With Steyn and De Wet by Philip Pienaar

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Whilst we were still discussing the situation a Bushman mounted on a
scraggy pony and seated on a sheepskin saddle came riding along. We
hailed him and asked him where he was off to. He told us he belonged to
a party of half a dozen Boers, who, hidden just over the hill, had sent
him to see what we were. We ordered him to lead us thither. When we
approached the spot it was to find the men all on their feet, rifles
loaded and cocked, ready to lay us low should we prove to be Englishmen.
We lost no time in dissipating their fears. They explained that they
belonged to the commando which had been lying here, and which only the
day before had retired on the approach of the enemy. They themselves,
having been on a visit to their farms near by, had got left behind. I
at once suspected that they meant to lay down their arms, but it would
never have done to say so, so I contented myself with demanding their
advice as to the best way of rejoining the aforesaid commando. They were
not very anxious to rejoin it themselves, and consequently represented
the matter as being extremely difficult. At length they showed us a farm
near the British camp, and recommended our going thither, as the people
there would be able to give us all possible help. We reached the farm
just after sunset to the accompaniment of barking dogs and hissing
geese. The door was opened by a feeble old man, who, with his equally
aged wife, were apparently the only occupants of the place. As soon as
it was evident that we were friends, however, two strapping sons made
their appearance from a kopje behind the house, where the clatter of our
horses' hoofs had caused them to take refuge. They informed us that they
had followed the enemy's movements throughout the day, and that the line
was so well guarded that our getting through was extremely unlikely. But
we could sleep there that night, and the next morning we could see what
was to be done.

During the evening the old father recounted, with much humour, his
experience of Theron's merry band. How they had come there in the
middle of the night, knocked him up, stabled their horses in his yard,
asked for bread, _brod_, _brood_; eggs, _eiers_, _ejers_, in all the
dialects under the sun, how they had actually plucked the oranges from
his trees, until he was forced to ask Theron to station a guard in the
orchard! But the next morning they had paid for everything, and ridden
away, singing and shouting.

Nothing in the old gentleman's manner to show that the enemy were camped
only four miles away, although he knew very well that they would visit
him the next day, and probably deprive him sooner or later of all he
possessed. Only down the face of his white-haired wife rolled silent
tears as she gazed at the bearded faces of her stalwart sons and thought
of the long farewell that they would bid her on the morrow!

When we rose the next morning we lost no time in making for the high,
boulder-strewn kopje behind the house. Here we found the farmer's sons,
armed, their horses at hand, gazing through a large telescope at the
British camp, which could be plainly distinguished with the naked eye.

Presently a small party of scouts left the camp and came in our
direction, riding slowly, and eyeing every little rise or depression in
the ground with the utmost distrust. They reached a farmhouse lying
between their camp and ourselves, and after a while we saw a cart leave
the farm and drive towards the camp. Another Boer laying down his arms,
beguiled by Buller's blarney! Then the scouts came nearer and nearer.
When within a thousand yards or so they encountered a troop of mares
grazing on the veld. Round and round these they rode, plainly intending
to annex any that might suit them. My friends were strongly tempted to
fire on these cattle thieves. Only the thought of their aged parents
restrained them, for they well knew the result would be the burning down
of their home.

It was plain that the scouts were making for this farm. We hurried down
to the house, saddled our horses--mine still suffering and hardly able
to go at a trot, and went to say good-bye to our hosts.

"Yes, my children," said the old lady, "it is better to go, for should
the British find you here they would only treat us the worse for it. And
we have sorrow enough, God knows. Come and see my son, my sick and
suffering son, who perhaps will never rise from his bed again!"

She conducted us into a bed-chamber, where, pallid and worn, his wife
seated by his side, lay the wreck of a once splendid specimen of
manhood, now, alas! in the last stage of some wasting disease--the
result of privations endured on commando. All that we could do was to
speak a few weak but well-meant words of comfort to the afflicted
family, and then leave them to their fate.

