This latter was
especially hard on such a crowd of inveterate smokers. I remember whilst
we were riding mutely along, listening to the creaking and jolting of
the waggons, and wondering whether we were going to get through, or what
the alternative would be if we did not, we suddenly saw someone
deliberately strike a match and light his pipe.
"Who struck that match?" came from the front. Then the delinquent
himself spoke up--
"It's this confounded Kafir of mine. Was it you, Jantje?"
"Yes, baas," responded the dutiful black, bobbing up and down on his
master's spare horse.
"Give him twenty with the sjambok."
"Right!" Jantje and his master turned out of the road, and soon the
unmistakable thwack! thwack! of the sjambok could be heard, mingled with
subdued ejaculations in Kafir and Dutch. But judging by the expression
on Jantje's features by the camp fire that night, as he blew long
fragrant clouds into the gaping nostrils of his envious friends, I have
my doubts about that thrashing.
We halted frequently to allow the straggling ox-waggons to close up.
Then we would dismount, stamp our chilly feet, draw our overcoats or
blankets closer, and discuss trivialities. During one of these halts a
horseman came dashing up from the rear--
"General, there's a doctor behind who has just come through the enemy's
lines.
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