We proceeded, continually halting to wait until the great rearguard could come up. The moon was not visible, as the sky was clouded, but it was light enough to see well. Onward we went. Before us we could see the vanguard, and on each side, near us at one moment and farther off the next, the flanks moved along. Everything looked weird and uncanny. At last we reached the bank of Holspruit. It was just midnight. We trekked through the spruit and approached the ridges to the east of Mr. Beukes's house. We knew that if we passed over those ridges unnoticed we would be through the kraal without mishap. But the English were lying in wait for us there. Along the whole line they had built small forts between their camps, and they had done so here too.
The foremost men begin to climb. Suddenly we see two or three flashes above us on the ridge—a little to the right—and immediately we hear the report of rifles echoing through the valley. There on our left, too, we see sparks of fire. The whole commando suddenly comes to a standstill. The horses become restive. The burghers turn back. Great is the fury of the General when he sees this, and with forcible language he orders the men to charge. The bullets whiz past us everywhere, and several burghers are hit. My pony is slightly wounded under me. General de Wet and his officers succeed in making the burghers climb the hill to the left of the fort on our left hand, from which the English are firing on us, and we reach the top. We are hardly there when the ghastly dud-dud-dud-dud of a Maxim-Nordenfeldt is heard; the tiny shells fly shrieking over us, and burst amongst a number of burghers not far from where we are.
Hark! what is that?
The cry of a little boy at the sound of the Maxim-Nordenfeldt. Never in my life have I been touched deeper in my heart than by this child crying in the night. Why is he present at such a scene? Meanwhile, on another part of the ridge, Commandant Ross and the two brothers, Commandant and Assistant Commandant Botha, had engaged the enemy. They stormed and took several forts. They even gained possession of the Maxim-Nordenfeldt; but, as might be expected, they could not remove it. Many English were killed and wounded there. We had now burst through one line of forts, and there was another through which we had to pass. We saw before us a line of small flashes from the rifles, and knew that we had to face them. The officers had the greatest trouble to get the men through the unceasing fire. Every now and then a dash forward was made, but each time the men were baffled and returned. More than half an hour passed thus. At last a supreme effort was made, and we were through. About 600 burst through in this manner. But many remained behind. There were some who went back after they had actually gained the ridge, and others did not venture to go farther than the foot of the hill.
Of the great drove of cattle not one had even reached the foot of the hill. I make especial mention of this, because the English declared in their account of the affair that General de Wet drove great numbers of cattle against the forts and then burst through behind them. Only later in the night did some herds get through in another place with about 500 head; but the thousands of cattle, together with a considerable number of burghers on horseback and all the persons in the buggies, spiders, and carts, remained behind, and far the greater part fell into the hands of the English four days after. It is a pity that they had not had the courage to break through, for after the Commandants Ross and Botha had taken the forts the way was open. Not all, however, who drove in the carts remained behind, for the waggonette of the General and one cart in which a wounded man was conveying a comrade who was ill with fever accomplished the passage. Just as they were out of danger the sick man died on the cart!
We had a heavy loss to deplore—13 killed and about 20 wounded. Those who had broken through hurried on, and reached the farm Bavaria, at Bothaberg, just after sunrise.
Here we buried in one grave a burgher of the President's staff named Piet van der Merwe, and a boy of only thirteen years of age named Olivier. When I was walking towards the grave I encountered a little boy who had gone through the terrible night along with us. He wore a suit made of sheepskin, and there were traces of fatigue on his drawn face, while the light which should have sparkled from his eyes was dimmed. Was this, I asked myself, the child whose cry I had heard in the night, when the shells of the Maxim-Nordenfeldt flew over us?
"What is your name?" I asked him.
He told me his name.
"How old are you?"