THE BOERS IN BATTLE
The battle of Sannaspost on March 31st was one of the few engagements in
the campaign in which the forces of the Boers and the British were almost
numerically equal. There were two or three small battles in which the
Boers had more men engaged than the British, but in the majority of
instances the Boers were vastly outnumbered both in men and guns. At
Elandslaagte the Boers had exactly seven hundred and fifty burghers pitted
against the five or six thousand British; Spion Kop was won from three
thousand British by three hundred and fifty Boers; at the Tugela Botha
with not more than twenty-six hundred men fought for more than a week
against ten times that number of soldiers under General Buller; while the
greatest disparity between the opposing forces was at Paardeberg, where
Cronje spent a week in trying to lead his four thousand men through the
encircling wall of forty or fifty thousand British soldiers.
Sannaspost was not a decisive battle of the war, since no point of great
strategical importance was at stake, but it was more in the nature of a
demonstration of what the Boers were able to do when they were opposed to
a force of equal strength. It was a test which was equally fair to both
contestants, and neither of them could reasonably claim to have possessed
an advantage over the other a day before the battle was fought. The
British commander, Colonel Broadwood, had seventeen hundred men in his
column, and General De Wet was at the head of about two hundred and fifty
less than that number, but the strength of the forces was equalised by the
Boer general's intimate knowledge of the country. Colonel Broadwood was
experienced in Indian, Egyptian, and South African warfare, and the
majority of his soldiers were seasoned in many battles. De Wet and his men
were fresh from Poplar Grove, Abraham's Kraal, and the fighting around
Kimberley, but they were not better nor worse than the average of the Boer
burghers. The British commander was hampered by a large transport train,
but he possessed the advantage of more heavy guns than his adversary. All
in all, the two forces were equally matched when they reached the
battlefield.
The day before the battle General De Wet and his men were in laager
several miles east of Brandfort, whither they had fled after the fall of
Bloemfontein. His scouts brought to him the information that a small
British column was stationed in the village of Thaba N'Chu, forty miles to
the east, and he determined to march thither and attack it. He gave the
order, "Opzaal!" and in less than eight minutes every one of his burghers
was on his horse, armed, provided with two days' rations of biltong,
biscuit, coffee, and sugar, and ready to proceed. De Wet himself leaped
into a light, ramshackle four-wheeler, and led the advance over the dusty
veld. Without attempting to proceed with any semblance of military order,
the burghers followed in the course of their leader, some riding rapidly,
others walking beside their horses, and a few skirmishing far away on the
veld for buck. The mule-teams dragging the artillery and the ammunition
waggons were not permitted by their hullabalooing Basuto drivers to lag
far behind the general, and the dust which was raised by this long
cavalcade was not unlike the clouds of locusts which were frequently
mistaken for the signs of a trekking commando. Mile after mile was rapidly
traversed, until darkness came on, when a halt was made so that the
burghers might prepare a meal, and that the general might hear from the
scouts, who were far in advance of the body. After the men and horses had
eaten, and the moon rose over the dark peak of Thaba N'Chu mountain, the
burghers lighted their pipes and sang psalms and hymns until the peaceful
valley resounded with their voices.
