With Rifle and Bayonet: A Story of the Boer War

The next moment a ring of soldiers leapt to their feet, and with fixed bayonets faced the party of Boer spies.

“Lay down your arms, Piet Maartens. It’s all up, and if you lift a hand you will all be shot like dogs!” Jack shouted, rushing forward at the same time and presenting his rifle at his old enemy’s head.

A snarl of rage escaped from the Boer’s lips, and he made a frantic effort to unsling his rifle; but long before he could get it free the circle of soldiers rushed in and knocked all three to the ground. A minute later they were being marched towards the town, surrounded by a strong party in charge of a subaltern.

“Now we’ll have a look at the guns,” exclaimed the officer. “Sergeant, bring along a lantern and a couple of men, and don’t attempt to touch the guns till I have inspected them. Come and help me, Somerton. I expect that beggar has placed a charge of dynamite in the breech.”

A few moments later a lantern was produced, and, followed by Jack and Guy, the officer looked closely at the breeches of the guns. At first there was nothing to be seen. But a close inspection revealed a thin piece of wire attached to the handle of the breech, passing from there into the inside of the weapon.

“Don’t open it, whatever you do,” cried Jack in a warning voice. “It is a regular trap for the gunners, and the opening of the breech would fire the charge inside. Snip the wires, and then you will be able to learn all about it.”

A wire nipper was now produced, and the piece attached to the handle having been cautiously snipped, the breech was opened and disclosed a charge of gun-cotton inside arranged so that the mere opening of the handle would pull the wire and explode the charge, and so destroy the gun immediately.

“Ah, I told you there was a plot on hand!” exclaimed Jack with satisfaction. “They know that we have guns here, and they sent those spies in to arrange matters, so that when the rush comes and they attack the hill, we should be left without a single weapon to fire at them as they cross the ground below. Well, I fancy we shall be able to open their eyes. It’s getting on for midnight now, and we can expect them very soon.”

“Right you are, Somerton,” the officer replied. “There’s no mistake about it. They are going to have a real good try to take us, and, thanks to you, we shall be ready for them. I’ll go off and report the matter, and meanwhile I’ll have all the guns loaded with shrapnel. By the way, what are you going to do?”

“Oh, Guy and I will give a hand, if we may!” answered Jack.

“My dear chap, every man of us will be wanted, and the more we can get the better. Come into my trench, if you like. It’s certain to be a hot corner, being so close to the guns.”

Jack and his friend eagerly accepted the invitation, and accompanied the officer back to the trench. Here they were joined by Mr Hunter, and a few minutes after his arrival some Highlanders and Riflemen put in an appearance. Then all lay down, while the gunners trained their weapons upon the flats below, and loaded them with shrapnel. Outposts were doubled, and every man waited in dead silence for the assault, prepared to hurl back the attacking Boers at the point of the bayonet.

Chapter Seventeen.
The Grand Assault

For almost three complete months had the Boers surrounded Ladysmith on every side, and shelled it persistently, and yet here were the British troops, seemingly as steadfast as during the early days of the siege.

But wounds and disease had slowly thinned their ranks, and against the 20,000 or more of the enemy there were scarcely 8000 to man a huge circle of trenches. What could they do against the odds opposed to them? It was almost an impossible feat that was expected of them, but for all that, each and every one of our sturdy lads, as he sat in the trenches that night, listening intently and vainly endeavouring to pierce the gloom, swore solemnly to himself that the task should be accomplished. For many weeks they had laughed at and kept a horde of Boers at bay, and now, when they were in a tight corner and in difficulties, they would teach the enemy that they yet had teeth to show, and good strength to use them.

