As De Wet had no
intention of moving forward just yet, I joined my brother Transvaalers.
Bidding adieu to our Free State comrades, we crossed the Vaal. Just
beyond the river we were joined by two or three others, who had with
them as prisoner a British sergeant. This fellow had been in charge of a
band of native police, whose insolence had terrorised the women and
children for miles around, until a body of Boers came along and routed
them out of the district, capturing their leader. What became of the
blacks I do not know, but it must be remembered that the Transvaal
natives are Boer subjects, and liable to be shot if caught aiding the
British. The feeling against the sergeant was very bitter.
"Oh, you're the Kafir chief, are you?" said one of our men to him.
"Ho, yuss, h' I'm the Kefir ginnyril," responded the flattered cockney,
with an irritating grin.
"I'd like to Kafir general you through the head," said the disgusted
Boer promptly. The sickly grin faded, and the threat was not carried
out.
Towards afternoon a heavy rain began to fall. There was no shelter for
us, and we pushed along, wet and cold. Then night came, and the road,
now transformed into a rushing torrent, was only shown us by the lurid
lightning flashes that continually rent the heavens. And we had a sick
man on the trolley, for whom this exposure was a serious matter.
Pages:
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131