Excerpt from C.R. Prance, The Occupation of Pretoria by the British Forces
ON ARRIVAL IN PRETORIA Lord Roberts issued strict orders that in the interest of temperance the sale of liquor to troops was forbidden. Liquor could only be bought in wholesale quantities and then only on a written order signed by an officer. The regulars had no problems as they had their canteens in camp but the South African contingents and the other irregulars, as a rule, had no such canteens.
The lowest rank received about £7.10 a month and some of the fellows drew up to two to three months back-pay on arrival in Pretoria. Thus large sums of money were available for the acquisition of “wholesale quantities” of liquor.
The colonial lower ranks were usually on easy terms with their officers. This could also be said of E Squadron, 2nd Brabant’s Horse. So having drawn their pay the N.C.O deputed the sergeant-major to approach the captain, “Texas Jack Ogilvy”, for a liquor chit.
“Make out your list and I’ll sign it,” he replied in answer to their request. They made out a list of all they could afford and he signed. A deputation went off to town and arrived back with a four-wheel carriage loaded to the hilts with assorted booze.
Being just in from a long march there was no duty to be expected for a day or two. After arranging the routine for “guards” the non-commissioned officers got down to the serious business of quenching their thirst that had built up over a long period. They assembled under the quartermaster-sergeant’s waggon which was draped with a bucksail to make a marquee of some sorts.
I was on guard that night on the horse-lines, and soon after ten o’ clock the sergeant-major, “Three Fingered Jack”, a very tough old Scot who had lost two fingers in a mining accident, came rolling up to ask what the hell I was doing here.
“Hello, p-p-Pransh ol’ boy, whatsh the game?”
“I’m on horse guard, Sergeant-Major.”
“Horsh-guard be damned. You’re a damned good fellow. Hic-come along with me and have a hic-drink.”
“But, Sergeant-Major, I can’t leave my duty. I’ll be run in if an officer comes along and finds nobody here.”
“Duty be hic-damned. I hic-gave you an order to hic-come along with me and have a drink. I’ll put you under arrest for dishobediensh if you refuse.”
Well, it was obviously useless to argue and so under orders I went for a “quick un” at the N.C.O.’s makeshift pub, crawling under the tarpaulin to find a motley crowd making good the past privations on the veld. A quick one — and another one for luck — and I was free to go back to duty.
In the meantime there had been some sensational happenings unbeknown to us. The colonel and the officers were in town caught fast by the fact that they were ignorant of the password to get back into camp where their presence was urgently needed. At about mid-night word had reached the camp that the Boers had attacked the regular garrison at Commando Nek and had lost some guns. An escort urgently needed to take out some guns at dawn and the honour of providing the advance-guard had been awarded to the 2nd Brabant’s Horse — whose officers were nearly all away and almost impossible to find even though search parties were frantically trying to track them down!
The colonel got back just in time for the surprise packet. At about two o’ clock E Squadron received orders to be on the move at dawn.
Our captain “Texas Jack Ogilvy” was compos mentis, but for the time, unable to stand up. The sergeant-major, “Three-fingered Jack”, and the rest of the N.C.O.’s were frankly blotto and a majority of the troopers in a like predicament. Lieutenant Ramberg, the Austrian, was the only officer in any sort of condition to take command and in the grey pre-dawn he paraded with a corporal and some two dozen troopers who barely stayed in the saddle — in fact some fell off hopelessly and helplessly at the order “Mount!”
The rest of us cantered off to the appointed place. In the meantime chaos reigned supreme in the camp and had in fact reached a state of comedy as the drunkards sobered up. “Three-fingered Jack”, the sergeant-major, staggering, wept openly at the thought that “my boys” had gone off to fight and had left him snoring off his hangover. In the teeth of fierce protest that he was not fit to ride, he ordered a man to saddle up his mare. Now “Three-fingered Jack’s” mare, although a beautiful blood-mare and a blue roan to boot, had a nervous reputation. By clumsy handling she had been so spoilt as to be quite unsafe for ordinary riding in times of peace. She could not abide the sight of a spur, and even “Three-fingered Jack” always had to have his rifle handed up to him after he had mounted.
Today — to hell with all these fancy strokes. His mare was fetched, hobbled and held down while he clambered up, rifle and all, and wearing his biggest spurs! His helpers let go and ran for cover; he jammed in his spurs, and an equine earthquake erupted, throwing “Three-fingered Jack” on a bell-tent which collapsed, enfolding him. And as he bellowed, wrestling with the folds and canvas tangled in his spurs, behold, “Texas Jack” arrived on the scene, awakened by the shindy. He stood swaying unsteadily, hands on hips, regarding the whole mess in front of him with a sardonic grin.
A sudden brainstorm seized the sergeant-major’s rather befuddled brain. Staggering to his feet, he clapped Captain Ogilvy on the shoulder saying: “Hic-Cap’n Ogilvy, ish my unpleasant duty to make you a hic-prishner for being drunk and dishorderly in camp . . . !”
As for our handful, we had an uneventful ride, our number steadily growing as man after man sobered up, got on his horse and rode out, independently, to catch up with us. And one of the last to join us was Ogilvy himself, in a condition of fierce black rage which we only understood once we returned to camp.
And what about “Three-fingered Jack”? He was a prisoner awaiting court-martial. He, however, managed to make it clear to Ogilvy that he had ample evidence to prove that Ogilvy himself had been too drunk to ride at dawn, and if there had to be one court-martial, there should surely be two. So proceedings against “Three-fingered Jack” were summarily dropped — leaving the squadron under the handicap of a captain and a sergeant-major not on speaking terms!
And who was really to blame? Lord Roberts with his well-meaning but disastrous plan to prevent the soldiers from getting drunk.