"A Romance of Adventure and War in South Africa" (continued 6)

Once he almost betrayed himself by the start he gave. He had passed Stephanus Groblaar with his broken nose, standing with some exchange men at the door of a hotel.

Stephanus saw him also, and winked leeringly at him as he passed. Stephanus was a modern city-bred Boer, therefore of the advanced school, who laughed at religion and morality. With these added vices he retained all the other evil instincts of his race, so that he was utterly graceless.

Ned passed him swiftly with eyes cast down. He glanced over his shoulder after he had got a little distance, and gave a sigh of relief, when he saw Stephanus leering on a couple of ladies who were passing. The supposed servant had only attracted him momentarily. He had failed to recognise his nose-breaker.

Ned felt savagely glad that this vindictive foe was in the city. He trusted he would stay in Johannesburg till the night of the tenth, for he wanted to have it out with him.

When he reached the club it was almost empty, but the manager recognised him and took him upstairs to a bedroom. Here he had a wash, and some lunch brought to him. Then he lay down and rested for a few hours.

He was wakened by some one shaking him, and when he opened his eyes he saw his old friend, Philip Martin, by the bedside. Ned started up and shook hands.

“Well, my fine young woman, so you have got back.”

Ned laughed, and told his message, which the other listened to with sparkling eyes.

“We have been ready and waiting for this message for months past. So Kruger is going to make the grand move at last? He will get a mighty surprise, instead of giving us one, as he intends.”

He rubbed his hands gleefully.

“I for one am heart-sick of all this long suspense and inaction. I shall welcome the hour with the greatest delight. Only there will be some bloodletting before the affair is settled.”

“I don’t mind that,” answered Ned. “Before I arrived in Johannesburg I did not know what hatred or revenge meant. It was Kruger and his Boers who planted these passions in my heart on my first visit. During my absence the plants did not thrive much. Now that I have returned, however, the Transvaal air seems to have revived them suddenly.”

“Yes,” said Philip Martin. “Hatred, envy, deceit, revenge, greed, and gracelessness are plants that grow well and quickly in the South African Republican garden. They are fine Dutch bulbs, and take kindly to the Transvaal air. Since you have given me the news of this crowning scheme of perfidy on the part of the crafty and senseless tyrant Kruger, I also feel as if I don’t mind shedding some gore if I can only help to put him in his proper place—the felon’s cell. Lately he has been playing one of his favourite games with us, which to those in the ‘know’ means ‘spoof’ eventually. He has been acting the part of ‘Codlin’ as the only real friend of the Uitlander—the kindly old humourist of Pretoria, the simple-minded farmer chief.”

“Yes; he tried to make traitors and spies of us in that way,” remarked Ned.

“Just so. He has been talking about conciliation and the blessedness of unity amongst brethren. Every Sunday of late he has occupied the Dopper pulpit, and his orations have been noted for their breadth and mildness. The police wink at small offenders where before they pounced upon them rigidly. A general tide of indulgence and generosity appears to be setting in towards us in every direction. There are rumours that the franchise and full burgher rights will be proclaimed on the tenth. This the Volksraad have already formally passed, with certain conditions which are to be told us by the president himself on that momentous day.”

“Yes,” replied Ned, grimly; “the conditions you might have suspected all along, knowing Kruger’s tactics of old. He seems to be an animal of instinct and habit. Like the dog, he always turns round the regulation number of times. He never varies in his movements, and never changes.”

“You are right, Romer; he does not. He will humour us up to the last moment, and then give us our option—to become traitor burghers and rebels to our queen, or else be shot down ruthlessly. There will be no mistake about the shooting if we decline, therefore we must take time by the forelock, and anticipate the kindly intentions of Oom Paul. What are you going to do meanwhile?”

“I shall stick to my present disguise, and live most of my time in the kitchen,” continued Ned. “I can also do any little messages you may want about the city.”

“Yes, that will be best. I’ll tell you how you may also serve us, if you can play your part safely.”

“In what way?”

“Get a sweetheart in the barracks if you can, and we may, with your help, be able to surprise them on the eventful night, without having to dynamite them. It may be a great saving of life on both sides.”

“It is a low game you ask me to play, Philip; but, as the Jesuits say, ‘the end justifies the means.’ I’ll try it on.”