[Illustration: VILLAGE AND MOUNTAIN OF THABA N'CHU]
Panting horses brought to the little stone farmhouse, where General De Wet
was drinking milk, the long-awaited scouts who carried the information
that the British force had evacuated Thaba N'Chu late in the afternoon,
and that it was moving hurriedly toward Bloemfontein. Again the order:
"Opzaal," and the mule train came into motion and the burghers mounted
their horses. A chill night air arose, and shivering burghers wrapped
blankets around their shoulders. The humming of hymns and the whistling
ceased, and there was nothing but the clatter of horses' hoofs, the shouts
of the Basutos, and the noises of the guns and waggons rumbling over the
stones and gullies to mark the nocturnal passage of the army. Lights
appeared at farmhouse windows, and at their gates were women and children
with bread and bowls of milk and prayers for the burghers. Small walls
enclosing family burial plots where newly-dug ground told its own story of
the war seemed grim in the moonlight; native huts with their inhabitants
standing like spectres before the doors appeared like monstrous
ant-heaps--all these were passed, but the drooping eyes of the burghers
saw nothing. At midnight another halt was made, horses were off-saddled
and men lay down on the veld to sleep. The generals and officers met in
Krijgsraad, and other scouts arriving told of the enemy's evident
intention of spending the remainder of the night at an old-time
off-saddling station known as Sannaspost. The news was highly important,
and the heads of the generals came closer together. Maps were produced,
pencil marks were made, plans were formed, and then the sleeping burghers
were aroused. The trek was resumed, and shortly afterward the column was
divided into two parts; the one consisting of nine hundred men under
General Peter De Wet, proceeding by a circuitous route to the hills south
of Sannaspost, and the other of five hundred men commanded by General
Christian De Wet moving through a maze of kopjes to a position west of the
trekking station.
The burghers were not informed of the imminence of a battle; but they
required no such announcement from their generals. The atmosphere seemed
to be surcharged with premonitions of an engagement, and men rubbed sleep
out of their eyes and sat erect upon their horses. The blacks even ceased
to crack their whips so sharply, and urged the mules forward in whispers
instead of shrieks. Burghers took their rifles from their backs, tested
the workings of the mechanism and filled the magazine with cartridges.
Artillerymen leaped from their horses and led them while they sat on the
cannon and poured oil into the bearings. Young men speculated on the
number of prisoners they would take; old men wrote their names on their
hats by the light of the moon. The lights of Bloemfontein appeared in the
distance, and grey-beards looked longingly at them and sighed. But the
cavalcade passed on, grimly, silently, and defiantly, into the haunts of
the enemy.
After four hours of trekking over veld, kopje, sluit, and donga, the two
columns halted, the burghers dismounted, and, weary from the long journey
and the lack of sleep, lay down on the earth beside their horses.
Commandants, field-cornets and corporals, bustling about among the
burghers, horses and waggons, gave orders in undertones; generals summoned
their scouts and asked for detailed information concerning the whereabouts
of the enemy; patrols were scurrying hither and thither to secure accurate
ideas of the topography of the territory in front of them; all who were in
authority were busy, while the burghers, who carried the strength of
battle in their bodies, lay sleeping and resting.
The first dim rays of the day came over the tops of the eastern hills when
the burghers were aroused and asked to proceed to the positions chosen by
their leaders. The men under Peter De Wet, the younger brother of the
Commandant-General, were led to an elevation about a mile and a half south
of Sannaspost, where they placed their cannon into position and waited for
the break of day.
Christian De Wet and his five hundred burghers advanced noiselessly and
occupied the dry bed of Koorn Spruit, a stream which crossed the main road
running from Thaba N'Chu to Bloemfontein at right angles about a mile from
the station where the British forces had begun their bivouac for the
night, two hours before. No signs of the enemy could be seen; there were
no pickets, no outposts, and none of the usual safeguards of an army, and
for some time the Boers were led to believe that the British force had
been allowed to escape unharmed.
The burghers under the leadership of Christian De Wet were completely
concealed in the spruit. The high banks might have been held by the forces
of their enemy, but unless they crept to the edge and looked down into the
stream they would not have been able to discover the presence of the
Boers. Where the road crossed the stream deep approaches had been dug into
the banks in order to facilitate the passage of conveyances--a "drift" it
is called in South Africa--and on either side for a distance of a mile, up
and down the stream, the burghers stood by their horses and waited for the
coming of the day. The concealment was perfect; no specially constructed
trenches could have served the purposes of the Boers more advantageously.
