“Who’s dead?” I cried.
“Um? Ugly white boss captain, Irish boss Boer. Joeboy meant to kill um, but um run away too.”
“That will do,” said the doctor. “Just listen to my orders before I go off to the poor fellows waiting for me. You two are not to set foot to the ground. Promise me. I’ll let you keep that black fellow to lift you about. He will do so, I suppose?” he added, turning to me.
“He will. He’d be only too glad.”
The doctor rose, nodded, and went away; and soon after we had visits from the colonels of both the regiments, and from the young captain who had saved us from the zeal of his men, all these visitors congratulating us warmly upon our escape, and praising Joeboy for his bravery.
That afternoon we were on the march in what Denham called our peripatetic hospital; but he was not happy. Pain and disappointment seemed always uppermost in spite of the friendly attentions we received from his brother-officers.
“Yes, it’s all very good of you,” he said sadly; “but fancy being laid aside now, after the Boers have been thrashed and there’s nothing to do but give them the finishing-cuts to make them behave better in the future.”
As days glided by, Denham, to his surprise, learned that there was no more fighting to do.
First of all, our little forces of the Light Horse and the infantry were depressed by the news that the General, with the main body, had met with a terrible reverse from the Boers, whose peculiar way of fighting had stood them in good stead and made up for the qualities they lacked.
Thus the making of history rolled on; and, to the rage and indignation of the fighting-men, the order went forth that there was to be peace; that the troops were to be withdrawn, volunteers disbanded, and everything settled by diplomacy and treaty. I need not go into that matter; my father only shook his head and said that such an arrangement could never mean lasting peace.