Refugees.
It was shortly after noon when Jack set out from Kimberley on his long ride to Johannesburg, and as he could not expect to get there before the afternoon of 11th October, when the ultimatum addressed by President Kruger to the British Government expired, he determined to ride at a moderate pace, for he knew that Wilfred would wait for his arrival. But there was another matter to be considered. An Englishman would now be a marked man in the Transvaal or the Orange Free State, so that if he wished to get through undetected, he must choose the darkest hours for travelling, and lie up during the day.
About five miles out from Kimberley he pulled up, knee-haltered his ponies, and sat down on a boulder, with a map of the two republics spread out before him.
“Let me see!” he thought; “I must pick out a route which will be little frequented just now. The Transvaallers, I know, are rushing west and north to Mafeking and the northern border, and east and south towards Natal. The other fellows in the southern state are making down this way to Kimberley with some of the Transvaallers, and they are certain to combine at Bloemfontein, coming across country by train. The remainder go east to Natal. That leaves the Vaal River deserted, and that ought to be my direction. I will wait here till dusk, and then cut straight to the right into the Orange Free State, and make for the road to Hoopstad. From there I must manage to get to the neighbourhood of Reitzburg, cross the river, and trust to luck to get through the remaining distance. It will be touch and go, but, dressed as I am, I ought to have a chance.”
And, indeed, looking at Jack anyone might have admitted the same. Clad in Mr Hunter’s old tweed suit, which was a size or two too big for him across the shoulders and round the waist, but all too short at wrists and ankles, he looked for all the world like the average Boer. Beneath his trousers he wore a pair of high riding-boots, round his neck was a blue woollen scarf, and on his head a dilapidated and weather-beaten felt hat. Over his left shoulder was a bandolier filled with cartridges, and hitched over the other, and drawn tight against his back so that the butt swung well free of his saddle, was his Lee-Metford rifle. In addition he carried a water-bottle, a mackintosh sheet, with a hole in the middle through which he could put his head, and his Mauser pistol, which was comfortably hidden away in its old position.
Extra shoes, or implements for putting them on to his ponies, were not wanted, for in addition to their many other good points, these shaggy, unkempt-looking Basuto animals, though never shod, were nevertheless equally fast over grass or stony ground.
It was still early in the day, and after riding on a few miles, Jack pulled up again and off-saddled, so as to rest his ponies. Whilst they set about foraging for themselves, he sat under a large eucalyptus-tree, pulled out his pipe and lit it, and proceeded to clean his rifle. A few hours later the shadow in which he sat had lengthened considerably, and he turned round towards the west to see the sun, which had been streaming down upon him all the day, just declining behind a far-distant range of mountains. It was a sight which set Jack moralising, for here, before his eyes, was a gorgeous scene, a fit subject for any artist. The sun was sinking in a splendour of gold and purple lights, and the heavens above it were decked with beautifully red and silver-streaked blue clouds, against which the jagged broken peaks of the mountains stood up boldly, while their rugged and boulder-strewn slopes, and the stretch of rolling veldt below, were already clouded with the shades of coming night. It was a peaceful scene, and why, thought Jack, should not all the beings dwelling within reach of it, or, for the matter of that, dwelling in a country capable of displaying such a prospect as lay before him, live in peace and good brotherhood with one another and enjoy it? South Africa was a vast country, so sparsely populated that one could ride for miles and miles without sighting so much as a roof or habitation, let alone a man. And yet no one thought of the beauties of the country. Other and deeper matters vexed their minds, and because they could not agree they were on the brink of a sanguinary war which would mean an awful loss of life, and—what then?
“Mr Hunter says it’s a case of British supremacy,” he murmured. “Yes, that’s what it is, and that is what it shall be when the war is over.” And straightway Jack forgot all about the declining sun, and the peaceful landscape, and with a curious feeling of elation, which the thought of coming excitement had given him, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, jumped briskly to his feet, and set about saddling his ponies.
Half an hour later it was dark, save for a small moon which just gave sufficient light to show the road. Jack vaulted into his saddle, hitched his rifle over his shoulder, shook the reins, and cantered off across the main road running north, and then on over the rolling veldt, which was just beginning to send forth a few blades of fresh green grass.
Alternately cantering and walking, and changing from one pony to the other, he kept steadily on, the unshod hoofs of his animals making no sound, so that Jack had the advantage of being able to hear anyone approaching. Five hours later he stumbled upon the road from Kimberley to Hoopstad, and at once off-saddled to rest himself and his ponies for an hour.