“Well, let’s beat it out together, shall we? We ought to be able to find a corner somewhere. Will you come with me to search?”
She stared at me for a moment, then stood up hesitatingly. I made haste to lead the way. After making a tour of the verandah and looking into every window we came to, we went inside and tried all the doors. Most of them were locked, signifying that the room was full-up. At last there was no place left except to try the room where the sorting and storing of mails went on. The main part of this was a wide passage with a door at each end—an impossible place to camp out in. However, there was a counter with a wooden partition above it, and going behind this I discovered quite a cosey little retreat. It had rather a mail-baggy smell, but that was a trifle to be ignored in such times of stress as these.
“We can make ourselves quite comfy here,” I said. “When we have locked both doors in case the postmaster unexpectedly returns. Now let us get our mattresses and rugs, shall we?”
She had no mattress: only a few striped coloured blankets of the kind that the natives drape around themselves. However, I had plenty of rugs, and my mattress though narrow was wide enough for two at a pinch. But she jibbed at sharing it.
“Why should I make you uncomfortable?” she said.
I stared at her and laughed. “Dear Mrs Marriott, I shall be ever so much more uncomfortable if you don’t. Now be a brick and do as I ask you.”
For some unknown reason her eyes filled with tears and her mouth began to quiver in a queer way. I turned away hastily, and having bolted the outside door began to barricade it with a heap of empty mail-bags. Whilst I was rummaging I came quite by accident upon the postmaster’s little private supply of stores, and in the spirit of martial-law I immediately commandeered them for the public benefit. There were sugar, tea, candles, some tins of “bully beef” and a canister of delicious-smelling coffee.
“Banzai! We’ll be able to make some coffee to keep their spirits up—they must be jolly tired. Come along, Mrs Marriott, let’s go and commandeer some of that crockery and the kettle of water in the yard.”
She seemed quite keen, so we unbarred and unbolted again and went out to the yard-fire where the kettle was still lustily boiling, and in five minutes we had two large jugs full of excellent coffee ready. There is a saying that Boers come to coffee as the asvogels come to dead ox. Very disgusting, but evidently true, for the smell of our coffee woke up the Boer family in their prison cell and they came meandering forth, sat down in a ring round the fire, and looked so wistfully and eloquently at the big jug that we had to give them some all round, especially as we were using their crockery. Afterwards they lent us their beakers and enamel cups and we made a forced march to the barricades. When the barricaders also smelt the arôme de Java on the breeze and saw the big jugs we were carrying they raised a cheer, and the postmaster said:
“By the Lord, that’s my coffee, or I’m a Boer!”