This formidable old dame ruled Flippie with a rod of iron, appropriating the whole of his small salary every month and refusing to give him so much as a sixpence. When Mrs. van Warmelo found this out she stealthily added half a crown to his earnings for his own use, and this the generous lad regularly spent on sweets, cakes, and gingerbeer for his granny!

Even the chocolates and other good things to which kind-hearted soldiers treated him were laid as "trophies of the war" at his granny's feet, after he had vainly tried to induce Hansie to partake of them.

"Um-Ah" had an inconvenient way of dropping in at Harmony at all hours of the day, ostensibly to see if Flippie was doing his work well, but in reality to keep a watchful eye on the other inmates. She seemed to be always looking for something, and the time was soon to come when this unpleasant propensity should become a source of real danger to the van Warmelos.

* * * * *

Besides Flippie, there were two other permanent members on the domestic staff—a gigantic native named Paulus, and a young Zulu who went by the name of "Gentleman Jim" on account of his dandified appearance and the aristocratic "drawl" affected by him. American darkies say, "Dere's some folk dat is slow but shua, and some dar is dat's jes' slow!" Well, Gentleman Jim was "jes' slow." He was the only one on the premises who steadfastly refused to speak one word of Dutch, although he perfectly understood everything said to him.

The result was that the dialogues carried on between mistresses and servant were in Dutch on one side and in English on the other, it being one of the rules at Harmony to address all natives either in their own tongue or in Dutch, never in English.

I may say here that even at the present time it is customary with many Dutch South Africans to employ no English-speaking natives, but rather to engage the "raw" material, i.e. those speaking neither Dutch nor English, because they are, in nine cases out of ten, still unspoilt by civilisation and have lost none of the awe and respect with which they, in their native state, regard the white man.

Gentleman Jim was the only exception ever known at Harmony, and there was no lack of respect in his manner; on the contrary, the flourish with which he took off his hat and his slow and dignified, "Good morning, little missie," were well worth seeing and a constant source of amusement to all.

Paulus, that magnificent specimen of manhood in its natural state, was by no means the least remarkable of the trio, and there was something tragic too about his rugged personality.

He had been taken by the English in the neighbourhood of Pretoria and brought into town on the false suspicion of having been employed by the Boers as a spy.

There being nothing found against him in proof of this, he was set free in town and allowed to seek employment, but, though he pleaded hard, he could not obtain permission to return to his home, where wife and children had been left in complete uncertainty as to his fate.

This native was a converted heathen, semi-civilised, but with the noblest instincts within him developed on natural lines to a remarkable degree. I have often longed to meet the missionary in whose hands the moulding of this rare product of nature had been carried out with so much success. Patience, faith, devotion, and an awe amounting to veneration for his white mistresses were among the most striking qualities Paulus possessed.

There were hundreds of his stamp on the farms all over the country, natives brought up by the Dutch farmers and trained as useful servants in their homes and in the fields, but it was rare indeed for one of them to find his way into the towns. Fate had been unkind in separating him from his dear ones for so many months, and Paulus went through days of melancholy and despair.

One day, when Hansie heard him sigh more heavily than usual, she asked:

"Are you thinking of your wife and children, Paulus?"

"Oh yes, Nonnie, I am always thinking of them, but I was thinking also how sad it was to forget all my learning. I was getting on so well with my reading and writing, and now I find it so hard to go on by myself."

"Oh, if that is all, Paulus," Hansie said cheerfully, "I can help you a lot. Bring me your books this evening and let me hear you read."

The poor fellow's look of gratitude was touching to behold. He needed no second invitation, and appeared that evening in his Sunday suit, with a new shirt on, and his hands and face scrubbed with soap and water until they shone like polished ebony.

A Dutch Bible, a book of hymns and psalms, and a small spelling-book were all he possessed, but Hansie found him further advanced than she had expected, and wonderfully intelligent, and she soon added a few simple reading-books to his small store.

Now and then she instructed him for a short hour, and it was a pleasure to see the change which came over him within a few weeks. Learning became the joy of his life, and in his ambition to get on he forgot much of his anxiety and distress at the enforced separation from his wife and children.

One evening when Hansie had gone into the kitchen to look over his work, there was a sudden fumbling at the door and "Gentleman Jim" stumbled in with a campstool under one arm and a slate and Bible, an English one, under the other.

"Coming to learn too, little missie," he said, grinning from ear to ear and settling himself comfortably on the stool.

Paulus bent over his writing and said never a word. Hansie nodded uncomfortably.

That this self-invited pupil was unwelcome was evident, but he himself seemed serenely unconscious of the fact.

