But what a crying shame that such splendid material should be spoilt by this dangerous system! Ottensen was not a highly-gifted soldier; he was no model military instructor; but he was a fine horseman, had a cool head, plenty of dash, and some keen mother-wit to boot: a born leader of scouts. And yet these brilliant qualities were sacrificed to outward show, and were let go to waste for want of use! One good cavalry officer the less; that was bad enough. But had not Ottensen spoken as though these were quite usual practices? It looked as though this purely external unwarlike training of the army were being erected into a principle.
The first day at the practice-camp was entirely taken up by settling into quarters. The tables were laid at six o'clock in the evening. Most of the officers were perfectly exhausted with standing about and running hither and thither; and directly the meal was over they retired to their rooms to get half an hour's nap before their evening duty.
Reimers left the camp by the back gate and went slowly along the edge of the forest towards the butts.
The sun was setting, and the rim of the red disk seemed to be just resting on the dark line of the tree-tops. The heath glowed with colour in the evening radiance.
Some men with pickaxes and spades over their shoulders met him; behind them a waggon laden with planks toiled heavily through the sand. Even the drill coats of the soldiers were tinted red by the sunset light. Reimers strolled on further. A sandy pathway cut across the pink blossoms of the heather; without thinking he turned into it. This was the road which had formerly led from the forest towards the ruined village; there was now no use for it, and it was being allowed to fall into disrepair.
The solitary wanderer approached the dilapidated dwellings. In the village itself the perilously inclined walls of the ruins threatened to fall into the roadway. Reimers stepped through a doorway into the courtyard of one of the largest houses. A rose-tree spread its branches over the wall. Everything was bathed in the red light of the setting sun. Through the empty casements Reimers seemed to be looking at the fierce glow of some incendiary fire. The white roses gleamed pink, and a pool of water that had run down from a gutter shone like newly-shed blood. The deserted garden, the empty casements, the smoke-blackened walls, the glowing colour in the sky, and the red pool on the ground: this was a picture of war, in which men were laid low beneath blossoming rose trees, whose roots were drenched in their hearts' blood.
Reimers stumbled down the dim mud-stained passage and over the broken threshold into the village street, and wandered back again to the camp, gazing with thoughtful eyes into the gathering dusk.
The picture of the ruined cottages had recalled his South African experiences to his memory.
He saw the cosy farm-houses burst into flames behind the fleeing riders. The men shook their clenched fists as they looked back, and sent up grim but child-like petitions to a patriarchal God on whose help they had too confidently relied. But they made no stand, possessed by the irresistible panic which had seized upon them after the unfortunate episode of Cronje's capture.
It was but now and then that a handful of brave men, together with a few from the foreign legion, had made a short resistance at some pass or ford; and these were the only experiences, during the time of that gradual break-up, to which he could look back with any satisfaction.