Campaign Pictures of the War in South Africa (1899-1900) | Page 2

a soldier's grave for our dead.

I have decided to enclose these verses in my book because some critics
have pronounced me anti-English in my sentiments. Heaven alone
knows why; yet the above poem was written and published by me in
Australia just before war was declared between England and the
Republics, at a time when all Australia considered it very probable that
we should have to fight one of the big European Powers as well as the
Boers.

A. G. HALES.

AUSTRALIA ON THE MARCH.
BELMONT BATTLEFIELD.
At two o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, the 6th of the month, the
reveille sounded, and the Australians commenced their preparations for
the march to join Methuen's army. By 4 a.m. the mounted rifles led the
way out of camp, and the toilsome march over rough and rocky ground
commenced. The country was terribly rough as we drove the transports
up and over the Orange River, and rougher still in the low kopjes on the
other side. The heat was simply blistering, but the Australians did not
seem to mind it to any great extent; they were simply feverish to get on
to the front, but they had to hang back and guard the transports.
At last the hilly country faded behind us. We counted upon pushing on
rapidly, but the African mules were a sorry lot, and could make but
little headway in the sandy tracks. Still, there was no rest for the men,
because at intervals one of Remington's scouts would turn up at a flying
gallop, springing apparently from nowhere, out of the womb of the
wilderness, to inform us that flying squads of Boers were hanging
round us. But so carefully watchful were the Remingtons that the Boers
had no chance of surprising us. No sooner did the scouts inform us of
their approach in any direction than our rifles swung forward ready to
give them a hearty Australian reception. This made the march long and
toilsome, though we never had a chance to fire a shot. At 5.30 we
marched with all our transports into Witteput, the wretched little mules
being the only distressed portion of the contingent.
At Witteput the news reached us that a large party of the enemy had
managed to pass between General Methuen's men and ourselves, and
had invested Belmont, out of which place the British troops had driven
them a few weeks previously. We had no authentic news concerning
this movement. Our contingent spread out on the hot sand at Witteput,
panting for a drop of rain from the lowering clouds that hung heavily

overhead. Yet hot, tired, and thirsty as we were, we yet found time to
look with wonder at the sky above us. The men from the land of the
Southern Cross are used to gorgeous sunsets, but never had we looked
upon anything like this. Great masses of coal-black clouds frowned
down upon us, flanked by fiery crimson cloud banks, that looked as if
they would rain blood, whilst the atmosphere was dense enough to
half-stifle one. Now and again the thunder rolled out majestically, and
the lightning flashed from the black clouds into the red, like bayonets
through smoke banks.
Yet we had not long to wait and watch, for within half an hour after our
arrival the Colonel galloped down into our midst just as the evening
ration was being given out. He held a telegram aloft, and the stillness
that fell over the camp was so deep that each man could hear his
neighbour's heart beat. Then the Colonel's voice cut the stillness like a
bugle call. "Men, we are needed at Belmont; the Boers are there in
force, and we have been sent for to relieve the place. I'll want you in
less than two hours." It was then the men showed their mettle. Up to
their feet they leapt like one man, and they gave the Colonel a cheer
that made the sullen, halting mules kick in their harness. "We are ready
now, Colonel, we'll eat as we march," and the "old man" smiled, and
gave the order to fall in, and they fell in, and as darkness closed upon
the land they marched out of Witteput to the music of the falling rain
and the thunder of heaven's artillery.
All night long it was march, halt, and "Bear a hand, men," for those
thrice accursed mules failed us at every pinch. In vain the niggers plied
the whips of green hide, vain their shouts of encouragement, or
painfully shrill anathemas; the mules had the whip hand of us, and they
kept it. But, in spite of it all, in the chilly dawn of the African morning,
our fellows, with their shoulders well back, and heads held high,
marched into Belmont,