If there be any rising it may be expected by November 9, when the Boers hold their “wappenschouwing,” or rifle contest—­the local Bisley, in fact—­which every man for miles around attends armed.  Also the Afrikander Bond Congress is to be held next month; but probably the leaders will do their best to keep the people together.

The Transvaal agents are naturally doing their utmost to provoke rebellion.  A lieutenant of their police is known to be hiding hereabouts, and a warrant is out for his arrest.  All depends, say the experts, on the results of the first few weeks of fighting.

The attitude of the natives causes some uneasiness.  Every Basuto employed on the line here has returned to his tribe, one saying:  “Be sure we shall not harm our mother the Queen.”

Many Transkei Kaffirs also have passed through here, owing to the closing of the mines.  Sixty-six crammed truckloads of them came by one train.  They had been treated with great brutality by the Boers, having been flogged to the station and robbed of their wages.

[Footnote 1:  This chapter has been deliberately included in this volume notwithstanding its obviously fragmentary nature.  The swift picture which it gives of flying events is the excuse for this decision.]

V.

LOYAL ALIWAL:  A TRAGI-COMEDY.

     THE CAPE POLICE—­A GARRISON OF SIX MEN—­MERRY-GO-ROUNDS AND NAPHTHA
     FLARES—­A CLAMANT WANT OF FIFTY MEN—­WHERE ARE THE TROOPS?—­“IT’LL
     BE JUST THE SAME AS IT WAS IN ’81.”

ALIWAL NORTH, Oct. 15.

“Halt!  Who goes there?” The trim figure, black in the moonlight, in breeches and putties, with a broad-brimmed hat looped up at the side, brought up his carbine and barred the entrance to the bridge.  Twenty yards beyond a second trim black figure with a carbine stamped to and fro over the planking.  They were of the Cape Police, and there were four more of them somewhere in reserve; across the bridge was the Orange Free State; behind us was the little frontier town of Aliwal North, and these were its sole garrison.

The river shone silver under its high banks.  Beyond it, in the enemy’s country, the veldt too was silvered over with moonlight and was blotted inkily with shadow from the kopjes.  Three miles to the right, over a rise and down in a dip, they said there lay the Rouxville commando of 350 men.  That night they were to receive 700 or 800 more from Smithfield, and thereon would ride through Aliwal on their way to eat up the British half-battalion at Stormberg.  On our side of the bridge slouched a score of Boers—­waiting, they said, to join and conduct their kinsmen.  In the very middle of these twirled a battered merry-go-round—­an island of garish naphtha light in the silver, a jarr of wheeze and squeak in the swishing of trees and river.  Up the hill, through the town, in the bar of the ultra-English hotel, proceeded this dialogue.