Late that evening I heard someone outside the tent asking where the
hospital was. It was my father. We had no idea of meeting each other
here, as I had parted from him in Johannesburg before the war began,
when he had no intention of going to Natal. He himself had been under
the impression that I was still at Ladysmith.
He told me he had come to see my young cousin, Johannes, who had been
wounded on Spion Kop the day before. We walked over to the hospital. The
wounded lad, a frail boy of fifteen, looked terribly exhausted lying
there on the floor, his left arm completely shattered.
"We were two together," he said, "myself and another boy. We crept
closer and closer to one of the small sangars, firing into it as we
crept, until there was only one Englishman left alive in it. He called
out 'Water!' and I ran to give him my flask. When I got close to him he
pointed his gun at me and fired. I sprang aside, and the bullet
ploughed up my arm. My chum then shot him dead. Our doctor was too busy
with the English officers to attend to me, so I fear I shall lose my
arm."
Poor child! his fear was only too well founded. His arm was amputated,
after which he went to his uncle's farm to recuperate. When the British
arrived there he would not surrender, but took his gun and went on
commando. Three days later he was brought in, shot through the lungs.
That is the last I have been able to hear of him.
A few days after the battle of Spion Kop we moved forward and opened
another office on our right wing. The British soon after retired from
the vicinity, and this wing was withdrawn. The office remained, however,
being utilised by scouts and patrols for the transmission of urgent
reports.
One day Oberst von Braun called, accompanied by two Boers. I asked him
what had become of his lieutenant.
"Ah, poor von B----!" he said. "The fighting on Spion Kop was almost
over, and he had just risen and walked forward a few steps, when a
chance bullet crashed into his forehead, and he fell a corpse."
This was the same lieutenant who had caused a great sensation in Germany
a few years before by killing an unarmed civilian in a moment of
provocation. It may seem a just retribution that he should have met
with such a tragic fate, but those who knew him in Natal felt nothing
but regret for his loss. Oberst von Braun was taken prisoner a few days
after, and the British reported that his mind was unhinged. This did not
appear improbable to us, for we knew how much he had been affected by
the loss of his companion.
I stayed here for three weeks, without much occupation except wasting
ammunition on turtle doves and hoping that the next patrol would not be
a British instead of a Boer one.
The deserted houses in the neighbourhood had all been visited in turn by
both British and Boer patrols, and between the two enormous damage had
been wrought. It must be pointed out, however, that the mischief done by
our men was in no way authorised--was, in fact, against express orders,
whereas the British now burn our houses to the joyful fiddling of the
London _Times_, and with a righteous unction eminently national.
A small but remarkably severe engagement took place about this time, in
which a portion of Viljoen's men suffered heavily.
This detachment, about forty in number, was guarding a Nordenfeldt
stationed in an advanced position on an isolated hill. One afternoon a
large body of the enemy suddenly attacked the hill. Ben Viljoen, who,
as usual, was on the spot, is not what may be called an excessively
pious man, but he rose to the occasion and inspired his little band by
asking them if they did not fear God more than the British. Thus
encouraged to stand firm, they bravely held the hill till fully half
their number were killed. There was no hoisting of the white flag,
however, our men at that time generally preferring almost certain death
to surrender. This instance was no exception. Every man got out as best
he could, Commandant Viljoen himself racing out with the gun.
Our cannon now shelled the hill furiously. The British ambulance tried
to reach our wounded, but the fire was too hot. This bombardment kept on
for two days, when the enemy retired, whereupon we again took possession
of the hill. Two or three of our wounded were found to be still alive,
but with their wounds in a terrible state of putrefaction. Imagine their
sufferings during those two awful days of heat, thirst, and exposure, to
say nothing of the shells continually exploding around them. They were
brought into camp and ultimately recovered. For all I know, they may be
fighting still. This little affair is known to the British as the battle
of Vaalkrantz.
When they heard that their son had gone safely through the battle of
Spion Kop an old Free State farmer and his wife came down to pay him a
visit The son then accompanied his mother home, the old man taking his
place for a few days. One day some artillerists were engaged in their
favourite pastime of burning out unexploded lyddite shells, when one of
the shells burst, killing three men. As fate would have it, the old
father in question was one of the three.
Another peculiar accident happened on Spion Kop, whilst the rifles of
the killed and wounded soldiers were being collected. One of the rifles
lay under a corpse. Seizing the weapon by the muzzle, a young Boer
attempted to draw it toward him. The charge went off and lodged in his
stomach, inflicting a fatal wound. The soldier had been killed in the
act of taking aim, and his finger had stiffened round the trigger. The
young fellow thus killed by a dead man was the only son of his widowed
mother.