Called Into The Field Again By The Jameson
Raid, He Grimly Herded His Enemies Into An Impossible Position And
Desired, As It Is Stated, That The Hardest Measure Should Be Dealt
Out To The Captives.
This was the man, capable, crafty, iron-hard,
magnetic, who lay with a reinforced and formidable army across the
path of Lord Methuen's tired soldiers.
It was a fair match. On the
one side the hardy men, the trained shots, a good artillery, and
the defensive; on the other the historical British infantry, duty,
discipline, and a fiery courage. With a high heart the
dust-coloured column moved on over the dusty veld.
So entirely had hills and Boer fighting become associated in the
minds of our leaders, that when it was known that Modder River
wound over a plain, the idea of a resistance there appears to have
passed away from their minds. So great was the confidence or so lax
the scouting that a force equaling their own in numbers had
assembled with many guns within seven miles of them, and yet the
advance appears to have been conducted without any expectation of
impending battle. The supposition, obvious even to a civilian, that
a river would be a likely place to meet with an obstinate
resistance, seems to have been ignored. It is perhaps not fair to
blame the General for a fact which must have vexed his spirit more
than ours - one's sympathies go out to the gentle and brave man, who
was heard calling out in his sleep that he 'should have had those
two guns' - but it is repugnant to common sense to suppose that no
one, neither the cavalry nor the Intelligence Department, is at
fault for so extraordinary a state of ignorance. [Footnote: Later
information makes it certain that the cavalry did report the
presence of the enemy to Lord Methuen.] On the morning of Tuesday,
November 28th, the British troops were told that they would march
at once, and have their breakfast when they reached the Modder
River - a grim joke to those who lived to appreciate it.
The army had been reinforced the night before by the welcome
addition of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, which made up
for the losses of the week. It was a cloudless morning, and a
dazzling sun rose in a deep blue sky. The men, though hungry,
marched cheerily, the reek of their tobacco-pipes floating up from
their ranks. It cheered them to see that the murderous kopjes had,
for the time, been left behind, and that the great plain inclined
slightly downwards to where a line of green showed the course of
the river. On the further bank were a few scattered buildings, with
one considerable hotel, used as a week-end resort by the
businessmen of Kimberley. It lay now calm and innocent, with its
open windows looking out upon a smiling garden; but death lurked at
the windows and death in the garden, and the little dark man who
stood by the door, peering through his glass at the approaching
column, was the minister of death, the dangerous Cronje.
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