For the next few days all went quietly in Johannesburg. Those outsiders who were not in the secret were happy that their trouble had blown over, and that better times were now approaching. The Three Ace club-men went about their business, and pretended to be satisfied, as the ignorant were. The armed Boers behaved like brothers.

The past sins of Oom Paul appeared to be condoned. Every one praised him now as the kindly old patriarch of Pretoria, who was at present hard at work growing a pair of angel’s wings.

Ned had succeeded in fascinating a big German Zarp, and spent a portion of each day in his company. Ned took the Teuton in preference to a Dutchman, as he had not any repugnance to this nation, yet it was a sacrifice to be amiable even to him.

On the ninth of the month he had two letters, one from Fred, who called himself Fanny, and the other from Clarence. They had arranged on terms by which they would be understood by each other, that might be read without suspicion by any one.

Fred wrote—

“Dear Edwina,—

“When I reached my situation I found that my place was already filled up, and that I was not wanted. I intend, therefore, to come to Johannesburg, and be near you and Clara. I’d like to see the shops of Pretoria, as I hear they are grand affairs. Crowds are going from here, so I expect there will be a city full presently.

“Your loving cousin,—

“Fanny.”

Between the lines Ned read—

“The Orange Free State will join with the Transvaal in the coming struggle. The Uitlanders here are all prepared, and have efficient leaders. Volunteers are coming in to help you in great numbers. I am also coming to take a hand.”

Clarence wrote—

“Dear Edwina,—

“This is such a pretty place, and I am most comfortable in my situation. I trust you are the same, I have found a sweetheart, after all, amongst the Boers, such a nice, useful, frank fellow. He took me to the Dopper Kirk on Sunday to hear the president preach. What a noble old gentleman he is, to be sure! So full of Christian charity and fatherly sentiment. I fairly fell in love with him, as you will, I am sure, when you see him. My sweetheart is his footman, so that I have been introduced to the household, and can find my way about. I have a plan how to manage something, and have already quite a host of friends here and am doing well. Are you coming up to see me when Fanny comes? Do so if you can, and I’ll get Johann to show us over the private garden of the dear old president. A lady friend of mine is writing this for me, as I have hurt my right hand.

“Your loving friend,—

“Clara.”

Ned interpreted this note as follows:—

“Game all right. Have got the old humbug Kruger under my eye, and have a plan how to make him my prisoner when the time comes. Friends here ready for emergencies. If you can come up and help, do so.”

That same afternoon Fred arrived, and the two took the night train to Pretoria, having forwarded a wire for “Clara” to meet them.

Once more our heroes entered the abode of Kruger, ushered this time by a back entrance under the guidance of the friendly footman Johann.

They spent the night together and studied their plans. When Clarence revealed his scheme they admitted that it might be done. If he could capture Kruger, it would be a big feather in his cap.

“Oom Paul is not the man to be taken by force alone,” said Clarence. “He is game enough to put a pistol to his own head rather than yield. Now that Fred is here, my plan is that one of us shall offer to change clothes with him when he is hemmed in, and take him unawares somehow. We’ll trust to chance for the how, when the time comes.”

Then it was all duly arranged, and they prepared themselves for the morrow.

It was a hot day in Pretoria, and the town was crammed with visitors. Church Square was blocked with people, and every other street was filled almost to suffocation.

At the hour appointed the president and his wife drove up, surrounded by a close line of guards. He took his place on the platform that had been raised above the crowd outside the Government buildings. He was greeted by thunders of applause and a salvo from the forts; then, as he rose, breathless silence succeeded the noise.

He began by reading over the resolutions and decrees of the Volksraad with respect to the Uitlanders. The reforms were granted even more completely than the Uitlanders had hoped. There were clauses, however, to each of these generous concessions which, to those who knew what the termination would be, crippled and nullified the most important. But the general audience was not in a critical mood. It roared itself hoarse with wild applause.

While this shouting was going on, the burly president stood grinning upon the crowd like an amiable gorilla. Then, when silence was once more restored, his expression suddenly altered. His cheeks became puffed, and his eyes sunk back beneath his heavy brows, while his big ears stood out. Then with a thunderous growl, like an angry beast, he read the declaration of independence first, and the defiance to England, and finished his oration in his harshest accent.