Dawn lighted the flat-topped kopjes that lay in a huge semicircle in the
distance, and men clambered up the sides of the spruit to ascertain the
camp of the enemy. The white smoke-stack of the Bloemfontein waterworks
appeared against the black background of the hills in the east, but it was
still too dark to distinguish objects on the ground beneath it. A group of
burghers in the spruit, absent-mindedly, began to sing a deep-toned psalm,
but the stern order of a commandant quickly ended their matutinal song. A
donkey in an ammunition waggon brayed vociferously, and a dozen men,
fearful lest the enemy should hear the noise, sprang upon him with clubs
and whips, and even attempted to close his mouth by force of hands. It was
the fateful moment before the battle, and men acted strangely. Some walked
nervously up and down, others dropped on their knees and prayed, a few
lighted their pipes, many sat on the ground and looked vacantly into
space, while some of the younger burghers joked and laughed.
At the drift stood the generals, scanning the hills and undulations with
their glasses. Small fires appeared in the east near the tall white stack.
"They are preparing their breakfast," some one suggested. "I see a few
tents," another one reported excitedly. All eyes were turned in the
direction indicated. Some estimated the intervening distance at a mile,
others were positive it was not more than a thousand yards--it was not
light enough to distinguish accurately. "Tell the burghers that I will
fire the first shot," said General De Wet to one of his staff. Immediately
the order was spread to the men in the spruit. "I see men leading oxen to
the waggons; they are preparing to trek," remarked a commandant. "They are
coming down this way," announced another, slapping his thigh joyfully.
A few minutes afterwards clouds of dust arose, and at intervals the
waggons in the van could be seen coming down the slope toward the drift.
The few tents fell, and men in brown uniforms moved hither and thither
near the waterworks building. Waggon after waggon joined in the
procession; drivers were shrieking and wielding their whips over the heads
of the oxen, and farther behind were cavalrymen mounting their horses. It
was daylight then, although the sun was still below the horizon, and the
movements of the enemy could be plainly discerned. The ox-teams came
slowly down the road--there seemed to be no limit to their number--and the
generals retreated down the drift to the bottom of the spruit, so that
their presence should not be discerned by the enemy, and to await the
arrival of the waggons.
The shrieking natives drew nearer, the rumbling of the waggons became more
distinct, and soon the first vehicle descended the drift. A few burghers
were sent forward to intercept it. As soon as it reached the bottom of the
spruit the men grasped the bridles of the horses, and instantly there were
shrieks from the occupants of the vehicle. It was filled with women and
children, all pale with fright on account of the unexpected appearance of
the Boers. The passengers were quickly and gently taken from the waggon
and sent to places of safety in the spruit, while a burgher jumped into
the vehicle and drove the horses up the other drift and out upon the open
veld. The operation of substituting drivers was done so quickly and
quietly that none of those approaching the drift from the other side
noticed anything extraordinary, and proceeded into the spruit. Other
burghers stood prepared to receive them as they descended the drift with
their heavily laden ammunition and provision waggons, and there was little
trouble in seizing the British drivers and placing the whips into the
hands of Boers. Waggon after waggon was relieved of its drivers and sent
up to the other bank without creating a suspicion in the minds of the
others who were coming down the slope from the waterworks.
After fifty or more waggons had crossed the drift a solitary cavalry
officer with the rank of captain, riding leisurely along, followed one of
them. His coat had a rent in it and he was holding the torn parts
together, as if he were planning the mending of it when he reached
Bloemfontein. A young Boer sprang toward him, called "Hands up!" and
projected the barrel of his carbine toward him. The officer started out of
his reverie, involuntarily reached for his sword, but repented almost
instantly, and obeyed the order. General De Wet approached the captain,
touched his hat in salute, and said, "Good morning, sir." The officer
returned the complimentary greeting and offered his sword to the Boer. De
Wet declined to receive the weapon and told the officer to return to his
men and ask them to surrender. "We have a large force of men surrounding
you," the general explained, "and you cannot escape. In order to save many
lives I ask you to surrender your men without fighting." The officer
remained silent for a moment, then looked squarely into the eyes of the
Boer general and said, "I will return to my men and will order them to
surrender." De Wet nodded his head in assent, and the captain mounted his
horse. "I will rely upon your promise," the general added, "if you break
it I will shoot you."
