With Steyn and De Wet | Page 5

ground, crowds of bearded Boers gazing at him with
fierce interest, he looked anything but comfortable, and no wonder, for
the word spion was often uttered. His colour was a pale green, while his
teeth chattered audibly. He was subsequently sent to Pretoria, and
thence exiled to civilisation, _viâ_ Delagoa Bay.
On the same day we captured three natives bearing British despatches.
As these runners were giving considerable trouble, it was decided to
execute one and send the other two to spread the news among their
friends--black and white.
The grave was already dug, when General Joubert, always against
harsh measures, decided to spare the Kafir's life. The contrast between
the bearing of this savage and that of the war-correspondent was most
striking.
Sometimes the merits of the different commandoes would be discussed.
The palm was generally awarded to the Irish Brigade and the
Johannesburg Police, two splendid corps, always ready for anything,
and possessing what we others painfully lacked--discipline.
The burghers used to relate with much relish a story of how one day the
British shells came so fast that even our artillerymen did not dare leave
their shelter to bring up ammunition for the gun; how two of those
devils of Irishmen sprang to the task, and showed how death should be
faced and danger conquered. Erin for ever!
Buller now began to press his advance on the Tugela, and his
searchlight could nightly be seen communicating with the besieged;
long official messages in cipher, and now and then a pathetic little
message, "All well, Edith sends love," would flash against the clouds,
causing us to think of other scenes than those before us.
On the tenth of December a heavy bombardment was heard from the
Tugela. On happening to pass the telegraph office at two o'clock, a

colleague called to me--
"Buller has tried to cross the river; he is being driven back. Ten of his
guns are in danger, and as soon as the sun sets our men are going over
to take them!"
This was news indeed.
"Which is the road to Colenso?"
"Round those hills, then straight on."
"Thanks, good-bye," and off I went, determined to see those guns
taken.
About four hours' hard riding, then a tent by the wayside, the red cross
floating above. An ambulance waggon has just arrived, bringing a few
wounded. I must be close to the battlefield now, but I hear no firing.
What can have happened?
Half an hour further. I see the fires of a small camp twinkling in a gully
to my left, and make my way thither. It is pitch dark. As I approach the
camp I hear voices. It is Dutch they are speaking. Then several dim
shapes loom up before me in the darkness.
"Hello! What commando is this?"
"Hello, is that you? By Jove, so it is! I thought I knew the voice," and
dashing Chris Botha shakes my hand.
"It is you, commandant! Where are those ten guns?"
"Oh, that's what you're after. Sorry, but we took them early in the
afternoon. Never mind, come along into camp. You'll see enough in the
morning."
In the camp they had six Connaught Rangers--a captain, lieutenant, and
four men, about four of the lot wounded. They alone of all their
regiment had managed to reach the bank of the Tugela--Bridle Drift,
about two hundred yards from the trenches of the Swaziland
commando. Finding no shelter in the river bank, exhausted, wounded
almost to a man, they ceased firing, whereupon our men left them in
peace until the end of the fight, when they were brought over and
complimented upon their pluck.
"I'm tired out after to-day's work," Botha said, "but there's no help for it.
I must sleep in the trenches again to-night. Walk down with me, your
friends down there will be glad to see you."
After an hour's walk--it seemed more like a week--we reached the
trenches, where the young heroes of the Swaziland commando made

me welcome. I asked them about the day's fighting, but they said--
"Too tired to talk to-night, old man. Turn in; to-morrow will do."
We turned in, and slumbered undisturbed by any thought of the blood
shed that day.
Early the next morning we waded through the river, wearing only a hat
and shirt, and carrying our topboots over the shoulder. Dozens of Boers
were splashing about in the water, enjoying themselves like so many
schoolboys. Lying strewn about on the other side were scores of dead
bodies; by the side of each fallen soldier lay a little pile of empty
cartridge cases, showing how long he had battled before meeting his
doom. Some lay with faces serenely upturned to the smiling sky, others
doubled up in the agony of a mortal wound, with gnashing teeth