But before this Major Robson had selected the best runner of his men volunteering for the duty, and sent him off to Groenfontein bearing a hastily pencilled message written upon the leaf of his pocketbook:
“Boers utterly routed—kopje and laager taken. Many wounded; send help.”
For the attacking force had not escaped unhurt, several having received bullet-wounds, as where the Boers could get a chance they fired well; but as far as could be made out in the first hurried examination not a man was dangerously injured, and in most of the cases their hurts were cuts and bruises given by the butts of rifles. As to the Boers, the majority of their hurts were bayonet-thrusts, in some cases the last injuries they would receive; but quite a score were suffering from the small bullet-holes made by the Mauser rifles fired by their friends in their random expenditure of ammunition, such of them as had been shot by our men lying far out on the veldt, having received their wounds during their hurried flight and not yet been brought in.
Many of the wounded Boers—there was not a single prisoner, orders having been given not to arrest their flight—looked on in wonder to see the easy-going, friendly way in which our soldiers gave them help. For it was a cheery “Hold up, old chap!” or “Oh, this is not bad; you’ll soon be all right again.”
“Here, Tommy, bring this Dutchman a drink of water.”
For the fierce warrior was latent once again, and now it was the simple Briton, ready and eager to help his injured brother in the good old Samaritan mode.
There was other work in hand to do as soon as it was light enough—the roll to call—and there were missing men to be accounted for; while, as the officers responded to their names, there was no answer to that of Captain Roby.
“He was fighting away like a hero, sir, last time I saw him,” said Sergeant James, whose frank, manly face was disfigured by a tremendous blow on the cheek.
“Search for him, my lads; he can’t have been taken prisoner,” said the major. “It’s getting lighter now.”
“Poor fellow! I hope he hasn’t got it,” said Dickenson to himself as he nursed a numbed arm nearly broken by a drive made with a rifle-butt.