It didn't take us long to get over
the hill, the vicious little one-pounders crackling and fizzling round
us all the while.
On the other side a comical sight met our eyes. The whole veld was full
of scattered Boers retiring in all directions, with a shell bursting in
between them every now and then, luckily without any effect. A few
hundred yards away stood the cart of our clergyman, who was frantically
trying to unharness his mules and inspan horses in their place. He was
so nervous that his fingers refused to undo the straps, so we dismounted
and effected the exchange for him. As soon as the last strap was buckled
he lashed up and drove away, too excited even to say thank you.
We were so accustomed to retreating by this time that it seemed
extraordinary to see a man lose his head so easily. The British shells
pursued us till we were out of sight, but the only casualty was when a
shell passed so close to Van der Merwe, the mining commissioner of
Johannesburg, that the concussion knocked him off his horse.
That evening Jonas came into camp. Jonas is quite a character in his
way. When the British entered Potchefstroom he, with four followers,
took up a position on a kopje about six miles out of town, and a
thousand yards from the Johannesburg road. Whenever a convoy or a body
of British came along Jonas and his merry band would open a furious
fusillade, causing the unhappy enemy no end of inconvenience.
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