The sons promised to follow us later, as they wished to remain in the
neighbourhood to see what became of their home. My friend and myself
rode to another farm in the neighbourhood, undecided as yet whether to
make the attempt to get through the enemy's lines or to turn back;
crossing Roberts' lines of communication in the Free State was easy
enough, but here we had Buller to deal with. Upon reaching this farm we
found the occupants greatly excited. A Hottentot had just arrived from a
farm already visited by the enemy, bearing Buller's proclamation,
printed in Dutch and English, and promising protection, compensation,
and I know not what all, to those who came in and surrendered. The
entire household and several armed Boers from the vicinity gathered
round the farmer. No one dared to read the proclamation aloud. It was
handed from one to the other, shamefacedly, as if there were something
vile in the very touch of the document.

I anxiously watched the varying expression of their features, as
interest struggled with patriotism. Wearied of strife and fearful of
losing the result of years of hard work, the assembled men felt a strong
inclination to accept the enemy's offer. But no one dared give utterance
to his feelings. Eye met eye, and glanced away. It was easy to see what
the result would be. It was plainly my duty to protest, but what could I
do, a stranger, a mere youth? What could I say to these men, who had
already given proof of their devotion on many a bloody field, and who
only recoiled now when brought face to face with the supreme test--the
sacrifice of their hearths and homes? I ventured to point out, however,
that those who had already surrendered now bitterly regretted it, and
added that the very nature of the case made it impossible for the
British to carry out their promises. They listened in silence. My words
may have had some slight effect; in any case, the Hottentot was sent
back without a definite reply. It was useless to expect any aid from
these men. Leaving them to decide their own fate, we started back for
the Free State.

ARRESTED AS SPIES

A couple of hours' riding, then the farm of an old field-cornet, where
we off-saddled and bought a few bundles of forage for our horses. The
field-cornet entered into conversation with us whilst our animals were
feeding, but omitted to ask us into the house, and kept eyeing us in a
puzzled manner, as though we had dropped from Mars. I know not what my
companion thought of it, or if he thought at all, but I myself put the
old man's strange manner down to a sort of speechless admiration, and
accepted it as such. But I was mistaken.

When our friend shook hands with us he did so very limply, and as far as
we went he could be seen gazing after us.

"What ails him?" I asked my comrade.

"Oh, he doesn't see men like ourselves every day," was the careless
answer. How could I argue?

We kept on our way, and towards sundown reached a farm on the bank of
the Vaal, simultaneously with another young fellow coming from the
direction of the railway line.

It turned out that this farm belonged to his father. He himself had left
home that morning with the intention of crossing the railway, but had
found the line so well patrolled that he had given up the attempt. We
stabled our horses and entered the small but comfortably furnished
cottage, where we were presented to the other members of the family.
After supper came the usual evening service. This was hardly over when
we heard a loud knocking at the front door. The door was opened, and the
strange-mannered old field-cornet entered.

He greeted us solemnly and sat down. Next came a thundering rap at the
back door, and another Boer entered, a tall, powerful fellow, who was
foaming at the mouth with suppressed excitement, and bristling with
cartridge belts.

"My nephews," said the first-comer to us, "you must not take it amiss,
but it is my duty to arrest you!"

"What for, uncle?"

"For being suspected of spying. You must either accompany me back to my
farm, or let me take your horses there, so as to prevent your leaving
here during the night."

"All right, uncle, take the horses, but don't forget to feed them well.
But perhaps it would spare you trouble if you read our papers."

"It is easy to forge papers," said the old man. His companion now boiled
over and broke in--

"No, no! We've got you right enough! What else can you be but cursed
spies, riding about the country like this?"

"I don't wish to argue with you," I replied, angered by his brutal
manner. "I'm as true a burgher as you are, to say the least, and I warn
you that I shall hold you responsible for what you do or say."

"Oh! oh! Responsible? We are our own Government now. And where are your
arms? Spies!"

"I see you have a gun, but perhaps that is only because you've had no
chance to lay it down."

"What! Yes, I've got a gun, and I'll prove it to you!" he shouted,
pointing the weapon at me.

"Just like a cowardly bully to threaten an unarmed man! But," I added
gently, "you'll feel differently to-morrow."

"Will I? Why?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of his rage.

"You'll be sober then." This only incensed him the more, but he saw that
he had gone too far, and contented himself with uttering a few
half-intelligible threats. We then went out to the stable, gave them our
horses, and went to bed.

I woke just as dawn was breaking. Before the door stood the son of the
house, his gun in his hand.

