Hardly had we finished
the meal when the rat-tat, rat-tat of small-arms showed that the British
were approaching. Then a Maxim rattled forth amongst the rocks, and
warned us that the action had begun in earnest.
The commando kept the enemy back just long enough to give us a decent
start, and then retired. We afterwards learnt that this British
force--under Barnum-Powell, of Tarascon--had been sent out from Pretoria
expressly to intercept us. It was a close thing--had the enemy been a
little smarter they might have had us. As it was, we doubled away under
cover of the bush, and were soon out of reach.
Now followed a week of rapid trekking, varied with a little shooting now
and then at the partridges and bright-plumaged birds that abound in the
bushveld, and once relieved by the sight of a magnificent bush fire, a
sea of roaring flame. I must not forget our banjoist, who of nights
beguiled our careworn chief with cheery marches, quicksteps, and comic
songs. Finally we emerge upon the _hoogeveld_ of Middelburg, to find the
town in the enemy's hands. We make for Roossenekal. Again the British
are before us. We turn away towards Machadodorp. As we near the village
Schalk Burger comes out to meet us. He and Steyn speak earnestly
together. Burger is more silent, more taciturn than ever. We push on,
and reach Machadodorp, where a train is in waiting.
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