At two in the morning we inspanned; at sunrise we were over Klipriver
and trekking past Ladysmith.
The road was one long string of waggons, each straggling on at the
pleasure of its owner. Horses, thanks to the criminal neglect of those
responsible, were already becoming scarce, and groups of men, many of
them wounded, sadly stumbled along, carrying their unwieldy bundles of
blankets, their little kettles, their knapsack, rifle and bandolier.
Some trudged along with a saddle slung over the back, hoping to loot a
mount by the wayside.
We did not travel far that day, but the next the march became more
rapid, every vehicle putting its best wheel foremost. A heavy rain fell
as Elandslaagte was reached, adding to the general depression. Whilst
the majority kept to the road, those who had no other means of
conveyance entrained here for Glencoe. The commissariat stores were
being hastily cleared out, what could not be loaded being set alight.
The last train that left that evening carried the dynamiters, who
destroyed the bridges after passing over them.
After a weary ride in the open trucks, seated on sacks of bread, a
drizzling rain soaking down upon us, we reached Glencoe. The platform
and station buildings were crowded with the sleeping forms of the weary
burghers, who, as yet unused to retreating, were somewhat mixed in more
senses than one.
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