“To your tents, and consider whether you will be with us or against us in this holy struggle for independence. My ultimatum is already on its way to this verdomde government, that would deprive us of our rights. In twenty hours from this, every subject of England will be our enemy, be imprisoned, and shot if we think fit, or expelled from our country and their property confiscated. To your tents and consider, for your fate is in your own hands.”

These words the grim president thundered out to the dismayed Uitlanders; then he turned abruptly and left the scene as he had come, protected by his armed guard.

For a moment stupefaction held the crowd silent, then a deep growl went up from the masses who were being dispersed by the Zarps.

At this instant Ned Romer felt a touch on his arm, and, looking round, he saw Philip Martin at his side.

“This ultimatum has changed our plans,” he whispered, as he drew the three friends out of the crowd. “The English Government will now decide the question, and we must do nothing inside the Transvaal to disturb their plans. Our orders are now to clear out before this ultimatum expires, and give Oom Paul no excuse for his next step.”

Philip Martin was gloomy, and the faces of our heroes also fell considerably.

“And are we to do nothing, Philip, after all our preparations?” asked Ned, in a disappointed tone.

“Nothing inside the Transvaal. Our work will be outside, and there will be lots to do there, you take my word. We must follow the example of the Jews, and skedaddle if we can, before the lines are closed. Johannesburg must be left for the present, until we can come back with the British army. Tomorrow Natal and Cape Colony will be invaded, and then England can no longer hold back. I am off to join Baden-Powell, at Mafeking. Dr Jim has gone to Ladysmith, and you three fellows are to proceed to Kimberley, where you will find Mr Cecil Rhodes. It is a bit disappointing, I will allow; but this is going to be a bigger and a more complete affair than we could have accomplished, therefore we must be content to leave it to the proper hands to clear the board.”

Philip Martin shook hands with them, and walked quickly away to warn others of his own party, while our heroes prepared for their exodus.

Chapter Thirty Six.

The Relief of Kimberley.

This most inhuman and bloody-minded Kruger, who misquoted Scripture, as he so often did, considered himself safe to order his victims to their empty tents. He had stripped them, as he fondly thought, of all means of protecting their wives and children. As he imagined, they had only their naked fists to support their manhood against his armed hordes; therefore he could be as bold as a bushranger who has bailed up a household. He had them, or, as he impiously remarked, “The Lord of the Boer hosts has put them into our hands, even as He gave the Amalekites up to the vengeance of Israel.”

To those who were not in the “know,” the Jew dealers and other aliens, who had no patriotic interest in the land, this ultimatum fell like the first ashes of Vesuvius upon Pompeii. It was definite, clear, and curtailed. They had either to join in and fight with the Boers, or else be treated with those who stood for English authority.

There was no equivocation, or holding aloof. Johannesburg, with its riches, must be abandoned, and at once, i.e. within the next twenty hours at latest. Those who remained in that city would be forced to take up arms by the Boers, when the time of grace was over. They were driven like sheep into the pen, where they were to be slaughtered if they did not declare themselves enemies of England, and “bind” themselves to the masters of this Boer rebellion.

Poor, miserable, and terror-stricken wretches—these gold and diamond traffickers, who had come here only to make money, and who were without a single molecule of courage in their composition,—they were placed between two fires, and knew not where to turn for safety. They were likely to be shot or hanged whatever side they decided to take.

They drove home in their flash traps, or in the saloon cars, with bloodless, flabby lips and staring eyes. Inside their swell houses they collapsed, and found the champagne and brandy of no more aid to them than coloured water.

Their wives, however,—the painted, illiterate, dyed-haired, and outrageously dressed and be-diamonded ex-shop girls, ex-barmaids, and ex-variety actresses,—were not going to let the twenty hours pass before making up their minds what to do. The Boers were at their doors, and at present bosses of the show. Like Simon, Lord Lovat, they believed in serving the customer who was in possession.

By six o’clock that night thousands of these mercenaries had signed the papers of allegiance to the Republic, and left Johannesburg in detachments, escorted by their masters, while their women were driven out of the country to become paupers at Durban and Cape Town.

After a frightful and never-to-be-forgotten train journey, our disguised heroes at last found themselves on British soil, with hearts burning with rage and hatred at the vile treatment they had received in the trains.

