IT was no easy matter to pass through the British forces that lay massed around the mountain-chain.  We were two thousand horsemen, and our vehicles, carts, ox-and mule-waggons formed a procession fully six miles long.  When we trekked out of the nek strict orders were given that there was to be no loud talking and no matches struck.  This latter was especially hard on such a crowd of inveterate smokers.  I remember whilst we were riding mutely along, listening to the creaking and jolting of the waggons, and wondering whether we were going to get through, or what the alternative would be if we did not, we suddenly saw someone deliberately strike a match and light his pipe.

“Who struck that match?” came from the front.  Then the delinquent himself spoke up—­

“It’s this confounded Kafir of mine.  Was it you, Jantje?”

“Yes, baas,” responded the dutiful black, bobbing up and down on his master’s spare horse.

“Give him twenty with the sjambok.”

“Right!” Jantje and his master turned out of the road, and soon the unmistakable thwack! thwack! of the sjambok could be heard, mingled with subdued ejaculations in Kafir and Dutch.  But judging by the expression on Jantje’s features by the camp fire that night, as he blew long fragrant clouds into the gaping nostrils of his envious friends, I have my doubts about that thrashing.

We halted frequently to allow the straggling ox-waggons to close up.  Then we would dismount, stamp our chilly feet, draw our overcoats or blankets closer, and discuss trivialities.  During one of these halts a horseman came dashing up from the rear—­

“General, there’s a doctor behind who has just come through the enemy’s lines.  He asks you to wait for him.”

“Tell him to hurry!”

We sat down and waited.  In about half an hour’s time another horseman came hurrying along.  Here at last!  No.  Only another messenger.  Another long wait, and finally the doctor arrived.  He squatted down next to De Wet, and in a low voice related how he had been unjustly captured by the British some weeks ago, how they had sent him to Johannesburg and kept him in prison until now, only liberating him after repeated requests for a hearing.  His tale was listened to in silence and with deep attention.  When it was told the order was given to mount, and on we trekked again past the sleeping British camp.  Presently the moon rose, and by its light we passed a lonely farmhouse.  Beware its slumbering inmates when the British come along to-morrow, for are not they responsible for the telegraph line which runs across the farm, and which we have cut in half a dozen places!  No doubt the house will be burnt, and all the stock confiscated.  But never mind, the owner has surrendered and is living under British protection—­protection whereof he is going to get a taste now, so why should we pity him?  On we go until long past midnight, when we halt in a secluded little valley.  Our horses greedily swallow the icy water, and then eagerly crop the tasteless dry grass, for our waggons are too far behind, we can give them no mealies to-night.