A Woman's Part in a Revolution — A Reader’s Guide
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The catalog record for A Woman's Part in a Revolution — A Reader’s Guide provides practical reading context through 42,530 words, 3 hr 5 min estimated reading time, and 8 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 12.6 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Jameson's Raid, 1895-1896,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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Government was anxious to prevent bloodshed, &c. That they could promise that the Government would redress the Uitlander grievances upon the lines laid down in the Manifesto, but that of course all the demands would not be conceded at once, and both sides must be willing to compromise. The Reform Committee met to consider this proposal, and after long discussion decided to send a deputation to Pretoria. These gentlemen leave with Messrs. Malan and Marais on a special train to-night for Pretoria.
Johannesburg is quiet as ever was country town. The streets deserted. Nothing to suggest a city girt around by a cordon of soldiers, and yet such it is.
At midnight my husband ran in for a moment to see how we had stood the strain of the day.
'Is the news from Jameson really true?' I asked, still hoping it was rumour.
'And are those heavy wagons just going down the street carrying the big guns to the outskirts?'
'Yes. Good-night, dear.' He was gone.
[Footnote 1: The sufferings of this hapless crowd were acute. Provisions were hard to obtain at the way stations. The water supply gave out. A little child died of exposure, and the heart-broken mother held the lifeless body twenty-four hours on her lap. There was no room to lay it to one side. Another woman gave birth to an infant.]
[Footnote 2: The Cornish miners were politely presented at Kimberley and other places en route with bunches of white feathers by the howling mob. One Cornishman afterwards related that he was pulled out at every station and made to fight. After the fourth mauling he turned round and went back to Johannesburg, preferring to take his chances with the Boers.]
January 1, 1896.--With the dawn of day I am out of bed and at the window waiting for the cry of the newsboy.
What will the New Year bring us?
With nervous dread I opened the paper brought to my door. In large headlines it told of disaster.
The Natal train filled with refugee women and children has been wrecked, with great loss of life. The papers say forty have been killed outright, and many fearfully injured. Entire families have been wiped out in some cases. Mr. ---- has lost his wife, his sister, and three little children. This is the result of a Boer concession. The accident was caused by the Netherlands carriages being poorly built and top-heavy. In rounding a curve they were swung off the track--collapsed at once like card-houses, crushing and mangling the helpless and crowded occupants.
The deputation to Pretoria did not leave last night, as was expected. They go this morning instead.
My husband is greatly disturbed at the delay. He says time is all important, and the Reform Committee's hands should not be tied while the Boers gain time.
Reports of Jameson's meeting the enemy have been amplified. Now it is said that fifty of his men have been killed and three hundred Boers. Sir John Willoughby is believed to be shot.
I drove out to my home to reassure my women, Mr. Sharwood having brought in word that the coachman Adams had almost caused a panic by his garish tipsy account of 'what was going on in town,' and 'the many risks he ran when taking the mistress out.'
Parker was overjoyed to see me, and so was Totsey. I found all staunch, and ready, not only to protect themselves, but to fight anything, particularly the valiant Adams.
On my way back to town I heard firing beyond the ridge east of us. Some men at practice probably, but it gave me a wrench and detracted from Adams's dignified bearing. More organising and drilling of troops. I hear there is much suffering among them. The book-keeper, clerks, and indoor men find the unaccustomed exposure and fatigue trying in the extreme. But they are a plucky lot, and stand for hours on guard in the scorching sun, and walk miles with their poor blistered feet with pathetic cheerfulness; swooning in many cases at their posts rather than give in; to a man, eager to fight.
The opening scene of Natalie Harris Hammond's memoir places the reader on a red-tiled verandah in Johannesburg, where her son Jack traps a kitten in a cigar box labeled 'African Lion.' This domestic vignette—complete with flapping awnings and a riding-crop hunt for 'big game'—is abruptly broken by a letter from her husband: Jameson had crossed the Border. The shift from quiet sewing to urgent evacuation sets the pattern for a narrative that constantly juxtaposes the ordinary with the extraordinary.
Hammond writes with a dual voice: the wife who mends garments and the witness who records political meetings. Her prose moves between intimate observation and documentary report, often within the same paragraph. The memoir's structure, organized by weeks rather than chapters, reinforces the sense of time passing under duress.
From Verandah to Prison Gate
The memoir's first pages establish a rhythm of calm disrupted. Hammond describes the 'last restful moment' before the crisis, noting details like the 'fan-like arm' of a Madeira chair catching the breeze. This sensory precision recurs throughout: the 'deep golden yellow of an African sunrise,' the 'tall moon-flowers at the gate lifting up their mute white' faces. These details anchor the narrative in a specific place, even as the action moves indoors to hotel rooms and prison waiting areas.
Hammond's voice is notably restrained. She reports the 'appalling death-rate of fifty-six in each thousand' without editorializing, letting the statistic speak. When she describes wives waiting in the dust for President Kruger, she calls it a 'pitiful picture' but does not amplify. This understatement heightens the emotional impact, especially in contrast to the official documents she later includes.
The Rhythm of Waiting
Once her husband is imprisoned, Hammond's narrative slows to match the pace of waiting. She marks time by weeks: 'Third Week.—Delays, shiftings, postponements, delays with excuses, and delays without excuses.' The repetition mimics the stagnation of hope. She records the stream of 'disheartened wives' and the president's evasive promises: 'All shall come right.'
Hammond inserts a medical report verbatim, letting Dr. Messum's clinical language describe prisoners sickening from vermin and a man developing 'melancholia (lunacy).' The shift from her own prose to official jargon creates a jarring effect. When she notes that 'poor Gray, distraught by his sufferings, cut his throat,' the bluntness is devastating. The narrative then cuts to a mass funeral of ten thousand, then back to the prison gates where fellow prisoners follow the body 'with uncovered heads.'
Silence and the Stars
Hammond's most striking passages are those that evoke the sensory void of imprisonment. She writes of 'those long voiceless nights of South Africa! Not a bird's call, nor a chirp from the tiny creatures which hide in the grass.' The absence of sound becomes a presence. She pairs this with visual imagery: 'A white moon, a wide heaven filled with strange stars, and the tall moon-flowers at the gate.'
These lyrical interludes are rare; Hammond typically favors plain report. But when they appear, they underscore the isolation of the prisoners and their families. The moon-flowers, mute and white, echo the voicelessness of the captives. The 'strange stars' suggest a foreignness that extends beyond geography—a moral and emotional dislocation. Hammond does not explain these images; she lets them stand as quiet counterpoints to the political maneuvering and legal petitions that dominate the rest of the narrative.
Hammond's memoir resists easy categorization. It is part domestic chronicle, part political document, part prisoner's wife vigil. Readers should attend to the shifts in register—from the verandah's canvas awnings to the jail's insanitary sheds—as deliberate choices that shape the story's emotional arc. The inclusion of official reports and cable dispatches is not mere padding; it is a strategy to let external voices corroborate her own. The result is a record that feels both personal and forensic, intimate and withheld.
Reading Natalie Harris Hammond’s diary entries, I found myself oddly reminded of her quiet, suspended waiting—the way she kept watch on the verandah while her husband’s fate hung unresolved. There’s a similar patience in The Assault on Mount Everest, 1922 — Themes and Context, that strange stillness between anxious attempts. Both feel like holding a breath, hoping, without any certainty of the exhale.
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