On the 13th we are on the bridge of the Modder River. We establish ourselves in a deserted farm, and execute some stray ducks, which would no doubt have died of hunger but for our timely appearance--a most painful end, I believe. Scouts are sent out. In about an hour the English are suddenly sighted. We rush to the road, and in ten minutes a barricade is thrown across it. I am in the centre with the others. But the English hang back, and finally go off. Towards noon we start in the direction of Brandfort, where our convoy, which was to travel day and night, is expected to be by this time. It is about 4.30 when we come in sight of the village. There is a cloud of dust on our left, then two despatch-riders on bicycles fly past us. The Lancers! We set off at a gallop to get to the houses before them. It is a steeplechase between us. After an hour’s ride we arrive at the same time as the head of the enemy’s advanced guard, which falls back at a gallop. We try to pursue them, but our broken-down horses can carry us no further. We rush into the village, while our men hastily harness our carts. The Colonel sends us to take up a position to cover their retreat, for there are two squadrons of Lancers in the little wood 500 metres from the village. The Landdrost, fearing reprisals, comes to beg me not to fire. I give him these alternatives--to hold his tongue or to be shot. He prefers the former, and I see him no more. Meanwhile, C---- and Michel get down a cannon from a truck at the railway-station. The terrified artillerymen refuse to work it. But the English, not knowing what our numbers are (we are barely twenty-five), dare not attack us, and we get away in the night. Our rallying-point is Kroonstad, the new capital of the Free State. On the 15th we are at Wynburg. We leave it again on the morning of the 16th by the last train, setting fire to the railway-station and destroying the reservoirs. Comfortably installed in a train we made up ourselves, at Smaldeel we are invaded by a whole commando.... Six men to every carriage, with their six saddles, six bridles, six rifles, six cloaks, a dozen blankets, and some twenty packages.... Ouf! These good Burghers, who smoke as long as they can, are without the most elementary ideas of ordinary civility of behaviour. Their familiarity of manner is extraordinary; happily, they show no resentment if one retorts in like fashion. One of them, to steady himself during his slumbers, thrusts his foot--and such a foot!--into the pocket of C----’s coat. C----, put quite at his ease by this proceeding, does not hesitate to increase the comfort of his own position by a reciprocal thrusting of his foot into the waistcoat of his sympathetic _vis-à-vis_. They form a touchingly fraternal group, and in this position they sleep for ten hours. At every sudden stoppage, the rounded paunch of the good Burgher acts as a buffer, deadening the violence of the jolt for my friend.