“I can’t understand it,” I said; “but we mustn’t worry about that now. What about arms?”
“Revolvers under our jackets, out of sight, and a few cartridges in our pouches along with the cake and beef we saved.”
“No rifle, bandolier, or sword?” I said thoughtfully.
“Neither one nor the other, my lad. We’re going to get through the lines as sick men tired of it all, and whose fighting is done.”
“Perhaps to be taken as spies,” I said.
“Ugh! Don’t talk about it,” cried Denham. “We’re invalids, and no one can doubt that who looks at your battered head.”
“Or yours,” I replied. “But look here, Denham; we must give up all idea of capturing wagons. What we have to do is to fetch help.”
“Yes, I think so too—get through the Boer lines and find the General’s quarters. The other idea was too mad.”
We sat in silence for a while, till we felt that the time had come; then we passed our coils of rope over our chests like bandoliers, and strolled out into the dark court, to saunter here and there for a few minutes, listening to the lowing of the oxen or the fidgety stamp of a horse annoyed by a fly. Here Denham exchanged a few words with some of the men. Finally, after a glance at the officers’ quarters, from which a light gleamed dimly, Denham led the way to the rough ascent, and with beating heart I followed right up on to the wall. So intense was the darkness that we had to go carefully, not seeing the first sentry till he challenged us and brought us up.
Denham gave the word, and stood talking to the man, who lowered his rifle and rested the butt on the stones.