The rush for trains by that panic-thralled crowd of refugees resembled a stampede of wild cattle. Delicate women and children struggled frantically for places with rough, strong men, and were glad to find themselves packed in open trucks. Order was at an end, and gallantry rarely displayed by that pushing, shouting, and sweltering crowd, while the Boer officials only mocked at their despair.

By reason of their personal strength, however, and taking advantage of their disguises, our heroes managed to secure good places for themselves; and also to protect a number of ladies, who would otherwise have fared badly. During the journey, also, the burghers had reason to regret insulting and trying to frighten these three strapping young females.

When they reached Cape Colony they learned much more than they had been aware of before.

Paul Kruger and his burghers were in a better condition for warfare than had been suspected. The loyal colonists had also been trifled with and hoodwinked by the Honourable Mr Schreiner and his traitor gang. In fact, the British forces were so scanty and ill-provided, while on the enemy’s side were so many spies and rebels, that the young men no longer wondered at the courage of the Transvaal chief.

Already war had been declared, and Cape Colony and Natal invaded in force. If the rebels had only proper leaders, the English possessions were in extreme danger.

England also seemed bristling with renegades and pro-Boers, whose yelpings disturbed the loyal colonists greatly.

But the lion was rousing up for action, and the nation shouted out for punishment to be meted out to those insolent rebels. From every part of our mighty Empire came the offer of help to the mother country. The Boers, by their invasions, had united Englishmen as one people. When our heroes heard this news, they saw the wisdom of letting the Federals have the first blow.

They were now going to join the man they adored, and take a hand in the great coming struggle.

It was November 3rd before our heroes managed to pass the rebel lines and get into Kimberley. Here they found the town in a state of siege, but well prepared. Cecil Rhodes was calm and cheerful, with no doubts as to the results of the war.

He welcomed the adventurers warmly, and heard the account of their travels with pleasure. The news they brought him also from the outside gave him great satisfaction.

“There is nothing else to be done now but to make ourselves as comfortable as possible here, and defend ourselves until we are relieved. We shall all have enough work to keep us from being dull.”

He was right, as our heroes found as the weeks rolled past. General Cronje and his army kept them in a constant state of attention and excitement.

Thanks to the personal magnetism of Cecil Rhodes, with his unfailing serenity and constant exertions to amuse the besieged townspeople, the first two months, although nerve-trying, were not unpleasant from a social point of view.

Balls, concerts, and parties filled up the intervals of bombarding and repelling the enemy. The town had been well provisioned, and the great empire-maker had taken previous precautions to outwit his rival, W.P. Schreiner, as far as could be done. Had the loyal colonists trusted implicitly in the Cape Premier, Kimberley, as well as Mafeking, must have succumbed in a month. This Bond leader had played his cards well to serve his friends the Boers at the expense of his fellow-subjects; but Cecil Rhodes, like Baden-Powell, found himself equal to the occasion.

Inadequately garrisoned as it was and imperfectly armed, the mines which they were protecting proved of invaluable service to them. From the débris they formed perfect forts and trenches, and soon made the place impregnable. They had a splendid mayor, a commander of infinite resources, and a garrison of undaunted heroes. The result was that they kept Cronje with his hosts and Long Toms at bay, and went on eating, drinking, fighting, and enjoying themselves in spite of the deadly dangers that environed them. Yet it was nerve-trying, and added grey hairs to every head in that beleaguered town, young and old. Out of bravado they might speak of those bursting shells and those numerous attacks as subjects for joking, but all the same, the sport was grim and heart-corroding.

Every hour had its casualties, with wounded and killed. No one knew the moment their own hour might come.

As time went on and they became more isolated from the world, it took a lot of pluck to keep a bold front to the relentless, treacherous, and dastardly foe. If they had not occasionally received news of the outside world by special runners, they must have lost heart long before their provisions became short.

But they did get reliable news now and again, and that kept them up to concert pitch. The brave fellows knew that the world was watching their heroic efforts, and that the Empire had risen and was pouring out its best sons to help and rescue them. They heard what Canada, Australia, and New Zealand were doing. They knew that the home Government was now working with might and main to repair its former errors of undue trust and confidence. They would not be deserted, nor would England neglect her duty now. The iniquitous and false Boer would be crushed, even although it cost England her best and bravest. This braced them up and enabled them to endure all that they were called to endure.

