The post-office was humming like a beehive. Men were hastily finishing the barricades, and Colonel Blow was shouting instructions with a sandwich in one hand and a sand-bag in the other. Evidently he had had no time to dine. Lanterns flickered everywhere, and a group of men were getting a Hotchkiss into position on top of a piece of raised ground. One man was hopping about, groaning and swearing because the wheel of the carriage had gone over his toe. Others were struggling with barbed wire of which an entanglement was being made for an outer defence.
I passed through the doors of the building, and going along a wide passage came out into a verandah which gave on to a large court-yard. This was the prison yard, and away at the other end of it were the cells—a line of strong doors and barred windows. A fire near by had a three-legged pot upon it which gave up a smell of stew; and another fire had a large kettle boiling over it from a tripod.
All round the inside of the walls ran a wooden balcony. This had been roughly erected during the past week, but it was sufficiently strong to support the men who would have to stand to the walls, and fire over them in case of an attack at close quarters.
In the centre of the yard tents had been pegged out. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe’s, a red-and-white-striped affair dominated the situation, and struck a gay sort of sea-side note; several children were frolicking in and out of it, diving under the flaps and showering laughter. The Dutch women had slung all their things against the wall and were sitting on the heap, one of them nursing a baby, the other feeding a small child with bits cut off a strip of biltong. Many piles of rugs and blankets were lying about on the gravelled ground, and by the dim light of several paraffin lamps suspended from the verandah I recognised Mrs Marriott turning over pile after pile, evidently in search of her own. Near me in the verandah a little group of Fort George women were standing. They had the quiet air of sensible, self-possessed women, prepared for any emergency, and there was no fuss or excitement about them at all. They behaved as though sleeping in laager was an everyday affair. I heard Mrs Grant say that Colonel Blow had just told her that the alarm had been a false one occasioned by some stray oxen which had approached the outlying picket; and Mrs Burney said casually that she had felt sure it was something of the kind and that there was no likelihood of an attack until the main impis had been engaged with some of our men. They dismissed the subject carelessly. Another woman said:
“My Cliffie and your boy Dick are rather big to put in among the little ones, so I’ve fixed them up in a little dormitory by themselves behind the prisoners’ dock.”
“My chicks are fast asleep already, and now that we’ve got that curtain up don’t you think it would be as well if we all went off to bed?”
“It will certainly leave the coast clear for the other women.”
“Yes: that is what I mean.”
“Oh, and Mrs Grant have you got those biscuits for your little Allie?”
“Everything belonging to us is in there, and I’ve brought my spirit-lamp to make tea in the morning. I expect we shall have to turn out early.”