But oh! our fate was hard there at Vetchkop; never have I known worse days.  The Zulus had taken away all our cattle, so that we could not even shift the waggons from the scene of the fight, but must camp there amidst the vultures and the mouldering skeletons, for the dead were so many that it was impossible to bury them all.  We sent messengers to other parties of Boers for help, and while they were gone we starved, for there was no food to eat, and game was very scarce.  Yes, it was a piteous sight to see the children cry for food and gnaw old bits of leather or strips of hide cut from Kaffir shields to stay the craving of their stomachs.  Some of them died of that hunger, and I grew so thin that when I chanced to see myself in a pool of water where I went to wash I started back frightened.

At length, when we were all nearly dead, some oxen came and with them we dragged a few of the waggons to Moroko, where an English clergyman and his wife, taking pity on us, gave us corn, for which reason I have always held that among the British the clergymen must be a great deal better than the rest of that proud and worthless race, for it is true that we judge of people as they deal by us.  Yes, and I will go so far as to say that I do not believe that the Reverend Mr. Owen, the English missionary at the kraal of the Zulu King Dingaan, did in truth advise him to massacre Retief and his seventy Boers, as was generally reported among my countrymen.

Well, after Moselikatse’s Zulus were finally defeated the question arose whether we should proceed to Zoutpansberg and settle there, or follow our brethren who in large numbers had already crossed the Quathlamba Mountains into Natal under the leadership of Retief.  In the end we decided for Natal because it was nearer the sea, for in those days we never dreamed that the treacherous British Government would steal that land also; so trekking slowly, we headed for Van Reenen’s Pass, our party then numbering thirty waggons and about sixty white people.

It was when we were about four days trek, or sixty miles, from the pass that one evening, as we sat eating our food, Jan, Ralph, and I—­I remember it was the fried steaks of an eland that Ralph had shot—­the lad Gaasha, who had now served us for some six months, came up to the fire, and having saluted Ralph, squatted down before him Kaffir fashion, saying that he had a favour to ask.

“Speak on,” said Ralph.  “What is it?”

“Baas,” replied Gaasha, “it is this; I want a week or ten days leave of absence to visit my people.”

“You mean that you want to desert,” I put in.

“No, lady,” answered Gaasha; “you know that I love the Baas who saved my life far too well ever to wish to leave him.  I desire only to see my parents and to tell them that I am happy, for doubtless they think me dead.  The Baas proposes to cross into Natal by Van Reenen’s Pass, does he not?  Well, not so very far from my home, although none would guess it unless he knew the way, is another pass called Oliver’s Hook, and by that pass, after I have spoken with my father and my mother if they still live, I would cross the Quathlamba, finding the Baas again on the further side of the mountains, as I can easily do.”