They knew that the enemies of England—those wretched traitors, traducers, and fratricides—were repudiated by their countrymen as obnoxious vermin. They knew that the gold which Kruger and his hireling Leyds had scattered broadcast, had failed to influence the people. The people of England were not to be biased by paid demagogues. They demanded that right should be done, and the Government obeyed the universal voice. The defenders of Kimberley were holding this post for the Empire, and they did so bravely, now that the Empire appreciated their efforts. While a man was left, and an ounce of food remained, Cronje might bark his loudest, they would never cave in.

This was the kind of spirit which moved the whole camp. When food began to fall short and they had to buckle their belts tighter round their waists, they did so with a jest, for they knew that the end must be victory.

They heard the news about Ladysmith, and all about the British disasters. But they also heard that, instead of sixty thousand men being sent out to help them, England was packing off two hundred thousand of her best soldiers, and ready to send at the back of that six or eight hundred thousand, if wanted, to clear the board. That assurance braced them up. The Lion and his cubs were in earnest now, and the inflated rebels were doomed. The Boer had thrown off the mask too completely ever to be trusted with a rifle again. He must be disarmed and kept so until he was civilised. The master villains, Paul Kruger and his weak-minded catspaw, Steyn, would be arraigned for their crimes against civilisation and quashed. This Cronje, the vile and brutal murderer, would yet be tried for his atrocities, and punished as he deserved. Schreiner and his brother traitors would have to give account of their stewardship and be properly rewarded, and the land would be free for honest colonists to cultivate.

Not a man in this beleaguered garrison but rested assured that those Irish Nationalists, those paid Boer agents and home-bred renegades, as well as the treacherous Cape Afrikanders, would yet get the just reward of their atrocious treason; and this braced them up to endure half and quarter rations, and to stand to their guns while famine, fever, and shells thinned their ranks day after day. They trusted in their country to do her duty when the hour of retribution arrived, and to punish those dastards who used explosive bullets, fired on hospitals and the women’s quarters; who used the sacred white flag for murder, wantonly slaughtered the wounded and their benefactors in spite of the red cross flag; who ravenously destroyed and looted farms, and did in a hundred ways what savages would have been ashamed of. They trusted that all these dastardly actions would be sifted and punished, in individuals as well as in masses, therefore they kept up their spirits and held to their posts without a thought of surrender. Let England remember the lacerations and wounds of her brave and dauntless sons when the hour comes for dealing with this most unworthy and despicable foe.

They have fought well, but so do many of the most atrocious murderers, pirates, and bushrangers, when driven into a corner, yet all the same the pirates are hanged when caught. A rat, a snake, or a scorpion will also face up under such circumstances, yet these vermin are crushed all the same. Desperation and brute viciousness is not heroism, any more than tolerated treason is a token of nobility.

Ned Romer and his comrades did their part like brave men during this prolonged siege. It was a magnificent education to them as sons of the Empire.

Fortunately they escaped so far woundless, and also kept off the sick list; yet during those four and a half months they had plenty to do, and, like the rest of the defenders, had little time to rest.

And while they were holding their own they heard how gallant Baden-Powell was guarding little Mafeking, and how Sir George White was keeping the enemy at arm’s length in Ladysmith. Never a thought of surrender troubled any soul at either of those places. All the world was watching them, and they meant to come out right.

It did not trouble them too much that Sir Redvers Buller was stopped on the Tugela, or Lord Methuen at the Modder River. They knew what men and cavalry these generals had at their command, and how impossible the task was, before proper reinforcements came, so they were content to wait and trust.

Then came the glorious news that Lords Roberts and Kitchener were on their way with all the men and armament required.

“Now for the clearing of the board!” cried Cecil Rhodes, exultantly. “We shall soon be on full rations again.”

Many thought the news too good to be true, but their fears were groundless. In a few weeks more the bombardment suddenly ceased. On a happy day General French rode in, after a message, “French coming to relief of Kimberley,” and their woes were over.

Cronje was in full flight, and the first decisive blow had been struck at the rebels. Then there was rejoicing in Kimberley, and our heroes were at liberty to follow the rest of the war.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Clearing the Board.