There was no love lost between Paulus and "Gentleman Jim"—not that there had ever been an open rupture, but Paulus despised the dandified Zulu, and "Jim" looked down (figuratively speaking, for he was quite a foot shorter in stature) on Paulus's rugged simplicity.

They systematically ignored one another, and were only heard to exchange brief sentences, in English from Jim and in Dutch from Paulus, when necessity compelled them to address one another, for Jim could speak no Sesuto and Paulus knew neither Zulu nor English.

Their antipathy to one another was so marked, in fact, that "Gentleman Jim" refused to have his meals with Paulus and had built a small kitchen apart for himself, under one of the big willows. On this occasion Hansie did not feel pleased at "Jim's" appearance either, for it was one thing to teach the self-contained and reverent Sesuto, and quite another to instruct the flippant "Gentleman Jim."

But Hansie did not know what to say and asked Jim to let her hear him read. He began laboriously, floundering hopelessly over the long words.

"Fruits, meat and repentance,"[3] he read with painful uncertainty, when Hansie interrupted him with a laugh:

"That will do, Jim; you are wonderful, and you need not come again."

* * * * *

Other natives on the premises were of the shiftless, wandering type, changing hands continually, and many were the instances of their simplicity, not to say rank stupidity.

On one occasion a "raw" Kaffir, on being ordered to take a heavily laden wheelbarrow from one part of the garden to the other, was found half an hour later, still in the same place, vainly trying to place the wheelbarrow on his head!

I believe it was the same native who, when told to empty the contents of a waste-paper basket on a burning heap of rubbish in the garden, returned without the basket, and when asked what he had done with it, pointed, with an air of injured surprise, to its smouldering remains on the heap of rubbish.

Indeed, the patience of the housewife was often sorely tried. A relative of Mrs. van Warmelo's coming into the kitchen one morning, found one of these new "hands" before the stove in a sea of hot water, desperately trying to fill a small kettle by the spout, from a large one!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Myn en dyn.]

[Footnote 3: "Fruits meet for repentance."]



CHAPTER XXII

THE SECRET RAILWAY TIME-TABLE

Thank God for the early rains!

After the long winter months, dry and dusty, terrific storms pass over the country, torrents of rain, lashing hailstones. The beautiful world is washed clean, and everywhere the moist brown earth gives promise of a plentiful supply of fresh young grass, which means food for the weary underfed horses on commando, and new life, new hopes to the men.

Only the middle of August and already the first summer rains are falling!

Thank God again!

The cruel strain of anxious thought for our heroes in the field can be relaxed for a moment, and we turn our energies with redoubled vigour and strengthened faith to the task at our hand. Heaven knows that we shall require all the courage we possess to face the impending disasters, of which the shadows have already fallen on our hearts.

* * * * *

One morning the disconcerting news reached Harmony that Mrs. Naude's house had been surrounded by armed soldiers at break of day and that she had been taken away with her child, in a waggon, no one knew where.

The empty house was being closely watched.

Did the enemy really think that the sagacious Captain of the Secret Service would walk into the trap some fine evening, there to meet with certain destruction? Evidently, for the house was guarded night and day.

* * * * *

August 5th brought new sensation and fresh material for thought and conversation.

There had been a brief lull in the adventures, and all were of opinion that as long as this spell of vigilance lasted no spies would enter the town. It therefore came as a surprise when our little friend with the walking-stick was to be seen coming up the garden path of Harmony, wearing that air of happy mystery so familiar to his fellow-workers.

The spies had come at last, not the Captain himself, but his secretary, Mr. Greyling, with two other men named Nel and Els, on an important and extremely dangerous mission.

They had arrived too late to be brought out to Harmony, but they were staying with Mrs. Joubert, and, if they were successful in obtaining the help they required, their intention was to leave again that night.

At this point in the visitor's narrative, Hansie, who had been engaged in making butter, came in with an expectant look. Mr. Botha motioned her to draw nearer, and in hurried whispers, although there was no one in the room but themselves, told them that these men had been sent to procure a copy of the secret railway time-table, an official book containing full detailed information of the military trains, provision and ammunition—trains, in fact, laden with clothing and everything required by the military. The women looked at one another and smiled at the audacity of the request. They had never heard of such a time-table and might as well have been asked to send the moon to the front.

But their visitor was very grave.

This was no child's play, but a very serious matter, for a great deal depended on the securing of that book.

The horses on commando were in a very poor condition after the hard winter, and the men had no clothes to speak of. So it was absolutely necessary that they should have their stock reinforced by the capture of some of the enemy's trains.

Mrs. van Warmelo promised to do her best, but gave her visitor little hope of success.

Soon after he left, a carriage drove up with Mrs. Joubert, her son "Jannie," and her married daughter, Mrs. Malan.

