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Transcriber's note:

      Obvious printer's errors have been corrected. All other
      inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's
      spelling has been retained.

      Text enclosed by equal signs was in bold face in the
      original (=bold=).

      The original book did not have a Table of Contents, and
      one has been created for the convenience of the reader.





A YEOMAN'S LETTERS

by

P. T. ROSS

       *       *       *       *       *

SOME PRESS OPINIONS.


=_DAILY TELEGRAPH._=--'... Nothing better of this kind has yet appeared
than "A Yeoman's Letters," by P. T. Ross.... Bright, breezy, and vivid
are the stories of his adventures.... Corporal Ross not only writes
lively prose, but really capital verse. His "Ballad of the Bayonet" is
particularly smart. He is also a clever draughtsman, and his rough but
effective caricatures form not the least attractive feature of a very
pleasant book.'


=_STANDARD._=--'In "A Yeoman's Letters," Mr. P. T. Ross has written the
liveliest book about the War which has yet appeared. Whatever amusement
can be extracted from a tragic theme will be found in his vivacious
"Letters." He seems one of those high-spirited and versatile young men
who notice the humorous side of everything, and can add to the jollity
of a company by a story, a song, an "impromptu" poem, or a pencilled
caricature.'


=_SCOTSMAN._=--'The war literature now includes books of all sorts; but
there is nothing in it more racy or readable than this collection of
letters, what may be called familiar letters to the general public....
In spite of its subject, there is more fun than anything else in the
book.... But a deeper interest is not lacking to the book, either in its
animated descriptions of serious affairs or in the substantial gravity
which a discerning reader will see between the lines of voluble and
entertaining talk.'


=_CHRONICLE.=_--'Our Yeoman is a droll fellow, a facetious dog, whether
with pen or sketching pencil, and we laughed heartily at many of his
japes and roughly-drawn sketches.'

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: CORPL. P. T. ROSS.]


A YEOMAN'S LETTERS

by

P. T. ROSS

(_Late Corporal 69th Sussex Company I.Y._)

Illustrated by the Author.








                     "And you, good Yeomen,
  Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
  The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
  That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not."

                                          _Shakespeare._



Third Edition.

London:
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton,
Kent & Co., Limited.
1901.

Printed by Burfield & Pennells,
Hastings.




TABLE OF CONTENTS

   FOREWORD.
      The Sussex Yeomanry.

   PART 1.
      On the Trek.

   WITH ROBERTS.
      The Occupation of Johannesburg.
      Pretoria Taken.
      Diamond Hill and After.
      Back to Pretoria.
      Entertaining a Guest.
      The Mails Arrive.
      The Nitral's Nek Disaster.

   WITH MAHON.
      A General Advance to Balmoral and Back.
      To Rustenburg.
      Ambushed.
      Heavy Work for the Recording Angel.
      Relief of Eland's River Garrison. Join in the great De Wet hunt.
      After De Wet.
      The Yeoman, the Argentine and the Farrier-Sergeant.
      Commandeering by Order.

   WITH CLEMENTS.
      Cattle Lifting.
      Delarey gives us a Field Day.
      Burnt to Death.
      The Infection of Spring again.
      Death of Lieutenant Stanley.
      His Burial.
      Promoted to Full Corporal.
      Petty Annoyances--The <DW65>.
      A Wet Night.
      The Great Egg Trick.
      Our Friend "Nobby."
      "The Roughs" leave us for Pretoria.
      The breaking up of the Composite Squadron.
      Life on a Kopje.
      Death and Burial of Captain Hodge.
      Camp Life at Krugersdorp.
      Lady Snipers at Work.
      Treatment of the Sick.
      Veldt Church Service.
      Comradeship.

   IN HOSPITAL.
      The Story of Nooitgedacht.
      Two Field Hospitals--A Contrast.
      Christmas in Hospital.
      The Career of an Untruth.
      The Sisters' Albums.
      "Long live the King!"
      The Irish Fusilier's Ambition.
      "War without End."
      Invitations--and a Concert.
      Our Orderly's Blighted Heart.
      Southward Ho!
      R.A.M.C. Experiences and Impressions.
      The Mythical and Real Officer.
      The R.A.M.C. Sergeant-Major, and other annoyances.
      At the Base.
      Another Album!!
      Reasons.
      Home.




ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                         PAGE
  "A Hot Time!"                                             2
  "A Camp Sing-Song"                                        7
  "The Great Small Game Quest(ion)"                         9
  "The Mealie and Oat Fatigue"                             23
  "Stable Guard"                                           31
  "A Terrible Reckoning"                                   44
  "Some of the Pomp and Circumstance of Glorious War"      52
  "A New Rig-out"                                          58
  "Oliver Twist on the Veldt"                              65
  "Hate"                                                   68
  "Mails Up"                                               87
  "I'kona"                                                 89
  "Nobby"                                                  94
  "Consolation"                                           112
  "On Pass"                                               114
  "A Peep at Our Domestic Life"                           118
  "Hymns and their Singers"                               129
  "A Friendly Boer Family"                                141
  "Well, it's the best Oi can do for yez"                 144
  "Sick" and "Who said C.I.V.'s?"                         148
  "Got His Ticket"                                        153
  "The Thoughtless Sister"                                156
  "God Save the King"                                     159
  "Tommy's Spittoon"                                      171




FOREWORD.


"More khaki," sniffed a bored but charming lady, as she glanced at a
picture of the poor Yeomanry at Lindley, and then hastily turned away to
something of greater interest. I overheard the foregoing at the Royal
Academy, soon after my return from South Africa, last May, and thanked
the Fates that I was in mufti. It was to a certain extent indicative of
the jaded interest with which the War is now being followed by a large
proportion of the public at home, the majority of whom, I presume, have
no near or dear ones concerned in the affair; a public which cheered
itself hoarse and generally made "a hass" of itself many months ago in
welcoming certain warriors whose period of active service had been
somewhat short. I wonder how the veterans of the Natal campaign, the
gallant Irish Brigade, and others, will be received when they return?
"Come back from the War! What War?"

And yet in spite of this apathy, "War Books" keep appearing, and here is
a simple Yeoman thrusting yet another on the British Public. Still
'twere worse than folly to apologise, for _qui s'excuse, s'accuse_.

The present unpretentious volume is composed of letters written to a
friend from South Africa, during the past twelve months, with a few
necessary omissions and additions; the illustrations which have been
introduced, are reproductions in pen and ink of pencil sketches done on
the veldt or in hospital. The sole aim throughout has been to represent
a true picture of the every-day life of a trooper in the Imperial
Yeomanry. In many cases the "grousing" of the ranker may strike the
reader as objectionable, and had this record been penned in a
comfortable study, arm-chair philosophy might have caused many a passage
to be omitted. But the true campaigning atmosphere would have been
sacrificed.

As the Sussex Squadron of Imperial Yeomanry was, in popular parlance,
"on its own" till the end of May, the letters dealing with that period
have been excluded. However, a brief account of the doings of the
Squadron up to that time is necessary to give continuity to the story,
so here it is:


THE SUSSEX YEOMANRY.

The Yeomanry is a Volunteer Force, and as is generally known, was
embodied in Great Britain during the wars of the French Revolution.
History records that at the period named, the County of Sussex
possessed one of the finest Corps in England. _Autres temps, autres
moeurs_, and so from apathy and disuse the Sussex Yeomanry gradually
dwindled in numbers and importance, until it eventually became
extinct. Then came the dark days of November and December, in the
year eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-nine. Who will ever forget them?
And who does not remember with pride the great outburst of
patriotism, which, like a volcanic eruption, swept every obstacle
before it, banishing Party rancour and class prejudice, thus welding
the British race in one gigantic whole, ready to do and die for the
honour of the Old Flag, and in defence of the Empire which has been
built up by the blood and brains of its noblest sons. The call for
Volunteers for Active Service was answered in a manner which left no
doubt as to the issue. From North, South, East, and West, came
offers of units, then tens, then hundreds, and finally, thousands,
the flower of the Nation, were in arms ready for action. The Hon. T.
A. Brassey, a Sussex man, holding a commission in the West Kent
Yeomanry, applied for permission and undertook, early in February,
1900, to form a squadron of Yeomanry from Sussex. The enlistment was
principally done at Eastbourne, as were also the preliminary drills.
We went into quarters at Shorncliffe where we trained until the last
week in March, when early, very early, one dark cold morning, a
wailing sleepy drum and fife band played us down to the Shorncliffe
Station, where we entrained for the Albert Docks, London. There the
transport "Delphic" received us, together with a squadron of Paget's
Horse (the 73rd I.Y.), and soon after noon the officers and troopers
were being borne down the river, and with mixed feelings, were
beginning to realise they were actually off at last. Many, alas,
were destined never to return.

It is more amusing than ever, now, to recall the remarks of cheerful,
chaffing friends, who indulged in sly digs at the poor Yeomen previous
to their departure. At that time, as now, "the end was in sight" only we
had not got used to it. It was a common experience to be greeted with,
"Ha, going out to South Africa! Why it'll be all over before you get
there," or "Well, it'll be a pleasant little trip there and back, for I
don't suppose they'll land you." Subsequent experience of troopships has
dispelled even "the pleasant trip" illusion. Another favourite phrase,
was "Well, if they do use you, they'll put you on the lines of
communications." Sometimes a generous friend would confidentially ask,
"Do you think they'll let you start?" And one, a lady, anxious on
account of gew-gaws, observed, "Oh, I hope they'll give you a medal."

