On the Heels of De Wet

On the Heels of De Wet, by The
Intelligence

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Title: On the Heels of De Wet
Author: The Intelligence Officer

Release Date: January 19, 2007 [eBook #20400]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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ON THE HEELS OF DE WET
by
THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER

William Blackwood and Sons Edinburgh and London MCMII

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.'

FOREWORD.
This short history is an amplification of a diary kept by the author
during the late war, which amplification, through the courtesy of the
editor, was published as a series of papers in 'Blackwood's Magazine.'
The author is well aware of the shortcomings of his work, which he
presents to the public in all humility, after asking pardon from such of
the performers on his stage as may see through the slight veil of
anonymity in which it has been attempted to enshroud them. If any
should think the few criticisms which have crept into the text unjust,

will they bear in mind that the regimental officer has suffered, in
silence, much for the sins of others. It is the author's conviction that
cases were rare when the ship did not sail true enough: in the beginning
she may have badly wanted cleaning below the water line, but she
never failed to answer her helm. It was more often the man at the helm
than the sailing quality of the vessel that was at fault, and the marvel is
that she was of sufficiently tough construction to be able to stand the
stress incurred by indifferent seamanship.

CONTENTS.
PAGE I. THE BIRTH OF THE BRIGADE 1
II. THE MEET! 15
III. BEE-LINE TO BRITSTOWN 45
IV. THE FIRST CHECK 75
V. A NEW CAST 103
VI. A POOR SCENT 133
VII. "POTTERING" 155
VIII. STILL POTTERING 184
IX. TO A NEW COVERT! 214
X. JOG-TROT 246
XI. FULL CRY 292
L'ENVOI 344

ON THE HEELS OF DE WET.

I.
THE BIRTH OF THE BRIGADE.
"De Aar," and the Africander guard flung himself out of his brake-van.
De Aar! After forty-eight hours of semi-starvation in a brake-van, the
name of the junction, in spite of the ill-natured tones which gave voice
to it, sounded sweeter than the chimes of bells. It meant relief from
confinement in a few square feet of board; relief from a semi-putrid
atmosphere--oil, unwashed men, and stale tobacco-smoke; relief from
the delicate attentions of a surly Africander guard, who resented the
overcrowding of his van; relief from the pangs of hunger; relief from
the indescribable punishments of thirst.
Yet at its best De Aar is a miserable place. Not made--only thrown at
the hillside, and allowed by negligence and indifference to slip into the
nearest hollow. Too far from the truncated kopjes to reap any benefit
from them. Close enough to feel the radiation of a sledge-hammer sun
from their bevelled summits--close enough to be the channel, in
summer, of every scorching blast diverted by them; in winter, every icy
draught. Pestilential place, goal of whirlwinds and dust-devils,
ankle-deep in desert drift--prototype of Berber in a sandstorm--as
comfortless by night as day. But as in nature, so in the handiwork of
men, even in the most repulsive shapes it is possible to find some
saving feature. De Aar has one--one only. Its saving feature is where a
slatternly Jew boy plays host behind the bar of a fly-ridden buffet. Here
at prices which, except that it is a campaign, would be prohibitive, you
can purchase food and drink.
But at night it is not an easy place to find. The station is full of trains,
and, arriving by a supply-train, you are discharged at some remote
siding. A dozen wheeled barricades--open trucks, groaning bogies piled
with war material--separate you from the platform. You dare not climb
over the couplings