General De Wet and several of his commandants followed the cavalry officer
up the drift and stood on the bank while the horseman galloped slowly
toward the troops which were following the waggons down the slope. The
general raised his carbine and held it in his arms. His eyes were fixed on
the officer, and he stood as firm as a statue until the cavalryman reached
his men. There was a momentary pause while the captain stood before his
troops, then the horses were wheeled about and their hoofs sent showers of
dust into the air as they carried their riders in retreat. General De Wet
stepped forward several paces, raised his carbine to his shoulder, aimed
steadily for a second, then fired. The bullet whistled menacingly over the
heads of oxen and drivers--it struck the officer, and he fell.[1]
[1] This incident of the battle was witnessed by the writer, as well
as by several of the foreign military attachés. Whether the British
officer broke his promise by asking his men to retreat or whether his
troopers were disobedient is a question, but it is more than likely
that he endeavoured to act in good faith. Whether the officer was
killed or only wounded by General De Wet's shot could not be
ascertained.
All along the banks of the spruit, for a mile on either side of the
ravine, and over on the hills where Peter De Wet and his burghers lay, men
had been waiting patiently and expectantly for that signal gun of
Christian De Wet. They had been watching the enemy toiling down the slope
under the very muzzles of their guns for almost an age, it seemed, yet
they dared not fire lest the plans of the generals should be thwarted. Men
had lain flat on the ground with their rifles pointing minute after minute
at individuals in the advancing column, but the words of their general, "I
will fire the first shot," restrained them. The flight of the bullet which
entered the body of the cavalry officer marked the ending of the long
period of nervous tension, and the burghers were free to use their guns.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR, AND A BASUTO PONY WHICH ASSISTED IN THE FIGHT
AT SANNASPOST]
Until the officer advised his men to retreat and he himself fell from his
horse the main body of the British troops was ignorant of the presence of
the Boers, but the report of the rifle was a summons to battle and
instantly the field was filled with myriads of stirring scenes. The lazy
transport-train suddenly became a thing of rapid motion; the huge body of
troops was quickly broken into many parts; horses that had been idling
along the road plunged forward as if projected by catapults. Officers with
swords flashing in the sunlight appeared leading their men into different
positions, cannon were hurriedly drawn upon commanding elevations, and Red
Cross waggons scattered to places of safety. The peaceful transport-train
had suddenly been transformed into a formidable engine of war by the
report of a rifle, and the contest for a sentiment and a bit of ground was
opened by shrieking cannon-shell and the piercing cry of rifle-ball.
Down at the foot of the slope, where the drift crossed the spruit, Boers
were dragging cannon into position, and in among the waggons which had
become congested in the road, burghers and soldiers were engaging in
fierce hand-to-hand encounters. A stocky Briton wrestled with a youthful
Boer, and in the struggle both fell to the ground; near by a cavalryman
was firing his revolver at a Boer armed with a rifle, and a hundred paces
away a burgher was fighting with a British officer for the possession of a
sword. Over from the hills in the south came the dull roar of Boer cannon,
followed by the reports of the shells exploding in the east near the
waterworks. British cannon opened fire from a position near the white
smoke-stack and scores of bursting projectiles fell among the waggons at
the spruit. Oxen and horses were rent limb from limb, waggons tumbled over
on their sides; boxes of provisions were thrown in all directions, and out
of the cloud of dust and smoke stumbled men with blood-stained faces and
lacerated bodies. Terrified and bellowing oxen twisted and tugged at their
yokes; horses broke from their fastenings in the waggons and dashed hither
and thither, and weakling donkeys strove in vain to free themselves from
waggons set on fire by the shells. Explosion followed explosion, and with
every one the mass became more entangled. Dead horses fell upon living
oxen; wheels and axles were thrown on the backs of donkeys, and plunging
mules dragged heavy waggons over great piles of _débris_.