"Hello, you are up early," I said. He looked rather confused.

"To tell the truth, I have been guarding you all night. But all the
same, I don't believe that you are spies. Come and have some coffee."

We had just finished our coffee when we heard horses' hoofs coming along
the road, and presently one of our friends from the farm near
Greylingstad entered the room.

"I've brought your horses," he said, smiling merrily. "I passed the old
field-cornet's this morning and told him I could certify that you are no
spies."

Whilst we were saddling up the field-cornet and his companion of the
night before arrived. The latter was now sober. They were profuse in
apologies.

"You were angry last night because we had no rifles; you had more reason
to be glad," I remarked to the field-cornet's assistant.

"Why?"

"Because if I had been armed I might have been imprudent enough to blow
your brains out when you pointed your gun at me. And how awful that
would have been!"

"Man," he said, "it's the cursed drink."

"Well," said I, "it's all over now. Good-bye!" Off we went--my comrade,
myself, and the man who had brought our horses, Delange. The latter had
an _achter ryder_ and two spare horses. Towards noon we reached the farm
of one of Delange's friends. My mount was now thoroughly done up, having
eaten almost nothing for three days. I asked the farmer if he had a
horse for sale.

"There are several in the stable," he replied, "but they belong to my
son, and he is on commando; so I am sorry, but I can't sell you one."

"I tell you what we'll do," said Delange. "I'll give you one of mine for
yours, which can then remain here till it gets well. Should you come
round here again one day we can then change back again."

"But suppose the animal dies?"

"Oh, I'll risk that. What is one horse more or less?"

I gratefully accepted this generous offer, and soon had my new
acquisition saddled. It was a lively little nag, and all my weariness
passed away as I felt it bound between my knees. Delange remained here,
and my comrade and I continued our journey alone, making for Vrede.

"There's a Jew a few miles from here," said the farmer as he bade us
good luck, "whom we suspect of treason. You should try and trap him and
take him with you to Vrede."

Towards dusk we reached the Jew's store. We rode up to the building and
he came to the door, an intelligent-looking man.

"Good evening," I said in English, "are there any Boers about?" We were
both dressed after the English style.

When the man's wife heard English spoken she also came to the door and
stood by her husband's side.

"Well, can't you answer?" The fellow's face was a study. He and his wife
looked at each other, evidently feeling that some danger was threatening
them.

"Sir," he said at last, speaking with an effort, "I have seen no Boers."

"Is this the road to Vrede?"

"Yes," he faltered.

"Thanks. Good-night," and we rode away. It might be easy to shoot a
traitor in cold blood, but to try and trap a man into uttering his own
condemnation seemed too cruel.

The next place we came to was a miserable-looking hovel standing by the
wayside. The door was opened by an old man.

"Good evening, uncle. Can you sell us a few bundles of forage?"

"Good evening. Yes, certainly. Come inside. It's a poor dwelling, but
you are welcome. Johnny, take the horses and put them in the stable.
Won't you join us at supper?"

Our appetites needed no stimulating, and we at once joined the family,
who had just been sitting down to table when we arrived. After the meal
our horses were saddled and brought to the door.

"What do we owe you for the forage?" we asked. It would be an insult
under any circumstance to offer to pay a Boer for a meal, "paying
guests" being still unknown to our benighted nation.

"No, my friends," he said. "I am poor, but I can't take your money. We
are all working for our country, and must help each other."

"That's true, but you must really allow us to pay."

"No, no! A few shillings will make me no richer or poorer." It was only
with the greatest difficulty that we managed to leave a few shillings on
the table. And this in spite of the fact that he was in the direst
poverty. But this is nothing unusual in South Africa, where hospitality
is considered a duty and a pleasure.

We pushed on until late that night, when we reached Vrede. Here we
learnt that the column which Lord Roberts had sent back from
Johannesburg had just entered Reitz. The next day we turned our horses'
heads towards Bethlehem, seeing a fair amount of game during the day's
ride. Darkness found us still travelling onward. A few miles to our
right a crimson glare lit up the heavens--a grass fire started by the
British column, and an unmistakable danger-signal for us.

