Chapter Nine.
Commandant Schoeman’s Camp.
“Who on earth is making all that row?” was Colvin’s first remark on awakening from sleep the following morning to the well-worn strains of “Ta-ra-Boomdeay” bellowed in stentorian tones, yet somewhat muffled as though by distance and obstruction.
“It must be the Englishman—one of the prisoners,” yawned another occupant of the tent, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. “He is very violent and noisy, so they have shut him up in Gideon Roux’ stable away from the others.”
“Is he mad?”
“No. Only violent. Wants to fight everybody with his fists.”
“Nouwja. I would cure that ‘madness’ with a sjambok if I were the Commandant,” growled another, sitting up and listening. “He gives all the trouble he can.”
The hour was that of sunrise, and although midsummer, the air at that altitude was raw and chilly when Colvin turned out, shivering, to look after his horse, which had been picketed among the steeds of the burghers. As he did so the sun, mounting above the surrounding heights into the fresh clear air, seemed to shed around a new hope, to light up a new exhilaration in his mind. His own atmosphere would clear, even as the dewy mists of night had done before the great flaming luminary. He would now seek out the Commandant, explain matters, and resume his way. And having so decided, he was straightway confronted by a couple of burghers summoning him to the presence of that official without delay.
Commandant Schoeman was an elderly man with a hard, wooden-faced expression. He wore a straight lank beard, a chimney-pot hat, once white, and weather-beaten moleskin clothes, which looked as if they had not been off him for a month, which indeed was very near the truth. He was a Boer of the most unprogressive type, and as entirely dissimilar to one of the stamp of Stephanus De la Rey as could possibly be imagined. He was lacking in the good qualities of Andries Botma, who, however fiery and perfervid as a patriotic orator, was a kindly and courteous gentleman beneath. This man was brusque and uncouth, and cordially hated everything English, both in season and out of season.
He was seated in his tent as Colvin came up. The flaps were folded back so that those surrounding him who could not find room inside could still assist at what was going on in the way of official business. These consisted almost entirely of Boers holding subordinate commands under him. They wore their bandoliers, and their rifles lay on the ground beside them.