And down beyond the flats stretching away from the heights of Caesar’s Camp, and in all the laagers surrounding the beleaguered garrison, bands of stern, resolute Boers collected together in absolute silence in the darkness. There was no need for words. Their plans had long since been arranged. They were the pick of all the forces from the Transvaal and the sister republic, and for the most part they had volunteered to attack and capture the camp, or die in the attempt. Rough, bearded men of middle age, they numbered amongst their ranks commandants, field-cornets, and officers of the Boer army. At a peremptory order from Pretoria, and because they could no longer put up with the humiliation of thus being laughed at by a handful of men, they had set themselves the dangerous task of a grand assault. It would be warfare after a method hateful to them one and all, for the comfortable shelter of a big boulder was more to their liking. But a desperate position called for stern measures, and, like the brave men they were, they prepared for the work, determined to do or die in the attempt. Collecting together in silence, they for the most part removed their boots, and just before the darkness lifted they set out across the grassy plain, and without so much as a sound commenced to scale the heights of Wagon Hill and Caesar’s Camp. Without firing a shot those at the western end of the heights clambered up till they were almost upon the trenches, when they were discovered by an outpost of the Manchesters, who gave the alarm. Instantly a hail of lead was poured into the night, and the guns opened fire, tearing the elopes and the flats below with bursting shrapnel.

But the darkness aided the Boers, and in a few moments they were upon our men.

They had got so far, but they were not to make another step forward, for by now the Gordon Highlanders and the Rifle Brigade had arrived, and, rushing forward with fixed bayonets, they dashed pell-mell at the enemy, and after a fierce and bloody conflict broke them, and hurled them shattered and bleeding down the steep hillside.

It was desperate work. As the night lifted, and the grey haze of dawn lay upon the grassy slopes of Caesar’s Camp, Briton and Boer stood face to face and fought for supremacy. Every man of ours had need of all his courage and strength, and not one failed to do his duty to his queen. Magnificently the brave fellows kept up the reputation of the army, and in spite of the havoc wrought by Mauser bullets, pressed the enemy still closer, and when they fled sent a taunting cheer after them, and stood ready and willing to meet them again.

Jack and Guy took a full share in the work. Deafened by the reports of the field-artillery and the incessant tat, tat of the rifles, they stood shoulder to shoulder in the trench, and when their comrades charged, rushed forward with them and helped to hurl back the Boers. But that was the least difficult part of the task. Some minutes before the much-needed reinforcements arrived they were closely pressed, and barely held their own. The Boers swarmed up the hill, and now that the alarm was given, opened a hot fire upon them. Then they rushed at them, and surrounded the small party of defenders.

Standing back to back, Jack and his friend, with Mr Hunter, beat off a determined assault, but a second which followed parted them, and the two young fellows found themselves alone and cut off from their friends, while Mr Hunter had been forced back amongst the Highlanders.

Side by side Jack and Guy thrust fiercely at the Boers, parrying the swinging blows aimed at them, and escaping the flying bullets by a miracle.

“Surrender, and lay down your arms!” shouted a big, bearded man, presenting his rifle at Jack’s head. “You are surrounded and cut off from your friends.”

“Never!” cried Jack, hoarsely. “Come and take us it you can!”

“Very well, then,” the Boer answered roughly, and at once pulled his trigger, falling himself in a heap upon the ground at the same moment and rolling down the hill, his head almost smashed in by a shell which had struck him. But his bullet took effect. Swishing close by Jack, it hit Guy with a dull thud in the thigh, causing him to stumble and crash down upon the grass.

“All right, old boy!” cried Jack immediately, standing across his body and plunging his bayonet deep into the chest of a young Boer.

“That’s it, Jack. Keep them off!” Guy answered weakly; “I’m hit in the leg, but can fire my rifle.”

Next second both were hotly engaged, for the enemy, who had drawn back for the moment, rushed upon them again, and while some fired their rifles, others swung theirs over their heads and bit with all their strength. But the keen, gleaming bayonet, darting angrily here and there, kept them at arm’s-length, and not content with that, Jack gave a defiant shout, and, springing forward, threw himself upon them, transfixing one with his murderous blade, and knocking a second senseless with the butt of his rifle.

Meanwhile Guy had calmly opened his magazine, and as the burghers returned to the attack he picked them off one by one. But it was an uneven contest, and another minute would have seen both of them killed or captured, when there was a roaring cheer from behind, and down the hill, careless of the pelting bullets, swept the brawny, kilted sons of Scotland and the fearless and lithe little riflemen, their bayonets at the charge and the light of battle in their gleaming eyes.

