^lo A Breath from the Veldt 



At night the waggon arrived ; and Piet having seen some roan antelope, we 

 spent the following day in hunting for them, but again without success. That 

 day about dusk a transport rider, with his horse pretty well done up, appeared 

 on the scene. In a wild state of excitement he told us that war had broken out, 

 and the Matabele were watching the road between Victoria and the Middle 

 Drift in order to cut off any waggons they could intercept. He told us also of 

 the operations outside Fort Victoria that marked the real commencement of the 

 war, and various other occurrences, all of which are now ancient history. 

 Suffice it to say that the place we were aiming for was the Middle Drift of the 

 Limpopo lying directly to the south, and to reach this might prove rather 

 difficult in a few days' time. Still 'on a consultation round the fire that night 

 we decided that, since the Basadanotes, whom we had left at Michelsfontein, 

 were to trek along this road a month behind us and might therefore fall into 

 the hands of these black rascals, it would be cruel to leave them in ignorance 

 of what we had heard, all the more so as they had women and children with 

 them. So, as my Basuto ponies were not played out like Van Staden's two 

 horses, I decided to do the ride of about fifty miles there and back in one day, 

 taking both the ponies as alternate mounts. 



Starting at daybreak at a quiet canter, I halted at the corner of Gong Hills, 

 and off-saddled there to give the ponies a rest, knee-haltering Brenke, who was 

 a bit of a rascal to catch, and allowing Spotty to run loose. Now Spotty was 

 generally as quiet as a lamb and with no tricks about him, but to-day he 

 no sooner caught sight of the bridle in my hand than off he went, making 

 straight for the path leading to Michelsfontein, and — what was far worse — he 

 neighed to Brenke, who instantly smashed his knee-halter and galloped after 

 him. There was nothing left now but to trudge after them both in the blaz- 

 ing sun ; and never shall I forget that long and weary walk and the bad 

 language that alone could express my feelings. At last, when just about done 

 and dying of thirst, I heard a cock crow — the sound most cheering of all to the 

 heart of a hunter as he returns to his waggon, but never more so than at this 

 moment, as telling me that Basadanote's camp was not far off. The ponies 

 were there already, and on my arrival the Dutch hunters received me with that 

 courtesy which I everywhere experienced from this class of men during my stay 

 in South Africa. The best refreshment their waggons afforded was brought out, 

 and on hearing my news, for which they were most grateful, they decided to 

 trek out at once. I, too, dared not prolong my stay, for the loss of two hours 

 caused by the wicked conduct of my ponies compelled an early start in order to 



