Campaign Pictures of the War in South Africa (1899-1900) | Page 7

rose in his stirrups, and fairly bounded high out of his
saddle, and as he spun round in the air I saw the red blood on the white
face, and I knew that death had come to him sudden and sharp. Again
the rifles spoke, and the lead was closer to me than ever a friend sticks
in time of trouble, and I knew in my heart that the next few strides
would settle things. The black pony was galloping gamely under my
weight. Would he carry me safely out of that line of fire, or would he
fail me? Suddenly something touched me on the right temple; it was
not like a blow; it was not a shock; for half a second I was conscious. I
knew I was hit; knew that the reins had fallen from my nerveless hands,
knew that I was lying down upon my horse's back, with my head
hanging below his throat. Then all the world went out in one mad whirl.
Earth and heaven seemed to meet as if by magic. My horse seemed to
rise with me, not to fall, and then--chaos.
When next I knew I was still on this planet I found myself in the saddle
again, riding between two Boers, who were supporting me in the saddle
as I swayed from side to side. There was a halt; a man with a kindly
face took my head in the hollow of his arm, whilst another poured
water down my throat. Then they carried me to a shady spot beneath
some shrubbery, and laid me gently down. One man bent over me and
washed the blood that had dried on my face, and then carefully bound
up my wounded temple. I began to see things more plainly--a blue sky

above me; a group of rough, hardy men, all armed with rifles, around
me. I saw that I was a prisoner, and when I tried to move I soon knew I
was damaged.
The same good-looking young fellow with the curly beard bent over
me again. "Feel any better now, old fellow?" I stared hard at the
speaker, for he spoke like an Englishman, and a well-educated one, too.
"Yes, I'm better. I'm a prisoner, ain't I?" "Yes." "Are you an
Englishman?" I asked. He laughed. "Not I," he said, "I'm a Boer born
and bred, and I am the man who bowled you over. What on earth made
you do such a fool's trick as to try and ride from our rifles at that
distance?" "Didn't think I was welcome in these parts." "Don't make a
jest of it, man," the Boer said gravely; "rather thank God you are a
living man this moment. It was His hand that saved you; nothing else
could have done so." He spoke reverently; there was no cant in the
sentiment he uttered--his face was too open, too manly, too fearless for
hypocrisy. "How long is it since I was knocked over?" "About three
hours." "Is my comrade dead?" "Quite dead," the Boer replied; "death
came instantly to him. He was shot through the brain." "Poor beggar!" I
muttered, "and he'll have to rot on the open veldt, I suppose?"
The Boer leader's face flushed angrily. "Do you take us for savages?"
he said. "Rest easy. Your friend will get decent burial. What was his
rank?" "War correspondent." "And your own?" "War correspondent
also. My papers are in my pocket somewhere." "Sir," said the Boer
leader, "you dress exactly like two British officers; you ride out with a
fighting party, you try to ride off at a gallop under the very muzzles of
our rifles when we tell you to surrender. You can blame no one but
yourselves for this day's work." "I blame no man; I played the game,
and am paying the penalty." Then they told me how poor Lambie's
horse had swerved between myself and them after Lambie had fallen,
then they saw me fall forward in the saddle, and they knew I was hit. A
few strides later one of them had sent a bullet through my horse's head,
and he had rolled on top of me. Yet, with it all, I had escaped with a
graze over the right temple and a badly knocked-up shoulder. Truly, as
the Boer said, the hand of God must have shielded me.

For a day and a half I lay at that laager whilst our wounded men were
brought in, and here I should like to say a word to the people of
England. Our men, when wounded, are treated by the Boers with manly
gentleness and kind consideration. When we left the laager in an open
trolly, we, some half-dozen Australians, and about as many Boers, all
wounded, were driven for some hours to