The cannon on the southern hills became more active and their shells
caused the landscape surrounding the waterworks to be filled with geysers
of dust. Troops which were stationed near the white smoke-stack suddenly
spurred their horses forward and dashed northward to seek safety behind a
long undulation in the ground. The artillerymen in the hills followed
their movements with shells, and the dust-fountains sprang up at the very
heels of the troops. The cannon at the drift joined in the attack on the
horsemen scattered over the slope, and the big guns at the waterworks
continued to reply vigorously. The men in the spruit were watching the
artillery duel intently as they sped up and down the bottom of the
water-less stream, searching for points of vantage. A large number of them
moved rapidly down the spruit towards its confluence with the Modder River
in order to check the advance of the troops driven forward by the
shell-fire, and another party rushed eastward to secure positions in the
rear of the British cannon at the waterworks. The banks of the stream
still concealed them, but they dared not fire lest the enemy should
disturb their plans. On and on they dashed, over rocks and chasms, until
they were within a few hundred yards of a part of the British force.
Slowly they crept up the sides of the spruit, cautiously peered out over
the edge of the bank and then opened fire on the men at the cannon and the
troops passing down the slope. Little jets of dust arose where their
bullets struck the ground, men fell around the cannon, and cavalrymen
quickly turned and charged toward the spruit. The shells of the cannon at
the drift and on the southern hills fell thicker and thicker among the
troops and the air above them was heavy with the light blue smoke of
bursting shrapnel. The patter of the Boer rifles at the spruit increased
in intensity and the jets of brown dust became more numerous. The
cavalrymen leaped from their horses and ran ahead to find protection
behind a line of rocks. The intermittent, irregular firing of the Boers
was punctuated by the regular, steady reports of British volleys. The
brown dust-geysers increased among the rocks where the British lay, and
soon the soldiers turned and ran for their horses. Burghers crept from
rock to rock in pursuit of them, and their bullets urged the fleeing
horsemen on. The British cannon spoke less frequently, and shells and
bullets fell so thickly around them that bravery in such a situation
seemed suicidal, and the last artilleryman fled. Boers ran up and turned
the loaded guns upon the backs of those who had operated them a few
moments before.
Down in the north-western part of the field a large force of troops was
dashing over the veld toward the banks of the spruit. Officers, waving
swords above their heads and shouting commands to their subordinates, led
the way. A few shells exploding in the ranks scattered the force
temporarily and caused horses to rear and plunge, but the gaps quickly
disappeared, and the men moved on down the slope. Boers rode rapidly down
the spruit and out upon the veld behind a low range of kopjes which lay in
front of the British force. Horses were left in charge of native servants,
and the burghers crept forward on hands and knees to the summit of the
range. They carefully concealed themselves behind rocks and bushes and
waited for the enemy to approach more closely. The cavalrymen spread out
in skirmishing order as they proceeded, and, ignorant of the proximity of
the Boers, drew their horses into a walk. The burghers in the kopje fired
a few shots, and the troops turned quickly to the left and again broke
into a gallop. The firing from the kopje increased in volume, the cannon
from the hills again broke forth, the little dust-clouds rose out of the
earth on all sides of the troopers, and shrapnel bursting in the air sent
its bolts and balls of iron and steel; into the midst of the brown men and
earth. Horses and riders fell, officers leaped to the ground and shouted
encouragement to their soldiers, men sprang behind rocks and discharged
their rifles. Minutes of agony passed. Officers gathered their men and
attempted to lead them forward, but they had not progressed far when the
Boers in the spruit in front of them swept the ground with the bullets of
their rifles. Burghers crept around the edge of the kopjes and emptied
their carbines into the backs of the cavalrymen, cannons poured shell upon
them from three different directions, and these men on the open plain
could not see even a brace of Boers to fire upon. Men and horses continued
to fall, the wounded lay moaning in the grass, while shells and bullets
sang their song of death more loudly every second to those who braved the
storm. A tiny white cloth was raised, the firing ceased instantly, and the
brave band threw down its arms to the burghers who sprang out from the
spruit and rocky kopje.
