Campaign Pictures of the War in South Africa (1899-1900) | Page 6

rode with them. Where they were going, or
what their mission, I did not know, but I guessed it was to be no picnic.
The quiet, resolute manner of the officers, the hushed voices, the set,
stern faces of the young soldiers, none of whom had ever been under
fire before, all told me that there was blood in the air, so I asked no
questions, and sat tight in my saddle. As the daylight broke over the
far-stretching veldt, I saw that two other correspondents were with the
party, viz., Reay, of the Melbourne Herald, and Lambie, poor, ill-fated
Lambie, of the Melbourne Age. For a couple of hours we trotted along
without incident of any kind, then we halted at a farmhouse, the name
of which I have forgotten. There we found Captain Cameron encamped
with the rest of the Tasmanians, and after a short respite the troops
moved outward again, Captain Cameron in command; we had about

eighty men, all of whom were mounted.
As we rode off I heard the order given for every man to "sit tight and
keep his eyes open." Then our scouts put spurs to their horses and
dashed away on either wing, skirting the kopjes and screening the main
body, and so for another hour we moved without seeing or hearing
anything to cause us trouble. By this time we had got into a kind of
huge basin, the kopjes were all round us, but the veldt was some miles
in extent. I knew at a glance that if the Boers were in force our little
band was in for a bad time, as an enemy hidden in those hills could
watch our every movement on the plain, note just where we intended to
try and pass through the chain of hills, and attack us with unerring
certainty and suddenness. All at once one of our scouts, who had been
riding far out on our left flank, came flying in with the news that the
enemy was in the kopjes in front of us, and he further added that he
thought they intended to surround our party if possible. Captain
Cameron ordered the men to split into two parties, one to move towards
the kopjes on our right; the other to fall back and protect our retreat, if
such a move became necessary. Mr. Lambie and I decided to move on
with the advance party, and at a hard gallop we moved away towards a
line of kopjes that seemed higher than any of the others in the belt. As
we neared those hills it seemed to us that there were no Boers in
possession, and that nothing would come of the ride after all, and we
drew bridle and started to discuss the situation. At that time we were
not far from the edge of some kopjes, which, though lying low, were
covered with rocky boulders and low scrub.
We had drifted a few hundred yards behind the advance party, but were
a good distance in front of the rearguard, when a number of horsemen
made a dash from the kopjes which we were skirting, and the rifles
began to speak. There was no time for poetry; it was a case of "sit tight
and ride hard," or surrender and be made prisoners. Lambie shouted to
me: "Let's make a dash, Hales," and we made it. The Boers were very
close to us before we knew anything concerning their presence. Some
of them were behind us, and some extended along the edge of the
kopjes by which we had to pass to get to the British line in front, all of
them were galloping in on us, shooting as they rode, and shouting to us

to surrender, and, had we been wise men, we would have thrown up our
hands, for it was almost hopeless to try and ride through the rain of lead
that whistled around us. It was no wonder we were hit; the wonder to
me is that we were not filled with lead, for some of the bullets came so
close to me that I think I should know them again if I met them in a
shop-window. We were racing by this time, Lambie's big chestnut mare
had gained a length on my little veldt pony, and we were not more than
a hundred yards away from the Mauser rifles that had closed in on us
from the kopjes. A voice called in good English: "Throw up your hands,
you d---- fools." But the galloping fever was on us both, and we only
crouched lower on our horses' backs, and rode all the harder, for even a
barn-yard fowl loves liberty.
All at once I saw my comrade throw his hands up with a spasmodic
gesture. He