After their long confinement in Kimberley, our heroes were rejoiced to get the chance of a gallop over the veldt with the hunters of Cronje and his flying army. They therefore joined General French, who with his cavalry hastened from Kimberley to cut off one line of retreat. On Sunday, February 18th, the Boers were brought to bay at Klip Drift, and a most desperate rearguard action was fought and won. Outflanked and surrounded on all sides, General Cronje took his last stand in the bed of the river, and prepared himself for his fate.

How many men he had on that Sunday will probably never be known, yet ten thousand was the estimated number. When he at last surrendered, only four thousand men were left to lay down their arms.

It was a terrific massacre, which lasted for ten days, as Cronje, with the desperation of a doomed pirate, sullenly refused to give in even after hope was extinguished, preferring to see his men and women slaughtered like rats in a trap, rather than own that he was conquered.

Doubtless his past atrocities and treacheries made him consider himself a doomed man if taken alive by the people whom he had hated so malignantly and treated so mercilessly. After the first few days, when he saw division after division come up and occupy the surrounding kopjes in grim and overwhelming numbers, this must have made him abandon hope of any outside aid. He was trapped, and in a position that was impossible to hold for long. As the guns poured their deadly fire over his laager, blowing up his ammunition carts and provision waggons, and destroying both men and cattle wholesale, he must have felt that just retribution had at last overtaken his blood-stained soul. Thinking possibly that, if taken, the only fate he could expect was the rope, he settled down sullenly to die at his post. With his customary callous indifference to the fate of others, he allowed no thought of his countrymen and their wives to influence him now. As he had ever been, he remained in this last tragedy the incarnation of ferocious obstinacy. He was Piet Cronje, the master criminal of the Transvaal.

It was not a pleasant task for the British or their leaders to continue this pitiless, yet necessary slaughter. During these ten days Cronje was given repeated chances to surrender, but he sullenly refused, even when he knew that the Boers had been driven off on all sides, who had come to break the environment of death. Trapped on the banks of that river in which they had burrowed like rabbits, he still continued fighting desperately, with the alternatives of death from lyddite, death from starvation, or death from drowning when the river became flooded.

This insensate and wasteful courage, while it filled the world with horror, yet won a certain admiration also. Had he and his men been only there, he might have been admired as a hero. But when he sacrificed women and children as well, it was utterly revolting. The heroes of Ladysmith, Mafeking, and Kimberley took every precaution to protect their women, but Cronje could not where he was placed. Therefore, as a brave man, he ought to have yielded. To hold out as he did was the act of a savage monster, not a man. While his character must for ever make him an object of loathing, as we loathe the memory of those black-hearted ruffians of the Spanish Main, his stubborn courage during those ten hellish days can only merit qualified respect.

It was like the last stand of Dan Morgan, the bloody Australian bushranger, and Morgan was as game as Cronje, with fewer crimes on his conscience.

While the artillery filled the sky with hurtling death, the captive balloon floated above and indicated the targets. It is not surprising if six thousand Boers perished during those ten days. The wonder is that four thousand escaped death. It also speaks significantly for Cronje’s discretion, that, when he surrendered, he was unwounded.

Our heroes saw a good deal of action during this time, as they were with those who had the duty to keep back the relieving forces. But they were trained soldiers now, and the constant movement and fighting made them happy. Meantime Lords Roberts and Kitchener watched keenly the progress of the siege, and let no chance escape for bringing it to a close with the least possible loss to their soldiers. Day after day the cordon drew closer round that death-trap, until the Imperialists were almost within speaking distance of the rebels.

At last the Canadians brought their trenches to within four hundred yards of the enemy; then the Boers would fight no longer. The thought of the next stage, cold steel, cowed them completely. Thus the sullen Cronje submitted, and placed himself and his followers at the discretion of his chivalrous conquerors. The shame of England, and the everlasting disgrace of those who placed this stain on our flag, was avenged. On the anniversary of Majuba Hill, February 27th, its blot was wiped out.

In his gracious reception of Cronje, Lord Roberts proved to posterity how impossible it is for a Briton to cherish revenge for private wrongs. He had lost his son at Colenso. His heart must have been bleeding for that loss, yet this gave no tinge of bitterness to his kindly and flattering welcome to his captive. He granted freely all that Cronje asked, and treated him with the same consideration that an honourable enemy might have expected. This is one of the greatest acts in a life covered with glory.

