Near Hekpoort, as we were camped at Dwarsvlei, we attacked a convoy of the enemy in the valley, and very nearly captured it before it was reinforced.  I was not present, so cannot give any account of the battle.  After a sharp trek of more than one night, we crossed the rails between Kaalfontein and Zuurfontein Stations, just before sunrise one morning towards the middle of January.  We captured a few guards who seemed to know nothing of our movements.  Why General Beyers did not surprise one or both stations that morning early is still a mystery to us, as our movements were remarkably quick.  It could not have been because he thought us too tired, for some twenty minutes further on, while we were resting on a farm, he ordered part of our lager to turn to the left and attack Kaalfontein Station.

Our corporal was unwilling to work us and our horses to death, so he first got breakfast ready.  But when our cannon began to roar and Corporal Botman, who still limped from a wound, rode off without a word in his own peculiar way, our conscience began to trouble us, and several of our men followed him.  My brother, whose horse’s back was chafed, remained in the lager with the rest of the burghers.

When we reached our guns, we immediately saw that the station could be taken only at the cost of many lives—­more than the success would be worth.  Our guns had not the desired effect, and we should have had to charge across an open space without any cover.  The enemy had no guns.  They say our left wing very nearly succeeded in taking a small fort near the station, but I cannot give any particulars, for our Veld-Kornet rode with a small troop of burghers to the right of the station, and took another small fort which the enemy had abandoned because it was too far away from the station.  What might have been expected happened.  Towards afternoon an armoured train came from Pretoria, and reinforcements arrived from Johannesburg and scattered our left wing over the valley.  I happened to be with a few others on the outmost point of the right wing of attack—­or, rather, since the scene was changed, of the left wing of flight.  And as we were retreating at our ease an old man galloped towards us and pointed out that we were retreating in the wrong direction, as the enemy had captured our whole lager.  He had never in his life seen so many khakies.  They seemed to be on all sides of us.  The only outlet for us was in the direction of Heidelberg.  I asked him, ‘Uncle, are you sure that our lager is in the hands of the khakies?’ to which he answered, ’Nephew, I saw with my own eyes how they rode up to the waggons and made all our people “hands up!"’ and he continued to give us a minute description of the occurrence.

If we had been greenhorns, we would have blindly followed the startled old man right through the stream of retreating burghers and exploding 15-pounders.  But, fortunately, the war had taught us, and we moved on with the stream, but a little more to the left, and, I cannot deny it, with a feeling of great anxiety as to what was to become of us if the old man had indeed told the truth.