We were now very close to the enemy, and might expect to meet a patrol
at any moment. Whilst riding along in the dense gloom we heard loud
voices a few hundred yards ahead of us. Turning out of the road, we rode
on the grass so as to make no noise, and carefully approached. Upon
getting nearer we found it was some natives driving cattle into a kraal.
Near by was a farmhouse, and thither we went. Only the womenfolk were at
home. We quickly reassured them--for every stranger was taken for an
Englishman--and were asked to stay for the night. Presently the farmer
himself arrived--he had been out watching the enemy.

"They will pass here to-morrow," he said, "then I shall go on that hill
yonder and knock over a few of them. I had a fine chance to shoot
to-day, but did not want to put them on their guard."

"But don't you think it would be better to join a commando and help in
making an organised resistance? You may kill a few of the enemy by
hanging about in twos and threes, but what difference will that make in
the end?"

"You mean us to act like the dervishes at Omdurman? I'm afraid you don't
understand the affair, my son. We do belong to a commando, as a matter
of fact, but we are scouts entrusted with the duty of keeping in
constant touch with the enemy. If in the execution of this duty we see
an opportunity to shoot a few of the enemy, are we to hold our hand
because we happen to be only two or three?"

"I should think not. But the enemy call it sniping, and I have heard
them say that snipers get no quarter. And if you fire on a column near
here they will come and burn this house down."

"It is not for me," he replied, "to consider my own interests. I have my
orders and must carry them out. What! Are we, who have lost sons,
brothers, friends--are we, I say, to think of our property now? No! Let
everything go, strip us to the bone, but leave us our liberty! It is not
for ourselves that we battle and suffer, but for posterity. It is for
the birthright of our children--freedom. We are no servile Hindoos to
meekly bow beneath the foreign yoke! They have put their hands to the
plough, but they will find it stubborn land, land that they will grow
weary of manuring with the bodies of their sons! And all for what? To
raise a crop of thistles and thorns, for that is all they'll ever get
out of us!"

"And it strikes me the end of the furrow is still out of sight."

"My boy," he said earnestly, "_this furrow has no end!_"

IN THE MOUNTAINS

"I wish you a pleasant journey," said our host the next morning, as we
prepared to mount. "Have you money enough? Yes? Well, in any case, take
this biltong along in your saddle-bags; it's my own make, you'll find it
good. Keep a good look-out. Good-bye!"

After thanking him warmly for his kindness, we rode off. Halting but
once to feed and water our horses, we reached a farm near Bethlehem
towards evening, where we spent the night. We were awakened by the sound
of a heavy bombardment in the direction of Bethlehem, which informed us
that the British were attacking the town. With an optimism that now
seems marvellous, we never for a moment doubted that the enemy would be
driven back, and that we would at last be able to take a little repose,
for twelve hours daily in the saddle was beginning to tell on us. Quite
cheerfully we rode down to the village, listening to the music of the
bursting shells and the lively rattle of the small-arms. Suddenly a
cloud of Boers issued from a kopje to our right, and slowly retreated
across our front. We rode up to them and learnt that they had just
received orders to retire, as the place could no longer be defended. It
appeared that the British general had informed De Wet that if he did not
surrender the town it would be bombarded. Most of the property belonged
to British subjects, so De Wet ordered all loyal inhabitants to leave
the town, and then told the general to bombard as much as he liked,
which the latter forthwith proceeded to do. De Wet had placed a couple
of guns on the mountain overlooking the town, and this, together with
Theron's hundred and fifty men--the only commando seriously engaged that
day--sufficed to keep the British back for three hours. De Wet's own men
were kept in reserve to meet the usual outflanking movement. The latter
did not take place, however, the enemy coming straight on. Finally
something went wrong with one of our two guns, and Theron being hard
pressed, with the reserve too far away to render immediate help, the
order was given to retire. The artillerists profited by the occasion to
tumble the damaged gun down a precipice, saying that they had had enough
of repairing it. Here it was found by the enemy the next day. A rush was
made for the mountain passes, as it was feared the enemy might occupy
them and cut off our retreat, but this was not even attempted, and we
were allowed to gain our rocky fastnesses in peace. The following day
was spent in climbing up and down the steep footpaths over the
mountains, and that afternoon we arrived at the end of our journey,
Fouriesburg, having spent something like a hundred hours on horseback
during the last ten days. Our first move was towards the river, for we
had not had a bath for several days. After repeated splashes in the
chilly torrent we bought a few clean things, put them on, and then
gravitated towards the telegraph office. Needless to say, our colleagues
were surprised to see us, being under the impression that we had long
since reached the Transvaal. Whilst still busy giving explanations we
heard someone on the instrument calling Winburg. Now Winburg was in
British hands; it could be no other than a British station calling.
Wishing to gain a little information, we responded.

