But if they took the latter
route then they might just as well have stayed with me in the first
place. It was along this road that General Coetser afterwards fled
with a small body of burghers, when the enemy, according to
expectations, marched on Komati Poort, and met with no resistance,
though there were over 1800 there of our men with guns.

A certain Pienaar, who arrogated unto himself the rank of a general on
Portuguese territory, fled with 800 men over the frontier. These,
however, were disarmed and sent to Lisbon.

The end of the struggle was ignominious, as many a burgher had feared;
and to this day I pity the men who, at Hector's Spruit, had to go to
Komati Poort much against their will.

Fortunately they had the time and presence of mind to blow up the
"Long Tom" and other guns before going; but a tremendous lot of
provisions and ammunition must have fallen into the hands of the
enemy.

At Hector's Spruit half a score of cannon of different calibre had
been blown up, and many things buried which may be found some day by
our progeny. Our carts were all ready loaded, and we were prepared to
march next morning into the desert and take leave of our stores. How
would we get on now? Where would we get our food, cut off as we were
from the railway, and, consequently, from all imports and supplies?
These questions and many others crossed our minds, but nobody could
answer them.

Our convoys were ready waiting, and the following morning we trekked
into the Hinterland Desert, saying farewell to commissariats and
stores.

The prospect was melancholy enough. By leaving Hector's Spruit we were
isolating ourselves from the outer world, which meant that Europe and
civilisation generally could only be informed of our doings through
English channels.

Once again our hopes were centred in our God and our Mausers.

Dr. Conan Doyle says about this stage of the war:--

"The most incredulous must have recognised as he looked at
the heap of splintered and shattered gunmetal (at Hector's
Spruit) that the long War was at last drawing to a close."

And here I am, writing these pages seventeen months later, and the War
is not over yet. But Dr. Doyle is not a prophet, and cannot be
reproached for a miscalculation of this character, for if I, and many
with me, had been asked at the time what we thought of the future, we
might have been as wide of the mark as Dr. Doyle himself.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A DREA