"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 fixed in
a horrid grin, foam-flecked lips, and widely staring eyes.
Horrible, in truth, but most awful of all was the soul-sickening stench
of human blood that infected the air. We soon turned back, unable to
bear it any longer.
"Did your commando lose many men?" I asked my companion.
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