"Here, Winburg."

"Here, Bethlehem. Are you Winburg?"

"Yes."

"Then give the name of the officer commanding."

There was no time for hesitation, and in our haste we gave the wrong
name.

"Go away," came the answer; "you're a way out. Trying to fool us, are
you?"

After a while we called him up again.

"Bethlehem! Bethlehem!"

"Here, Lieutenant Sherrard, R.E. What's up?"

"Here, Winburg. What's the news?"

"That you are a lot of fools for keeping on fighting and murdering your
men!" came the sharp reply.

"Oh, kindly allow us to know our own business best. You'll find some
method in our folly."

"Maybe. How did you like the little bits o' lyddite yesterday?"

"I believe it slightly killed one mule. How did you like the hell fire
from the Nordenfeldt?"

"Never saw it. But honestly, why don't you come in and surrender?"

"But honestly, what is your real opinion of those who desert their
country in her hour of need?" He preferred not to say, but disconnected
the wire, and we heard no more of our friend the Royal Engineer.

"Pity they were too sharp for us this time," I said to the Postmaster.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," he replied, "we caught up their report of the
engagement just after they entered the town. It seems they had a pretty
severe loss. Ours was slight, but one lyddite shell burst over a group
of horses and killed twenty."

"And what is the situation now?"

"Well, all our forces are here in the mountains now, and we can hold out
for years. There are only two passes; they are strongly held, and the
enemy will never get through them. We tried to get our prisoners to take
parole, but they refused, so we have driven them over the Drakensberg
into Natal. Last, but not least, the traitor Vilonel is here, waiting
for his appeal to be heard."

This Vilonel, a young man of prepossessing appearance, had been one of
the most promising officers, and had early been promoted to commandant.
Whether through overweening ambition on his part or not I cannot say,
but Vilonel, accused of insubordination, was thenceforth given the
distasteful and inglorious task of commandeering. He wearied of this,
and applied for active service, but in vain. Then, smarting under a
sense of injustice, he took the fatal step--deserted. Not content with
this, he wrote a letter out of the British camp to one of our
field-cornets, urging upon the latter to surrender. The letter fell into
the hands of one of our Intelligence officers, who forthwith replied in
the field-cornet's name, asking Vilonel to meet him at a certain
secluded spot. Vilonel kept the appointment, accompanied by a British
major, and both were made prisoners, the major protesting energetically
against what he was pleased to consider as a breach of the rules of
warfare, but his captors begged to differ, reminding him that all's fair
in love and war, especially in dealing with traitors and their
associates.

Vilonel was tried at Reitz, and sentenced to five years, the judge
remarking that he was lucky to get off with his life. The prisoner did
not think so, and applied for leave to appeal. This was granted, but
owing to the nature of the subsequent military operations the Court had
not found time to sit, hardly time to pause, in fact.

When the day finally arrived for the appeal to be heard the little
court-room was crowded with interested spectators. Judge Hertzog
presided, assisted by two young advocates, Messrs. Hugo and Cronje, and
Advocate De Villiers represented the State. The prisoner, who conducted
his own defence, asked for a postponement. This was refused. He then
made an able statement, asserting his innocence of any evil intentions,
pleading that he had acted as his conscience dictated, and eloquently
praying the Court to reconsider his sentence. It was a painful moment
when the presiding judge, after a whispered consultation with the
assessors, turned to the prisoner and confirmed the sentence, adding,
in his clear, incisive voice, that the name of Vilonel would remain an
eternal stigma upon the fame of the Afrikander race. One could not help
feeling a thrill of compassion at the tragic end of such a promising
career. To-day a noble patriot, to-morrow a black traitor, despised by
the lowest of his countrymen!

President Steyn's wife and family were installed in a house in this
village, but the President himself preferred to camp in the veld and
share the lot of his burghers.

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