The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War

“War!” cried the colonel sternly, and he signalled to those who had brought the messenger to re-tie the bandage across his eyes and lead him back through the lines.

Two hours later a heavy gun began the attack, one which was to be no night surprise entailing a heavy loss to the assailants, but a slow, deliberate shelling of the gallantly defended place to destruction; while now the difficulty was felt by the garrison for the first time of how to reply, for the new guns which had come upon the scene were served with smokeless powder, and the best glasses failed to show whence the bursting shells had come.

The officers had nothing to do on the kopje but keep going about among their men in the trenches and behind the walls, to say a few encouraging words and insist upon them not exposing themselves, for it was waste of cartridges to use a rifle; while the firing from the big gun and its smaller brothers too was infrequent for the reasons above given. Hence it fell about that more than once the officers paid what may be called visits from time to time, just to exchange a few words, and on one of these occasions Captain Roby, who walked fairly well with a stick, joined Lennox and Dickenson.

“This is cheerful,” he said. “Did you over know anything more exasperating?”

“Horrible!” said the two young men in a breath. “What’s the chief going to do?” added Dickenson.

“I’ve just come from him,” replied Roby. “Nothing. What can he do but hold the dogs of war in leash until the Boers think they have shelled us enough, and come on?”

“Nothing, of course,” said Dickenson, carrying on the captain’s simile; “but the dogs are grinding their teeth, and when the enemy does come, by Jingo! he’ll find them pretty sharp.”

Hour after hour the Boers kept on throwing heavy shells on to the kopje, while the shelter was so good that not a single life was lost; but the casualties from the shattering shells provided the doctor and his aids with quite sufficient work, and it was with a sigh of relief that he ceased attending to the last man brought in, for with darkness the firing ceased.

Then came the night full of alarms with the terrible anxiety and expectation of the assault which did not come. For, as it proved, the Boers had been furnished with too awful a lesson in the former attack to venture upon another surprise, with its many accidents and risks to themselves. They preferred to wait for daylight, and with the first pale streaks of dawn the bombarding began once more, and went on briskly till an hour after sunrise, when the lookouts from the top of the kopje passed the words, “Here they come.”

Just about the same time the scouts came running in bearing the same warning, and now the kopje guns began to play their parts more effectively.

For from three directions, covered by their own pieces, quite a cloud of the Boers could be seen approaching fast to get within rifle-range, dismount, and then begin a careful skirmishing advance, seizing every spot that afforded cover, completely surrounding the defenders, and searching the kopje from side to side with a terrific fire.

This was vigorously replied to; but the advance was never for a moment checked, the manoeuvring of the enemy being excellent, and their skill in keeping hidden and crawling from place to place exasperating to the defenders, for in spite of careful aiming and deliberation the Boer losses were remarkably small.

“They mean it this time, Bob,” said Lennox sadly.

“Yes, they mean it; and somehow I don’t feel up to the work at all. I didn’t know I was so weak. Feel your wounds much?”

“Horribly. I can only use my glass and watch the stubborn brutes coming on.”

“Same here. I’ve had six shots at ’em, and then I handed the rifle back to the Tommy who lent it to me.”

“How many times did you hit?” asked Lennox.

Dickenson looked round to see if either of the men could hear him, and then he whispered softly, “Not once.”

Lennox took no notice, for he was resting his field-glass upon the rough top of the stone wall, looking outward over the veldt.

“Well, didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Yes. Don’t worry,” replied Lennox shortly. “Here, quick!” he cried excitedly. “Take your glass and look straight away yonder to the left of the laager we took.”

“Eh? Yes! All right. I see. Here, send word to the chief. They’re coming on fast now; three clouds of them. Reinforcements. Why don’t those fellows make the big gun begin to talk?”

“Because they can see what I can, Bob,” cried Lennox joyously. “Look again. Lance-tips glittering in the sun. Our men. Hurrah! Strong bodies of cavalry. Why, Bob, they’ll catch the enemy in the open now. The siege is up. Hush! Don’t shout.”

“Why, man? It will encourage the lads.”

“And warn the enemy that help is coming. Five minutes more ignorance will be worth anything to the relief force. I’ll go to the chief at once.”

