only resource now was to
flee, and the battle of Elandslaagte was a thing of the past.

CHAPTER V.

PURSUED BY THE LANCERS.

Another last look at the bloody scene. It was very hard to have to
beat an ignominious retreat, but it was harder still to have to go
without being able to attend to one's wounded comrades, who were
piteously crying aloud for help. To have to leave them in the hands of
the enemy was exceedingly distressing to me. But there was no other
course open, and fleeing, I hoped I might "live to fight another day."
I got away, accompanied by Fourie and my Kaffir servant. "Let us go,"
I said, "perhaps we shall be able to fall in with some more burghers
round here and have another shot at them." Behind us the British
lancers were shouting "Stop, stop, halt you ---- Boers!" They fired
briskly at us, but our little ponies responded gamely to the spur and,
aided by the darkness, we rode on safely. Still the lancers did not
abandon the chase, and followed us for a long distance. From time to
time we could hear the pitiful cries and entreaties of burghers who
were being "finished off," but we could see nothing. My man and I had
fleet horses in good condition, those of the pursuing lancers were big
and clumsy.

My adjutant, Piet Fourie, however, was not so fortunate as myself. He
was overtaken and made a prisoner. Revolvers were being promiscuously
fired at us, and at times the distance between us and our pursuers
grew smaller. We could plainly hear them shouting "Stop, or I'll shoot
you," or "Halt, you damned Boer, or I'll run my lance through your
blessed body."

We really had no time to take much notice of these pretty compliments.
It was a race for life and freedom. Looking round furtively once more
I could distinguish my pursuers; I could see their long assegais; I
could hear the snorting of their unwieldy horses, the clattering of
their swords. These unpleasant combinations were enough to strike
terror into the heart of any ordinary man.

Everything now depended upon the fleetness and staying power of my
sturdy little Boer pony, Blesman. He remained my faithful friend long
after he had got me out of this scrape; he was shot, poor little chap,
the day when they made me a prisoner. Poor Blesman, to you I owe my
life! Blesman was plainly in league against all that was British; from
the first he displayed Anglophobia of a most acute character. He has
served me in good stead, and now lies buried,