In the Middelburg district a certain farmer, by name Van Heerden, was commandeered by an English patrol to act as guide.  Reluctantly he obeyed, and led the patrol to the best of his ability.  Not far from his home the Boers opened fire on them.  The British retreated, leaving their wounded behind.  Van Heerden himself was dangerously wounded.  He was carried off the field by his wife and servants and laid up in his house.  A few days after the column to which the patrol belonged arrived at Van Heerden’s farm.  The officer in command entered the house of the wounded man in a raging temper, and ordered him to be carried out and shot immediately.  In vain did the wife of Van Heerden expostulate and plead with the unmerciful officer to spare the life of her wounded husband.  Van Heerden was carried out, tied to a chair placed beside a stone wall, and seven Lee-Metford bullets penetrated the brain of the man who was wounded, perhaps mortally, in the service of the British army!  That was his reward.  Even that did not satisfy those who thirsted for blood, for the house of the unfortunate man was forthwith looted, and his widow and orphans robbed of everything.  A few days after this sad event had occurred our commando arrived at the same farm.  The spot where the victim sat was pointed out to me; the marks of the bullets, the blood and the brain against the wall were still distinctly discernible, and seemed to cry to heaven for revenge.  And there was the family of the departed—­stripped of everything.  The burghers contributed from their scanty means what they could in support of the widow and orphans.

No wonder that the brothers of this unfortunate man took up arms and became the most pronounced, the most bitter enemies of those who ruthlessly slew, if not murdered, their brother.  One of them—­Jacobus van Heerden—­whenever he spoke of his brother’s death, would bite his lips, his face would flush, and one could hear him mutter:  “My brother’s blood shall be avenged.”  In the whole commando there was not a more dauntless man than he.  But, alas! he too passed away.  A bullet was destined to pierce his skull.  At a farm, Leeuwfontein, in the district of Murraysburg, he was shot by a Kaffir.

On another occasion four Colonists were arrested; two of these were shot in cold blood, while the other two were imprisoned, because the railway line was blown up and a train derailed by the Boers near their home.  They were accused of having known all about the Boers, who had destroyed the railway line during the night—­an accusation which, on later investigation, proved false.

When such crimes were perpetrated in the name of Martial Law, we are rather surprised that all the Colonists did not rise to a man.  What would the English have done if subjected to such treatment?  The Dutchman is naturally slow to move, and very patient.  He seems born to suffer and endure.  But Martial Law imposed such heavy burdens upon him that he could not but resent them.  Where the Boers were too lax in enforcing their Martial Law regulations, the English went to the other extreme in applying theirs too strenuously.