In the east the low hills were dotted with men in brown. To the right and
left of them, a thousand yards apart, were Boer horsemen circling around
kopjes and seeking positions for attacking the already vanquished but
stubborn enemy. Rifle fire had ceased and cannon sounded only at intervals
of a few minutes. Women at the doors of the two farmhouses in the centre
of the battlefield, and a man drawing water at a well near by, were not
inharmonious with the quietness and calmness of the moment, but the epoch
of peace was of short duration. The Boer horsemen stemmed the retreat of
the men in brown, and compelled them to retrace their steps. Another body
of burghers made a wide _détour_ north-eastward from the spruit, and,
jumping from their horses, crept along under the cover of an undulation in
the ground for almost a half-mile to a point which overlooked the route of
the British retreat.
The enemy was slow in coming, and a few of the Boers lay down to sleep.
Others filled their pipes and lighted them, and one abstracted a pebble
from his shoe. As the cavalrymen drew nearer to them the burghers crept
forward several paces and sought the protection of rocks or piled stones
together in the form of miniature forts. "Shall we fire now?" inquired a
beardless Free State youth. "Wait until they come nearer," replied an
older burgher close by. Silence was maintained for several minutes, when
the youth again became uneasy. "I can hit the first one of those Lancers,"
he begged, as he pointed with his carbine to a cavalryman known to the
Boers as a "Lancer," whether he carried a lance or not. The cannon in the
south urged the cavalrymen forward with a few shells delivered a short
distance behind them, and then the old burgher called to the youth, "See
if you can hit him now."
The boy missed the rider but killed the horse, and the British force
quickly dismounted and sought shelter in a small ravine. The reports of
volley firing followed, and bullets cut the grass beside the burghers and
flattened themselves against the rocks. Another volley, and a third, in
rapid succession, and the burghers pressed more closely to the ground. An
interval of a minute, and they glanced over their tiny stockades to find a
British soldier. "They are coming up the kopje!" shouted a burgher, and
their rifles swept the hillside with bullets. More volleys came from below
and, while the leaden tongues sang above and around them, the burghers
turned and lay on their backs to refill the magazines of their rifles.
Another interval, and the attack was renewed. "They are running!" screamed
a youth exultingly, and burghers rose and fired at the men in brown at the
foot of the kopje. Marksmen had their opportunity then, and long aim was
taken before a shot was fired. Men knelt on the one knee and rested an
elbow on the other, while they held their rifles to their shoulders.
Reports of carbines became less frequent as the troops progressed farther
in an opposite direction, but increased again when the cavalrymen returned
for a second attack upon the kopje. "Lend me a handful of cartridges, Jan,"
asked one man of his neighbour, as they watched the oncoming force.
"They must want this kopje," remarked another burgher jocularly, as he
filled his pipe with tobacco and lighted it.
The British cannon in the east again became active, and the dust raised by
their shells was blown over the heads of the burghers on the kopje. The
reports of the big guns of the Boers reverberated among the hills, while
the regular volleys of the British rifles seemed to be beating time to the
minor notes and irregular reports of the Boer carbines. At a distance the
troops moving over the brown field of battle resembled huge ants more than
human beings; and the use of smokeless powder, causing the panorama to
remain perfectly clear and distinct, allowed every movement to be closely
followed by the observer. Cannon poured forth their tons of shells, but
there was nothing except the sound of the explosion to denote where the
guns were situated. Rifles cut down lines of men, but there was no smoke
to indicate where they were being operated, and unless the burghers or
soldiers displayed themselves to their enemy there was nothing to indicate
their positions. Shrapnel bursting in the air, the reports of rifles and
heavy guns and the little puffs of dust where shells and bullets struck
the ground were the only evidences of the battle's progress. The
hand-to-hand conflicts, the duels with bayonets and swords and the clouds
of smoke were probably heroic and picturesque before the age of rapid-fire
guns, modern rifles, and smokeless ammunition, but here the field of
battle resembled a country fox-chase with an exaggerated number of
hunters, more than a representation of a battle of twenty-five years ago.