There was no need. Almost at that moment the colonel had caught sight of the lance-tips through his glass; but quite ten minutes more – minutes crowded with excitement – elapsed before the attacking party were aware of the danger in their rear, and then came the terrible reverse. Boers began running back to where their ponies were being held out of rifle-shot, but running in vain, for the British cavalry were there first, spurring their steeds and stampeding the ponies, sending them in all directions prior to charging through and through the retreating parties, and keeping up the pursuit until recalled.

Others of the relief force had meanwhile been aiming at the three laagers, into which the infantry dashed, the first warning of this received at the kopje being through the cessation of the shelling, for the guns were either silenced or put out of action, the whole of the Boer force literally melting away.

It was one of the most brilliant episodes of the war; and that night, the supplies having come up, the relief party were hoarse with cheering the men whom they dubbed British heroes, and all was festivity and joy.

No, not all; for during the long watches of that night, with the stars looking piercingly through the cold, clear air, parties were out, British and Boer, searching far and wide, and the ambulance-wagons creaked and rattled with their terrible loads, while Doctor Emden, the doctors of the relief expedition, and those working for the Boers were busy till morning.

It was Lennox and his comrade who, being still only invalids, had the forethought to make their way at sunrise to where the doctor had been working all the night, and they found him lying utterly exhausted upon an old greatcoat, fast asleep.

Lennox touched him gently, and he sprang up.

“Yes, all right,” he said; “I’ll come. How many this time? – Eh? What! you, my dear boys? Hurt?”

“No, no, doctor; drink this,” said Lennox gently, and he held out a steaming tin.

“Coffee! Eureka!” cried the doctor. “My dear boy, I began to think I was never to taste the – ha, delicious! – infusion of the berry – again. Ha! Another? Yes, please. No; wake up and give it to that poor fellow there. He has been working with me all the night. – That’s right,” said the doctor, after seeing his wishes fulfilled. “Ah, it’s all very well for you, my fine fellows, who have the rush and dash and wild excitement of battle, but it’s horrible for us who have all the cold-blooded horrors afterwards. You have the show and credit too, and the rewards.”

“But we have the wounds too, doctor,” said Lennox.

“To be sure, my dear boy; to be sure. Don’t take any notice of what I say. I’m worn out. We get our rewards too, in the shape of the brave fellows’ thanks. But if those people at home who shout for war only knew what it means when the fight is over, they’d alter their tune. But I say, this day’s work ought to bring it to an end.”

It did, in the Groenfontein district; and for Colonel Lindley’s battle-scarred, hunger-weakened veterans there came a time of rest and peace.

By way of postscript to this narrative of South African adventure, here is the letter received from Mark Roby by Drew Lennox soon after the voyage home and the ovation which he and his comrades had received in their march through London streets:

My Dear Lennox, – I have just seen the Gazette, and am of course delighted to find the word “Major” prefixed to my name. I do not write out of vanity; it is from the sincere desire to be one of the first to congratulate my brave old companion in arms, Drew Lennox, V.C. Bravo! You deserved it. May I live to see you a general, with a lot more orders on your breast. But there is something more I want to say. I dined with Bob Dickenson and old Sawbones last evening, and in the chat after dinner over the promotions Dickenson told me about that episode which occurred after I was bowled over by that shot and you saved my life, according to your noble custom. When Bob D. told me how I accused you of being a coward, I felt quite knocked over. Of course it is as Emden says – I was, in a way, mad as half-a-dozen hatters, and enough to make me, with a part of my something or another – I forget what the doctor called it, but he meant brain-pan – bent in on my thinking apparatus. You a coward! Why, I confess now that a petty feeling of jealousy often worried me, through every one thinking so much of you and the way in which you always came up smiling after no end of brave doings. A coward! My word! Why didn’t you punch my head? There, I don’t say forgive me, because I know you do one who is proud to call you his best and bravest friend. That last is what I told Bob Dickenson you were, and he looked quite proud. You will be glad to hear that my wound is quite healed up; and as to the lump on my skull, the absolute truth, honesty, and sincerity of every word in this letter must show you that there is no trouble as to my knowing what I say. – Yours always, my dear Lennox, Mark Roby. Captain Drew Lennox, V.C.