Now began the triumphant march to Bloemfontein, with the joyful tidings of the relief of Ladysmith. In every direction victory favoured our British armies. The Boers fled panic-stricken before them. Their day was over, and it was all in vain that the ogre of Pretoria, Oom Paul Kruger, hurried to the front, with his accomplice Steyn. They could not stop the run.

Oom Paul shed tears, for he was an adept at this kind of thing. He threatened to throw up his post as president, if they did not show fight. But as even, to the most ignorant of his burghers, that post was already over, this threat was poured into deaf ears. The Lord of battles had been appealed to, and He had decided with justice and humanity against murder and oppression.

Two of our heroes, however, were fated to stop their battle career outside of Bloemfontein. Ned Romer and his friend Clarence Raybold each received wounds in the same charge as they approached the town, and were carried to the rear. Fortunately the bullets were neither explosive nor coated with verdigris, so that no amputation was necessary.

But the wounds were serious enough to incapacitate them from further fighting that campaign. The young men were therefore taken down to Cape Town, leaving Fred Weldon to represent them on the triumphant march to Pretoria. It was a sorrowful parting between the three heroes, but neither anticipated it would be long before they were together again.

“We can only pray that you may be in at the wind-up of our old enemy, Oom Paul, Fred,” they said on parting. “Also that you may escape any of these Mauser button-holes in your carcase, that we have to carry with us.”

“Cheer up, boys,” cried Fred. “I guess you’ll both be up again at the front before we reach Pretoria. I want you to help me to capture Paulus—that is our ambition, you know.”

Bloemfontein had been taken two days before they were permitted to leave with the other wounded, and the doctor assured the two invalids that, if they took care, they would be ready for the saddle again in a week or two. Ned had a puncture through his sword-arm, and Clarence was wounded in the thigh, but the wounds were clean, and already showed signs of mending.

Among the wounded who were brought in before they left were several Boers, who had been abandoned by their countrymen. In one of these Fred recognised Stephanus Groblaar. He had died a couple of hours after his admittance to the hospital. When this news was communicated to Ned, he murmured—

“I am glad he did not owe his death to me. It is better to miss than to accomplish a private revenge. ‘Bobs’ has set us all a splendid example in forbearance.”

“Yes; that noble action of Lord Roberts represents the feelings of the British army from commander to private. To think only of one’s duty to the Empire, to fight only for right, to subdue all private feelings and sink animosity,—this is the code of honour of all true empire-makers.”

Necessarily our story cannot end at present, since our three heroes have been so busy seeking after adventure that they have not yet had time to fall in love, and no story can be quite complete without a wedding.

Therefore, while two of our heroes are recovering from their wounds, and the other is riding under the orders of the gallant General French, we may safely prognosticate the future of the rotten Transvaal Republic with that of its foolish victim, the Orange Free States.

Universal law and order for South Africa, with equal rights for Boer and Briton under the Flag that means equality and freedom for every human being, white-skinned or black. Blue for truth, red for love, and white for purity,—these are the signs of the Union Jack, and the combination means freedom, equality, and fraternity, while Justice holds it in her grasp. Where it waves, oppression and slavery cease to exist.

As for the rebels and traitors. Forgiveness towards the misguided, after they have paid their fines for their sins. To the traitors, punishment and contempt. To the hoary sinner, who has led these two nations astray and destroyed them, the same punishment which he meted out to the reformers—imprisonment; until he has disgorged his ill-gotten and secreted wealth. After that, watchful surveillance, such as ticket-of-leave convicts are placed under, so that during the scanty remnant of his blood-grimed life he may do no further harm to humanity. He has been the plague-spot of Africa. Let him be placed where he may propitiate his Maker, if he can. Years after this the Boers, as they become educated and civilised, will marvel at their stupendous folly, and curse the hated name of Kruger; therefore, like Attila and other historic monsters, his memory is not an enviable one. No human punishment can meet his case. He must be left to God.

Our heroes have won riches, therefore it is not impossible that they may also obtain happiness.

The End.

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Preface

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

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Chapter 25

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Chapter 26

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Chapter 27

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Chapter 28

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Chapter 29

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Chapter 30

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Chapter 31

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Chapter 32

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Chapter 33

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Chapter 34

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Chapter 35

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Chapter 36

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Chapter 37

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