Quick! saddle and ride; meet at Frederikstad! Myself and
a comrade are quickly speeding thither, our brief Valhalla over. On the
road we overtake and pass parties of twos and threes, all on the same
errand. At last we approach the rendezvous. Up the hill rides a dense
body of cavalry; down near the station horsemen dash in and out, to and
fro, like busy ants. On the hill a few footmen leisurely stroll about,
rifle in hand. What means all this commotion? We pass a Kafir hut.
"Are those Boers or English, outa?"
"Boers, baas."
"Sure?"
"Yes, baas, it's our own people."
"Yes, look, that's the commandant ahead on his roan. Come along!" We
near the horsemen. The last man dismounts as we approach; his companions
are disappearing over the rise; he shifts his saddle forward, staring at
us intently. A tall, well-built fellow, red hair, chin scrubby,
dust-covered features. A bayonet at his side--by heavens! an Englishman!
"Frank, it's a khaki," I whisper, "keep straight on."
The soldier looks me in the face as we slowly pass him. I feel my
cheeks burn and turn my head away. His gun stands in the bucket; we can
shoot him, but then, the others? We wear top-boots and riding-breeches,
hats pinned up at the side; he is in doubt--perhaps we are scouts just
come in. He mounts his horse and rides after his comrades.
Now turn and away, over boulders and bushes for dear life! Suddenly a
dozen scouts file down the hill, two hundred yards off.
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