The Siege of Kimberley: Its Humorous and Social Side; Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902); Eighteen Weeks in Eighteen ChaptersPhelan, T.
History
The Siege of Kimberley: Its Humorous and Social Side; Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902); Eighteen Weeks in Eighteen Chapters
Phelan, T.
Kimberley (South Africa) -- History -- Siege, 1899-1900; South African War, 1899-1902 -- Personal narratives
Oh, it was a happy epoch in
our lives--an epoch during which vows were registered against being "let
in" for such happiness again, or against living it through while a 'bare
bodkin' was left unconfiscated.
It was the last day of the year, with nothing to elate us but the coming
of Bobs. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; ours were so ill that but
for Bobs they must have ceased to beat. It was disconcerting to learn
that Warren was in Natal, for it had been stated that Methuen was merely
waiting Sir Charles to join him ere again attempting to fight his way to
Kimberley.
New Year's Day! New Year's Day, indeed! Our Scotchmen sighed. Black tea
for breakfast on New Year's Day was too much for them, and not a few of
them (and others) felt constrained to take kopje dew instead. They drank
brandy--so labelled in the tavern, but more widely notorious as
"lyddite" in the town. Brandy had crimes committed in its name, and
lyddite was a happy and appropriate appellation. Even _vinegar_ could
not counteract the effects of lyddite (i.e. bottled lyddite). As for the
materials used in the manufacture of this explosive, well--necessity is
the mother of invention; and the invention was well protected. It was
only noted that methylated spirits and certain chemicals were scarce;
and a suspicion prevailed that these were lyddite ingredients--a
suspicion which afterwards proved to be well-founded when publicans were
prosecuted for using them as such. One of the peculiarly lamentable
features of the Siege was a certain tendency on the part of men, who
drank little or nothing in normal times, to dissipate in desperation on
this unique brand of brandy.
It was dry bread with many on New Year's Day. Even syrup was extinct.
Nothing remained, to be taken or left (they were generally left), but a
few jars of treacle. Dripping graced the table, but nobody touched it;
it was too ghastly pale for a substitute, too unctuous for anything. The
poor Native's breakfast was of "mealie-pap" exclusively; and from a
hygienic standpoint he was perhaps better off than any of us.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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