On the summit of the kopje the burghers were firing leisurely but
accurately. One man aimed steadily at a soldier for fully twenty seconds,
then pressed the trigger, lowered his rifle and watched for the effect of
the shot. Bullets were flying high over him, and the shrapnel of the
enemy's guns exploded far behind him. There seemed to be no great danger,
and he fired again. "I missed that time," he remarked to a burgher who lay
behind another rock several yards distant. His neighbour then fired at the
same soldier, and both cried simultaneously: "He is hit!" The enemy again
disappeared in the little ravine, and the burghers ceased firing. Shells
continued to tear through the air, but none exploded in the vicinity of
the men, and they took advantage of the lull in the battle to light their
pipes. A swarm of yellow locusts passed overhead, and exploding shrapnel
tore them into myriads of pieces, their wings and limbs falling near the
burghers. "I am glad I am not a locust," remarked a burgher farther to the
left of the others, as he dropped a handful of torn fragments of the
insects. Shells and bullets suddenly splashed everywhere around the
burghers, and they crouched more closely behind the rocks. The enemy's
guns had secured an accurate range, and the air was filled with the
projectiles of iron and lead. Exploding shells splintered rocks into atoms
and sent them tearing through the grass. Puffs of smoke and dirt were
springing up from every square yard of ground, and a few men rose from
their retreats and ran to the rear where the Basuto servants were holding
their horses. More followed several minutes afterwards, and when those who
remained on the summit of the kopje saw that ten times their number of
soldiers were ascending the hill under cover of cannon fire they also fled
to their horses.
An open plain half a mile wide lay between the point where the burghers
mounted their horses, and another kopje in the north-east. The men lay
closely on their horses' backs, plunged their spurs in the animals' sides,
and dashed forward. The cavalrymen, who had gained the summit of the kopje
meanwhile, opened fire on the fleeing Boers, and their bullets cut open
the horses' sides and ploughed holes into the burgher's clothing. One
horse, a magnificent grey who had been leading the others, fell dead as he
was leaping over a small gully, and his rider was thrown headlong to the
ground. Another horseman turned in his course, assisted the horseless
rider to his own brown steed, and the two were borne rapidly through the
storm of bullets towards the kopje. Another horse was killed when he had
carried his rider almost to the goal of safety, and the Boer was compelled
to traverse the remainder of the distance on foot. Apparently all the
burghers had escaped across the plain, and their field-cornet was
preparing to lead them to another position when a solitary horseman, a
mere speck of black against a background of brown, lifeless grass, issued
from a rocky ravine below the kopje occupied by the enemy, and plunged
into the open space. Lee-Metfords cracked and cut open the ground around
him, but the rider bent forward and seemed to become a part of his
horse. Every rod of progress seemed to multiply the fountains of dust near
him; every leap of his horse seemed necessarily his last. On, on he
dashed, now using his stirrups, now beating his horse with his hands. It
seemed as if he were making no progress, yet his horse's legs were moving
so swiftly. "They will get him," sighed the field-cornet, looking through
his glasses. "He has a chance," replied a burgher. Seconds dragged
wearily, the firing increased in volume, and the dust of the horse's heels
mingled with that raised by the bullets. The sound of the hoofs beating
down on the solid earth came louder and louder over the veld, the firing
slackened and then ceased, and a foaming, panting horse brought his burden
to where the burghers stood. The exhausted rider sank to the ground, and
men patted the neck and forehead of the quivering beast.
Down in the valley, near the spruit, the foreign military attachés in
uniforms quite distinct were watching the effect of the British artillery
on the saddle belonging to one of their number. "They will never hit it,"
volunteered one, as a shell exploded ten yards distant from the leathern
mark.
