IT was no easy matter to pass through the British forces that lay massed
around the mountain-chain. We were two thousand horsemen, and our
vehicles, carts, ox-and mule-waggons formed a procession fully six miles
long. When we trekked out of the nek strict orders were given that there
was to be no loud talking and no matches struck. This latter was
especially hard on such a crowd of inveterate smokers. I remember whilst
we were riding mutely along, listening to the creaking and jolting of
the waggons, and wondering whether we were going to get through, or what
the alternative would be if we did not, we suddenly saw someone
deliberately strike a match and light his pipe.
"Who struck that match?" came from the front. Then the delinquent
himself spoke up--
"It's this confounded Kafir of mine. Was it you, Jantje?"
"Yes, baas," responded the dutiful black, bobbing up and down on his
master's spare horse.
"Give him twenty with the sjambok."
"Right!" Jantje and his master turned out of the road, and soon the
unmistakable thwack! thwack! of the sjambok could be heard, mingled with
subdued ejaculations in Kafir and Dutch. But judging by the expression
on Jantje's features by the camp fire that night, as he blew long
fragrant clouds into the gaping nostrils of his envious friends, I have
my doubts about that thrashing.
We halted frequently to allow the straggling ox-waggons to close up.
Then we would dismount, stamp our chilly feet, draw our overcoats or
blankets closer, and discuss trivialities. During one of these halts a
horseman came dashing up from the rear--
"General, there's a doctor behind who has just come through the enemy's
lines. He asks you to wait for him."
"Tell him to hurry!"
We sat down and waited. In about half an hour's time another horseman
came hurrying along. Here at last! No. Only another messenger. Another
long wait, and finally the doctor arrived. He squatted down next to De
Wet, and in a low voice related how he had been unjustly captured by the
British some weeks ago, how they had sent him to Johannesburg and kept
him in prison until now, only liberating him after repeated requests
for a hearing. His tale was listened to in silence and with deep
attention. When it was told the order was given to mount, and on we
trekked again past the sleeping British camp. Presently the moon rose,
and by its light we passed a lonely farmhouse. Beware its slumbering
inmates when the British come along to-morrow, for are not they
responsible for the telegraph line which runs across the farm, and which
we have cut in half a dozen places! No doubt the house will be burnt,
and all the stock confiscated. But never mind, the owner has surrendered
and is living under British protection--protection whereof he is going
to get a taste now, so why should we pity him? On we go until long past
midnight, when we halt in a secluded little valley. Our horses greedily
swallow the icy water, and then eagerly crop the tasteless dry grass,
for our waggons are too far behind, we can give them no mealies
to-night.
The next morning a cloud of dust in our rear showed that we were being
pursued. Whilst we were hastily inspanning and upsaddling, Theron came
in from the right, bringing with him a captured Hussar. One old Boer,
who had his little boy with him, brought the youngster up to the soldier
and said--
"Now, sonny, you've never seen an Englishman. Here is one. Look at him
well; you must shoot lots of them yet."
"Go away," said one of the Boers, "what do you mean by staring at the
man like that? Don't you know any better than to insult a helpless
prisoner?"
"I'm sorry," said the old man, turning away, "I don't want to hurt his
feelings; I only wanted to show my son the game he must track one day."