Eventually the slow but sure S.S. "Delphic," having stopped at St.
Helena to land bullocks for Cronje, Schiel and their friends, disgorged
us at Cape Town. Our anxiety as to whether the war was over was soon
allayed, and we gaily marched, a perspiring company, to Maitland Camp.
Here amid sand and flies we began to conceive what the real thing would
be like. An extract or two from letters written while at that salubrious
spot may serve to give an idea of the life there:

     "This place is a perfect New Jerusalem as regards Sheenies, every
     civilian about the camp appearing to be a German Jew refugee.
     They have stalls and sell soap, buns, braces, belts, &c., and so
     forth. Every now and again a big Semitic proboscis appears at our
     tent door, and the question 'Does anypody vant to puy a vatch' is
     propounded."

Hungarian horses were drawn and quartered by our lines, and saddlery
served out. By-the-way, I have always flattered myself there was at
least one good thing about the 69th Squadron I.Y., they had excellent
saddles. The first time we turned out in full marching order was a
terrible affair, and the following may help to convey an idea of the
_tout ensemble_ of an erstwhile peaceful citizen:

     "Please imagine me as an average Yeoman in full marching order.
     Dangling on each side of the saddle are apparently two small
     hay-ricks in nets; then wallets full, and over them a rolled
     overcoat and an extra pair of boots. Behind, rolled
     waterproof-sheet and army blanket, with iron picketing-peg and
     rope, and mess-tin on top. Elsewhere the close observer mentally
     notes a half-filled nosebag. So much for the horse, and then,
     loaded with the implements of war, bristling with cartridges,
     water-bottle, field-glass, haversack, bayonet and so on, we
     behold the Yeoman. With great dexterity (not always) he fits
     himself into the already apparently superfluously-decorated
     saddle, and once there, though he may wobble about, takes some
     displacing.

     "I really must remark on the marvellous head for figures that we
     Yeomen are expected to have. Read this. Comment from myself will
     be superfluous.

     "My Company number is 51.

     "My regimental number is 16,484.

     "My rifle and bayonet, 2,502.

     "The breech-block and barrel of the rifle are numbered 4,870.

     "My horse's number is 1,388.

     "There may be a few more numbers attached to me; if so, I have
     overlooked them."

_En passant_, I must mention we were with our proper battalion, the
14th, commanded by Colonel Brookfield, M.P., at Maitland. Eventually,
thanks to the fact of his Grace the Duke of Norfolk being attached to
our squadron, when we got the order to go up country we left the rest of
the battalion behind at Bloemfontein, cursing, and proceeded by rail as
far as Smaldeel, where we detrained with our horses and commenced
treking after the immortal "Bobs."

His Grace's servant, rather an old fellow, did not seem to particularly
care for campaigning, and, often, dolefully regarding his khaki
garments, would sorrowfully remark, "To think as 'ow I've served 'im all
these years, and now 'e should bring me hout 'ere. It does seem 'ard." I
think a pilgrimage would have been more to his liking.

Our first experience of "watering horses" on the trek was both
interesting and exciting, it occurred at Smaldeel.

     "The horses we proceeded to water at once; I had the pleasure of
     taking two and of proving the proverb, _re_ leading horses to the
     water. _En route_ were dead horses to the right and dead horses
     to the left; in the water, which was black, one was dying in an
     apparently contented manner, while another lay within a few
     yards of it doing the same thing in a don't-care-a-bit sort of
     way. Regarded from five hours later, I fancy my performances with
     the two noble steeds in my charge must have been distinctly
     amusing to view, had anyone been unoccupied enough to watch me.
     Vainly did I try to induce them to drink of the
     printer's-ink-like fluid, water and mud, already stirred up by
     hundreds of other horses. When they did go in, they went for a
     splash, a paddle, and a roll, not to imbibe, and I had to go with
     them a little way, nearly up to my knees, in the mud. I have
     arrived at the conclusion that the noble quadruped is not an
     altogether pleasant beast. Still, I suppose he has an opinion of
     us poor mortals. In death he is also far from pleasant, as was
     conclusively proved when night came on, and a dead one near us
     began to assert his presence with unnecessary emphasis. Phew!
     It's all very well saying that a live donkey is better than a
     dead lion, but judging from my experience of dead horses, which
     is just commencing, I should say that the dead lion would prove
     mightily offensive."

The water in the Free State, as a rule, was most unsatisfactory.
Marching in the wake of an army of about 50,000 men, however, one would
scarcely expect water to remain unstirred or unpolluted. I always found
my