"They must think it is a crowd of Boers," suggested another, when a dozen
shells had fallen without injuring the saddle. Fifteen, twenty tongues of
dust arose, but the leather remained unmarred by scratch or rent, and the
attachés became the target of the heavy guns. "I am hit," groaned
Lieutenant Nix, of the Netherlands-Indian army, and his companions caught
him in their arms. Blood gushed from a wound in the shoulder, but the
soldier spirit did not desert him. "Here, Demange!" he called to the
French attaché, "Hold my head. And you, Thompson and Allen, see if you
cannot bind this shoulder." The Norwegian and Hollander bound the wound as
well as they were able. "Reichman!" the injured man whispered, "I am going
to die in a few minutes, and I wish you would write a letter to my wife."
The American attaché hastily procured paper and pencil, and while shells
and shrapnel were bursting over and around them the wounded man dictated a
letter to his wife in Holland. Blood flowed copiously from the wound and
stained the grass upon which he lay. He was pale as the clouds above him,
and the pain was agonising, but the dying man's letter was filled with
nothing but expressions of love and tenderness.
In the south-eastern part of the field a large party of cavalrymen was
speeding in the direction of Thaba N'Chu. On two sides of them, a thousand
yards behind, small groups of horsemen were giving chase. At a distance,
the riders appeared like ants slowly climbing the hillside. Now and then a
Boer rider suddenly stopped his horse, leaped to the ground, and fired at
the fleeing cavalrymen. A second afterwards he was on his horse again,
bending to the chase. Shot followed shot, but the distance between the
forces grew greater, and one by one the burghers turned their animals'
heads and slowly retraced their steps. A startled buck bounded over the
veld, two rifles were turned upon it, and its flight was ended.
[Illustration: CALLING FOR VOLUNTEERS TO MAN CAPTURED CANNON AFTER
SANNASPOST]
The sound of firing had ceased, and the battle was concluded. Waggons with
Red Cross flags fluttering from the tall staffs above them, issued from
the mountains and rumbled through the valleys. Burghers dashed over the
field in search of the wounded and dying. Men who a few moments before
were straining every nerve to kill their fellow-beings became equally
energetic to preserve lives. Wounded soldiers and burghers were lifted out
of the grass and carried tenderly to the ambulance waggons. The dead were
placed side by side, and the same cloth covered the bodies of Boer and
Briton. Men with spades upturned the earth, and stood grimly by while a
man in black prayed over the bodies of those who died for their country.
Boer officers, with pencils and paper in their hands, sped over the
battlefield from a group of prisoners to a line of passing waggons, and
made calculations concerning the result of the day's battle. Three Boers
killed and nine wounded was one side of the account. On the credit sheet
were marked four hundred and eight British soldiers, seven cannon, one
hundred and fifty waggons, five hundred and fifty rifles, two thousand
horses and cattle, and vast stores of ammunition and provisions captured
during the day.
In among the north-eastern hills, where a farmer's daub-and-wattle cottage
stood, were the prisoners of war, chatting and joking with their captors.
The officers walked slowly back and forth, never raising their eyes from
the ground. Dejection was written on their faces. Near them were the
captured waggons, with groups of noisy soldiers climbing over them in
search of their luggage. On the ground others were playing cards and
matching coins. Young Boers walked amongst them and engaged them in
conversation. Near the farmhouse stood a tall Cape Colony Boer talking
with his former neighbour, who was a prisoner. Several Americans among the
captured disputed the merits of the war with a Yankee burgher, who had
readily distinguished his countrymen among the throng. Some one began to
whistle a popular tune, others joined, and soon almost every one was
participating. An officer gave the order for the prisoners to fall in
line, and shortly afterward the men in brown tramped forward, while the
burghers stepped aside and lined the path. A soldier commenced to sing
another popular song, British and Boer caught the refrain, and the noise
of tramping feet was drowned by the melody of the united voices of friend
and foe singing--
"It's the soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who've been, my lads--who've seen, my lads,
* * * * *
We'll proudly point to every one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen."