They were dull; they did not see the joke, but shouted, “Get off!”
Some one unstrapped the girths, and Mr. Hamilton rolled to the ground. It was only then that he saw his horse had been shot in the shoulder, and he asked them to put the poor beast out of his pain.
“No, no! Your men will do that soon enough,” said they.
The poor animal stood quietly looking at him, as he says, with a sad, pathetic, inquiring look in his eyes, as if he were asking, “What can you do for me? I assure you my shoulder gives me awful pain.”
Hamilton was taken inside the fort and made prisoner. When, later in the day, he came out, he found his poor horse lying with his throat cut and seven bullet-wounds in his body.
There were thirty-three prisoners crowded in a small, ill-ventilated store-room, and they grew very hungry. As dusk settled down they began to hear echoes of desperate fighting outside. Bullets came through the wall and roofing, splintering window and door; through the grating of the windows they could see limping figures scurry and scramble; they heard voices cursing them and urging Eloff to handcuff and march the prisoners across the line of fire as a screen for them in their retreat. Then the firing died down, and the Boers seemed to have rallied; then came a fresh outburst of heavy firing, and then a sudden silence. Eloff rushed to the door.
“Where is Colonel Hore?”
“Here!”
“Sir, if you can induce the town to cease fire, we will surrender.”