“The same as Lennox here.”
“Come, come, speak out and don’t be so thin-skinned. We’ve got to report to Lindley.”
“Six haven’t moved since,” said Dickenson, looking uneasy now that the excitement of the fight was at an end; “and I should say twice as many more wounded.”
“Serve ’em right. Their own fault,” said the captain.
It was decided to be too risky a proceeding to cross the river, for the Boers were certain to be only a short distance away, sheltered in some advantageous position, waiting to try and retrieve their dead and wounded; so a small party was posted by the ford to guard against any crossing of the river, and then the prisoners were marched off towards the village a couple of miles distant, where the detachment of infantry and mounted men had been holding the Boers across the river in check for some weeks past.
A few shots followed them from a distance at first; but the enemy had received quite as much punishment as they desired upon that occasion, and soon ceased the aggressive, being eager for a truce to communicate with the little rear-guard posted in the scrub by the river so as to recover their wounded and dead.
On the way back to the village the two young officer’s had to relate in full their experience, which was given in a plain, unvarnished way; and then as a sharp descent was reached, and the rescued officers caught sight of the well-guarded prisoners marching on foot, their Bechuana ponies having been appropriated by their captors, Dickenson began to grow sarcastic.
“Glad you’ve made such a nice lot of prisoners, Roby,” he said.
“Thanks,” said the officer addressed, smiling contentedly. “Not so bad—eh? The colonel will be delighted. Nice useful lot of ponies—eh?”
“Ye-es. The old man must be delighted. We’re all about starving, and you’re taking him about a score more mouths to feed.”