your sweet-'eart dear (Fifty thousand 'orse and foot, moderate drinkers we), Wait till the war is over, then for the pint o' beer, Pa.s.s your tin, for there's nothing to drink but tea, tea, tea!_

CHAPTER XXI

LOOT AND LURID CRAZES

_A chapter in which we also tell of a modest Prince and a gallant Adventurer._

"THE FRIEND" contained notices of Kruger sovereigns and Transvaal pennies for sale, of Boer rifles and saddles, but none of the postage stamps of the former Free State or the newly surcharged ones in use by the Army. Though Transvaal pennies fetched twenty-five shillings and were in great demand, the real enthusiasm of collectors was for postage stamps, and officers and others were busy as bees buying stamps and having them erased to make them the more valuable.

South Africa is as bare and barren a place for collectors, and even for the modest traveller who wishes for merely one trifling souvenir, as can be imagined. The war provided some trophies in the way of sh.e.l.ls and Mauser rifles, but outside these there was nothing except, perhaps, the empty ostrich eggs to be found in every Boer house--and also to be found everywhere else in the civilised world.

The most coveted war trophies were: first, the Transvaal and Free State flags; second, the extraordinary waistcoats worn by a few Boers, and covered all over with cartridge slits or pockets made especially to hold the Mauser "clips" of five cartridges each; third, old Dutch Bibles ill.u.s.trated by quaint woodcuts, and fourth, Boer rifles.

However, even the war trophies were few and hard to get, and the singular energy of collectors expended itself in the gathering of new and old postage stamps, at which generals, colonels, and Tommies busied themselves, and a well-known London man of my acquaintance cleared a profit of 300, still reserving for himself a handsome collection.

The name of Prince Francis of Teck no longer appeared in THE FRIEND beneath the demand he had been making for horses. I remember that the circus-ground he had pre-empted for the safe-keeping of his stock was now full of animals one day, half-empty the next day, and full again on the third, as he bought and distributed his live stock. I want, before I forget it, to tell how some of us editors entertained him without having the vaguest idea who he was.

He was invited to dinner at the Free State Hotel by Mr. Landon, who saw him seated and then introduced him to the rest of us, but in so indistinct a manner that we did not catch his name. We simply saw in our company a handsome and stalwart young officer of imposing stature, and evidently profound good-nature. We all conversed upon the current topics of the day and place, and one of us, I remember, had occasion to differ with our guest, diametrically, upon some point--doing so as bluntly, though not at all rudely, as men were apt to do in such a place and at such a time--when the extra and more elaborate formalities are apt to be laid aside for future use at the Mount Nelson Hotel, and later in the routine of life at home.

After dinner our guest suggested that he should enjoy a chat and smoke in our company elsewhere than in the noisy dining-room, so we invited him to Mr. Kipling's bedroom, which was larger than Mr. Landon's or Mr. Gwynne's or mine. We spent a very pleasant hour in freest converse, one of us being p.r.o.ne upon one bed and rolling around on it pipe in mouth, while our guest lolled upon a cot beside the chest of drawers, and the others held down two chairs and looked after the distribution of the cigarettes and the less dry refreshments at our command.

We were not able, by any means, to agree with some of the propositions of our guest, but he accepted our views in a spirit of good-humour, or of a desire to learn what we had seen and studied. He talked a great deal about horses, and about the fertile ingenuity of the native horse trader, as well as of his own ability to defeat him at his wiles--but we took no hint from this. When he had gone we asked Mr. Landon, "Who was that? We did not catch his name."

The largest advertis.e.m.e.nt in the paper was that of Murray Guthrie, Esq., M.P., whose address just then was "the Railway Station." He was most generously giving up his time to the receipt and distribution of those parcels for the troops which were now beginning to come from England in great and little packing-cases, and large and small bundles numbering enough to be reckoned by the car-load.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Capitulation of Bloemfontein._

_From a painting by Lester Ralph._]

We had received the news of the killing of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil in an engagement with Lord Methuen's force, and Mr. Gwynne wrote a spirited leader in honour of the Frenchman's memory.

We heard some interesting details about the capture of Villebois, which I think have never been published. His commando threatened Boshof, and when our force began to attack the kopje where he was lodged our second sh.e.l.l killed him. He was not the only n.o.bleman in his commando, for among the prisoners we captured one was a Russian prince and another was the Comte Breda, a Frenchman, like his leader.

Another prisoner was a stalwart Englishman named Simpson, whose long beard was braided to keep it out of the way when he was shooting.

Physically, he was the most splendid specimen of manhood our soldiers had seen in the Boer ranks. Lord Methuen ordered a military burial, and commanded Colonel Higgins of the Third Welsh Borderers to obtain a fitting tombstone. The English general attended the funeral, which took place in Boshof cemetery. "General" Villebois was buried in a blanket, but this was covered by the Union Jack when the body was solemnly borne to the grave between the lines of the men of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment. No chaplain officiated, but none of the formalities of a complete military service were omitted. The Comte Breda made a little speech at the close, thanking the British for their courtesy and kindness. After that our own dead were buried in the same little cemetery.

The affair provoked great and deep discussion, and so many British officers were displeased by what Lord Methuen had seen fit to do that THE FRIEND was at pains to try and clear the air of the false impression that one brave general had not a right to honour another in this soldierly way. We also pictured Villebois as he appeared to us, a knight of ancient pattern, a restless, gallant warrior, who had political reasons for wishing to keep himself in the mind of his people while waiting for the ripening of his plans. The line on his gravestone, "died on the field of Honour," was originally written "on the field of battle," and was ordered to be changed at the last moment. This phrase also angered many British, who, presumably, thought that a grand monument had been set up over the unfortunate Frenchman. In fact, the stone only cost ten pounds when dressed and inscribed, and in a country where such things fetch twice their value here.

THE FRIEND.

(_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._)

No. 19.] BLOEMFONTEIN, SAt.u.r.dAY, APRIL 7, 1900. [Price One Penny.

COL. DE VILLEBOIS-MAREUIL.

BY MR. H. A. GWYNNE.

(_The following message has been received by F.M. Lord Roberts from Lord Methuen: "Arrangements have been made for the burial of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil this evening with military honours."_)

A short, well-built, admirably proportioned man, with quick, expressive eyes, and an open, frank countenance was the late Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil. He was a soldier, and a gallant soldier, from the top of his close-cropped head to the soles of his daintily-shod feet. Wherever there was war, or the possibilities of war, de Villebois-Mareuil was on the spot ready to fight for whichever side, in his eyes, appeared to have the greater claims on justice. Impulsive to a degree, he was often drawn to conclusions for which he could never give logical grounds. The picturesqueness of the Boer side of the war, the presence of old Huguenot names among those of the Boer leaders, the imagined wrongs of the two Republics, were quite sufficient to attract the generous and emotional Frenchman into the struggle. And once in the struggle, he gave the whole of his energy to it. Not content with drawing the sword for the two Republics, he wielded a charming pen on their behalf. Some of his letters to the Paris _Liberte_ prove that if the world has lost a gallant soldier, it has also lost a brilliant war correspondent.

To us English, imbued as we are with a full appreciation of everything which appears manly or sporting, the figure of Colonel de Villebois-Mareuil is particularly sympathetic. We overlook his somewhat illogical defence of what appears to us the gross injustice of the Transvaal's dealings with Englishmen, and we only see a gallant Frenchman fighting and laying down his life for a cause which he espoused with the warmth of a generous nature. There is something touching in a sentence of his which appears in one of his letters from South Africa. "When I came here I believed I was going to the sacrifice." Gallant, generous, chivalrous soldier: May G.o.d rest his soul!

Over his grave we forget that he fought against us, and we think only of the gallant soldier. A British bullet laid him low, but a British General lays him to rest with full military honours.

A BALLADE OF TEN-A-PENNY.

BY J. H. M. A.

Kopjes are steep, and the veldt is brown-- (Utterly true, if you pause to think) Biscuits are done and your luck is down; "Modder" is not an inspiriting drink (Dead Boers' taint, and defunct mules stink).

Better the sound of the screaming bomb, Excitement and hurry of h.e.l.l's own brink-- Alas! for a tune on the gay Pom-pom.