I Knew That Seven
Miles From Us Just Such Another Completely Equipped And Disciplined
Column Was Advancing To The Opposite Bank Of The Sand River.
And opposed to it was this merry company of Boer farmers lying on the
grass, toasting pieces of freshly killed ox on the end of a stick,
their hobbled ponies foraging for themselves a half-mile away, a
thousand men without a tent among them, without a field-glass.
It was a picnic, a pastoral scene, not a scene of war. On the hills
overlooking the drift were the guns, but down along the banks the
burghers were sitting in circles singing the evening hymns, many of
them sung to the tunes familiar in the service of the Episcopal
Church, so that it sounded like a Sunday evening in the country at
home. At the drift other burghers were watering the oxen, bathing
and washing in the cold river; around the camp-fires others were
smoking luxuriously, with their saddles for pillows. The evening
breeze brought the sweet smell of burning wood, a haze of smoke from
many fires, the lazy hum of hundreds of voices rising in the open
air, the neighing of many horses, and the swift soothing rush of the
river.
When morning came to Cronje's farm it brought with it no warning nor
sign of battle. We began to believe that the British army was an
invention of the enemy's. So we cooked bacon and fed the doves, and
smoked on the veranda, moving our chairs around it with the sun, and
argued as to whether we should stay where we were or go on to the
bridge. At noon it was evident there would be no fight at the drift
that day, so we started along the bank of the river, with the idea of
reaching the bridge before nightfall. The trail lay on the English
side of the river, so that we were in constant concern lest our
white-hooded Cape cart would be seen by some of their scouts and we
would be taken prisoners and forced to travel all the way back to
Cape Town. We saw many herds of deer, but no scouts or lancers, and,
such being the effect of many kopjes, lost all ideas as to where we
were. We knew we were bearing steadily south toward Lord Roberts,
who as we later learned, was then some three miles distant.
About two o'clock his guns opened on our left, so we at least knew
that we were still on the wrong side of the river and that we must be
between the Boer and the English artillery. Except for that, our
knowledge of our geographical position was a blank, and we
accordingly "out-spanned" and cooked more bacon. "Outspanning" is
unharnessing the ponies and mules and turning them out graze, and
takes three minutes - "inspanning" is trying to catch them again, and
takes from three to five hours.
We started back over the trail over which we had come, and just at
sunset saw a man appear from behind a rock and disappear again.
Whether he was Boer or Briton I could not tell, but while I was
examining the rock with my glasses two Boers came galloping forward
and ordered me to "hands up." To sit with both arms in the air is an
extremely ignominious position, and especially annoying if the pony
is restless, so I compromised by waving my whip as high as I could
reach with one hand, and still held in the horse with the other. The
third man from behind the rock rode up at the same time. They said
they had watched us coming from the English lines, and that we were
prisoners. We assured them that for us nothing could be more
satisfactory, because we now knew where we were, and because they had
probably saved us a week's trip to Cape Town. They examined and
approved of our credentials, and showed us the proper trail which we
managed to follow until they had disappeared, when the trail
disappeared also, and we were again lost in what seemed an
interminable valley. But just before nightfall the fires of the
commando showed in front of us and we rode into the camp of General
Christian De Wet. He told us we could not reach the bridge that
night, and showed us a farm-house on a distant kopje where we could
find a place to spread our blankets. I was extremely glad to meet
him, as he and General Botha are the most able and brave of the Boer
generals. He was big, manly, and of impressive size, and, although
he speaks English, he dictated to his adjutant many long and Old-
World compliments to the Greater Republic across the seas.
We found the people in the farm-house on the distant kopje quite
hysterical over the near presence of the British, and the entire
place in such an uproar that we slept out in the veldt. In the
morning we were awakened by the sound of the Vickar-Maxim or the
"pom-pom" as the English call it, or "bomb-Maxim" as the Boers call
it. By any name it was a remarkable gun and the most demoralizing of
any of the smaller pieces which have been used in this campaign. One
of its values is that its projectiles throw up sufficient dust to
enable the gunner to tell exactly where they strike, and within a few
seconds he is able to alter the range accordingly. In this way it is
its own range-finder. Its bark is almost as dangerous as its bite,
for its reports have a brisk, insolent sound like a postman's knock,
or a cooper hammering rapidly on an empty keg, and there is an
unexplainable mocking sound to the reports, as though the gun were
laughing at you. The English Tommies used to call it very aptly the
"hyena gun." I found it much less offensive from the rear than when
I was with the British, and in front of it.
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