At the sight the Boers drew back for one brief moment, and Jack and Guy regained their friends, the latter forgetting the agony of his wound in the excitement of the moment. Then, plucking up their courage and remembering their desperate resolve, the burghers turned to face the oncoming line of bayonets with a bravery which none of their fellows had ever shown before. With one fierce shout they ranged themselves together, poured in a volley, and rushed like a tide up the hill to meet the avalanche of terrible steel now pouring down it. A minute later the two forces met with a crash, but the result was never for a moment doubtful. The British onrush was not even checked. There was a fierce lunging of rifles, a succession of awful groans, and the Boers were gone, all swept to the ground, save a few who were now racing away for their lives. And after them the gallant English troops sent a scathing volley, and then stood watching them, shouting hoarsely to them, and more than half-longing that they would return again ere the flush of victory had died down in their hearts. But one such bitter experience was sufficient for the moment. The Boers hastily rejoined their friends, and, diving into cover, opened up a galling fire upon the heights of Caesar’s Camp.

Meanwhile other parts of the town had been attacked, to draw off attention from the heights to the south, the position which was of such vital importance. But the main strength of the enemy was directed against Caesar’s Camp, and while to the west of it one commando of staunch men had been hurled backward down the slopes, another had advanced on Wagon Hill, and had occupied it before the three detachments of the Imperial Light Horse stationed near were aware of it. The Boers, however, were raked by a murderous fire of Lee-Metford bullets, for the gallant colonists stuck to their posts with dogged persistence.

As the day dawned and it was seen that the enemy had possession of the hill, the Highlanders, Devons, and 60th Rifles charged them in company with the Imperial Light Horse. There was no denying this old and supremely British method of settling a conflict. One crash, one murderous flash of fire, and the hearts of the Boers were inspired with terror, and they fled precipitately to cover, whence they kept up a sullen fusillade.

For many long hours the Boers poured a storm of bullets upon the heights of Caesar’s Camp from a long ridge of which they had taken possession, and then, at noon, they made a second desperate onslaught, only to be shattered by the field-artillery and mown down by our riflemen.

Late that memorable afternoon, in the midst of a blinding storm of sleet and rain which only Natal could produce, a third and last attempt was made, but proved a signal failure, for by now the artillery, which had already done such excellent service, had ranged their guns to rake the open ground, and those of the enemy who escaped retired to their laagers to rest and recover from the terrors of an awful day. They were a sad gathering, for they had many comrades to mourn, and in addition their dearest hope had been frustrated. From behind a barrier of rock, and concealed in carefully-prepared trenches on the ridges north of the Tugela, they and their long-range guns had proved too formidable for Buller’s army, despite a stubborn and gallant attack. But here, when the position had been reversed, when a handful of British manned a trench on the summit of a hill which sloped easily and was not too steep to be assailed, they, in spite of their superior number, had been shattered and defeated.

It was humiliating, bitterly humiliating; but that desperate conflict served, if it did nothing else, to banish the mistaken ideas which each side had for the other. England now knew that she was fighting valiant men, who would be perfect as enemies, and equally chivalrous as her own soldiers, did not many of their number sully a good name by dastardly acts, such as firing upon the red cross and the wounded and making a scandalous use of the white flag. And on the Boer side, where previously scorn and worse for the bravery of the “Rooineks” had been shown, ungrudging praise for their dauntless courage was now given; while those who had stood to face the desperate charge upon the heighs of Caesar’s Camp shivered, and swore silently to themselves that nothing, not even their cherished independence and the longing for a Dutch South Africa, should prevail upon them to commit such an act of madness again.

On the heights of Caesar’s Camp, when the tide of battle had been turned back and the dusk of evening was beginning to fall, there were many poor fellows sleeping their last long sleep upon the grass. They had chosen a soldier’s life, and their reward had been to die for the sacred cause of their country. It was a sad and heart-rending scene, and Jack, as he looked on and endeavoured to help the wounded, fully realised the misery of it all. At his feet lay Guy Richardson, roughly bandaged and waiting to be carried off, while close at hand was the lifeless body of a little rifleman, the face turned upward to the sky, and smiling as though death had laid its hand upon him painlessly.

It was a gruesome scene, but he had little time to brood upon it, for at that moment he caught sight of a familiar figure a few yards away, and, running across the grass, knelt down by the side of Rawlings, the brave and jovial Highlander who had led the assault upon the Boer gun.

“Hallo, Jack!” he panted cheerfully; “not hit, I see. Prop me up, like a good fellow.”

Jack lifted him gently, and propped him up with his knee. Then he unslung his water-bottle and gave the poor fellow a drink.

“Thanks, old man!” the wounded officer said in a weaker voice. “Those beggars have done for me! I’m shot through the chest.”

“Not done for, Rawlings!” Jack answered hopefully. “You’ve many a year to live. You’ll pull through, old chap, never fear.”

“No, I’m going home, Jack,” was the whispered reply. “I can feel the life running out of me. Hold me tight and stay by me, will you? It’s lonely work to die without a friend.”

Jack’s eyes filled with tears, for from the very first he had feared that his poor friend was mortally hit and upon the point of death. He propped him up still higher, and having moistened his lips again, put his arms round him and held him firmly.

There was a long and painful pause, and then the young Highlander spoke again, this time in a stronger voice:

“Jack,” he said earnestly, “I’d have given more than I possess to live to the end of this struggle; but we shall win. Mark the words of a dying man – England shall come out victorious. The cause of freedom and justice shall triumph above all others, and Victoria, God bless her! shall rule this continent.”

He was silent again for a few moments, and then continued in a voice which was scarcely as loud as a whisper:

“Bend down, old chap,” he said. “I’m off to the other land. Remember me, Jack, when I’ve gone, and when you get back to dear old England again, look the people up and tell them that Angus met the end like a soldier and a man. They’ll be sorry. Yes, Mother and Father and the boys and girls will miss me. But they’ll he proud, too, that I died like this – Put your hand in mine, Jack. Ah, now I know you’re there! Good-bye! God bless everyone! My love to you, Dad and Mother! Good – ”

There was a deep sigh, and the head of the gallant young officer fell back upon Jack’s shoulder, and the tears which were streaming down the latter’s cheeks fell upon the pale face of as brave a man as Britain had ever known.

Jack laid him gently on the grass, and, rising sorrowfully to his feet, looked for the last time upon this stalwart young Highlander. He beckoned to some Highlanders who had looked on tearfully all the while, and who now approached and carried their officer away. Then he joined Mr Hunter, and all night long helped to gather the wounded.

When morning dawned again – the morning of the Sabbath – the awful havoc wrought by our shell was for the first time seen. Down the slopes of the hill, and away across the flats, Boer and Briton lay cold and motionless, separately and in groups; sometimes huddled together as if still engaged in a deadly tussle, and sometimes side by side in seeming friendship. Farther away, near the long ridge which the enemy had held, scores of mangled bodies were found, and at once handed over to the Boers, while the poor wounded wretches were tended to by our surgeons.

Then, when human skill and care had done all that was possible for the living, the troops formed up and in long lines carried their dead to the cemetery. The rifles rang out the regulation volleys, the bugles wailed the “Last Post”, and all was over, save that each and every soldier bore away with him from that scene a lasting memory of those brave comrades who but a few hours before had been full of life and energy.

After that they thronged into the church, and joined earnestly in the prayer of thanksgiving offered up for their glorious victory.

At the close of the service the men joined with such a will in singing the National Anthem – a loyal ceremony never neglected in a garrison church – that the strains were heard far away by the lonely pickets and patrols, and set each one of them singing blithely as he trudged up and down on his beat.

Jack Somerton sat amongst the officers in the church, and when the service was over he walked across to the hospital marquees and enquired for Guy Richardson. Even now, though the wounded had all been collected, the surgeons had their hands more than full, for typhoid fever and dysentery, those scourges which ever dog the footsteps of an army, had claimed many victims, and these required the most careful attention.

“Well, Jack, old boy,” said Guy cheerfully, “tell me all about Saturday’s affair. Of course I saw that part of the fighting which occurred at Caesar’s Camp; but elsewhere our fellows were hard pressed, they tell me.”

Jack told his friend all that he knew of the engagement, and mentioned the names of the gallant officers who had fallen.

“What are you going to do now, Jack?” his friend asked, after they had chatted for some minutes. “The surgeon who is looking after me says we are likely to be cooped up here for some time longer, and I am sure that will not suit you.”

“No, I don’t think I care much about sticking in Ladysmith while the siege continues,” mused Jack. “You see, the Boers, by all accounts, have entrenched all the hills between this and the Tugela, and with the heavy guns of position which they have been able to bring down by rail from the Transvaal, have practically made their lines impregnable. An officer told me that it would require an army of more than 100,000 to break through them and relieve us, and that even then the job would not be accomplished without frightful loss of life.

“I believe we shall have to wait. Buller and his forces will keep the enemy busy while another army is massing in Cape Colony ready to invade the Orange Free State. That would probably lead to the relief of Kimberley and Mafeking, and possibly Ladysmith. But to get the army in motion and prepare the commissariat is a gigantic undertaking, and will require weeks yet. There will not be another assault here, at least not for many a long day to come, as we have just given the burghers such a smashing, but elsewhere there will be lots of fun. They tell me that despatch-riders are being asked for, and I shall send in my name and risk it. It would be fine to feel that one had been able to creep through to Chieveley in spite of all those Boers.”

“By Jove, Jack,” Guy exclaimed, raising himself upon his elbows and flushing with excitement, “you are the most adventurous beggar I have ever come across! First of all, you have excitement sufficient to suit most fellows for a year up there at Talana Hill; then you fight your way through to Kimberley and Mafeking; and finally, through sheer daring and pluck, save me from that beast of a lion. Then, of course, it was mainly through you that we rescued Father and Mr Hunter, not to mention that poor little woman whose husband had been commandeered. No wonder the camp is ringing with your name. By now I expect the news of Piet Maartens and the spies, and the manner in which you checkmated them, has been heliographed across to Buller’s signallers, and I dare say London is reading the news, and every man in England rejoicing over it as he drinks his breakfast coffee. Well, old man, go on a little further. Many of our countrymen will make a name before this war is over, but if Jack Somerton doesn’t top the list – well – I’m a Transvaal burgher, which is the very last thing I shall care to be.”

“Oh, shut up, Guy!” Jack cried warmly, colouring with embarrassment. “It’s all been luck – sheer luck from beginning to end.”

“Luck! Bosh, my dear old chap; bosh!” exclaimed Guy with a merry laugh. “You’re the only fellow who will ever say such a thing.”

“Well, I think so,” Jack answered. “But you’ve talked enough already, Guy. The surgeon expressly told me that you were to keep silent, and here you are chattering away as though there was nothing the matter with you. I shall send in my name as a despatch-rider, and let you know what happens. Now I’ll say good-bye for the present. To-morrow I have to give evidence against Piet Maartens, and after that I expect I shall clear out of Ladysmith. So long, old chap, and mind you keep quiet, as you have been told, or something will go wrong with your wound.”

Pressing Guy’s hand, Jack took his leave, after exchanging a few words with the other wounded soldiers lying in the tent.

On the following morning he attended the court-martial upon the Boer prisoners and gave formal evidence. It went much against his wishes, but the stern necessities of war demanded that spies should be summarily dealt with.

There was no doubt about their guilt. All had been caught red-handed, and in a deathly silence sentence was passed upon them that at dawn on the following morning they should be shot for their offence, in sight of all the troops.

Piet Maartens was a pitiable sight. Unarmed and a prisoner, he was a very different individual from the bumptious Boer who had been taught a lesson by Jack only a few months before. At the reading of the death penalty he turned white with terror, his limbs shook, and perspiration rolled from his forehead. With a shriek of fear he fell upon his knees and begged the president of the court to reconsider his decision. Then, finding him obdurate, he turned to Jack and besought him to say something for him.

Of very different moulding were his companions. Stern, sunburnt young men, they held their heads erect and heard their doom like men, and even harshly remonstrated with Piet Maartens for his cowardice.

Just as the sun rose on the following morning, and one of the loveliest of lovely African days dawned, a dozen rifles cracked, and Piet Maartens and his companions had paid the last penalty of all spies.