Their mission was the same as Mr. Botha's, the secret time-table, and Mr. Jannie, as he drew Hansie aside, urged her to do all in her power to procure a copy of this valuable book. The same ground was gone over, with the same result, "We can but try." That whole morning was spent in seeing different people, trusted friends, on the subject, and everywhere Hansie and her mother were met with the same objections. Most people had never heard of this time-table, and those who knew of its existence, were convinced that it would be quite impossible to get a sight of it, as it was in the hands of officials only.

The afternoon again was spent in roaming disconsolately about the streets of Pretoria, weary and discouraged.

Suddenly Hansie exclaimed:

"Oh mamma, how stupid we have been! Why, we never thought of D. He is the only one who can help us. Let us go to him."

Mrs. van Warmelo's tired face beamed at her daughter.

"Of course, but I dare not go to him direct—that would be indiscreet indeed. Let us send some one for him."

"F.?" Hansie suggested.

"Yes, he would do."

They were walking rapidly to an office on Church Square, when they met the very man they were in search of.

"This is wonderful!" Hansie exclaimed. "We were just going to ask F. to call on you, as we have a great request to make."

Talking in rapid whispers, the trio walked across the Square. The man's face was inscrutable at first, but his curt and business-like way soon gave place to a look of thoughtful contemplation.

"This is about the most unheard-of request that has ever been made to me. I know the book exists, but I have never seen it—I shall have to think about this. When must you have it?"

"Before six o'clock this evening," Hansie answered.

"Will you leave me now?" he said. "I must think. If by any chance I am able to procure a copy, you will find it under your front door between 5 and 6 o'clock."

Well satisfied, the two ladies proceeded on their way home, when they were met by Consul Nieuwenhuis, who invited them to have tea with him at Frascati's.

Hansie looked at her mother.

"I think we have earned it—don't you?"

Mrs. van Warmelo nodded and laughed.

Arrived at Frascati's they found a regular gathering of the Consuls, gaily chatting while they partook of the good things set before them.

"Oh, mother!" Hansie said regretfully, when they had parted from their friends. "What a pity we could not tell them anything! How they would have enjoyed sharing our sensations! I can tear the very hair out of my head at having to keep all these adventures to myself!"

They then went to Mrs. Joubert's house to tell the spies that there was just a chance that one of the people they had seen that day would get the time-table for them.

Mrs. van Warmelo, with her usual prudent forethought, asked to see Mr. Greyling only, knowing that it was safer to deal with one man than with several, so she was shown into the drawing-room while he was being brought from some unknown back region, with much caution and bolting of doors and drawing of blinds. It was amusing, when he entered the room, to see him going straight up to Mrs. Joubert and shaking her heartily by the hand. As a matter of fact, these enterprising young men enjoyed her hospitality, slept under her roof, and partook of the food she secretly prepared for them without ever setting eyes on their hostess.

She was not supposed to know of their existence, and as she was close and silent as the grave, no one ever got anything in the way of information out of her.

It was good to see Mr. Greyling again.

He said that Captain Naude was with General Botha near the Middelburg line and had been prevented from coming into town that month.

Very little fighting was being done on account of the poor condition of their horses after the severe winter. The men were in splendid health, and the same spirit of determination and courage which had always characterised them possessed them still.

Mr. Greyling and his comrades had come in under some difficulties. They had been escorted on horseback as far as Eerste Fabrieken on the North-east Railway, when they had nearly run into the enemy's lines. They altered their course and rode to Irene, hiding themselves and fastening their horses in a clump of thorn trees, where they remained until nightfall.

On their way to Pretoria in the darkness, Mr. Greyling's horse fell into a hole, throwing him out of the saddle, but his foot caught in the stirrup and he was dragged about forty yards, bruising his head and severely wrenching his ankle. Although by no means fit for the journey, he was determined to go back that night, because the friends who were waiting for him with his horse did so at the utmost risk of their lives. The best news he brought was that the Boers had retaken the Skurvebergen and that it was again the centre of the Secret Service. Three of the Boers had fallen there during the fight.

Although he fully appreciated the obstacles in the way of procuring a time-table, he said he felt he could hardly go back to the commandos without it. His instructions had been very explicit.

Whether she found the time-table at Harmony or not, Hansie promised to come back that evening, with the European and Colonial newspaper-cuttings, so eagerly sought after by the men on commando.

Arrived at Harmony at about 5.15, Hansie could conceal her impatience no longer, but, running up the garden-path, she threw open the front door with a flourish, and behold, a small flat parcel on the floor, a book wrapped carelessly in a bit of white paper! The secret time-table!

She only had it in her hands for a moment, but one thing she will ever remember, the slate-coloured cover and the thick red letters heavily scored:

For the use of officers and officials only.

The excited women looked at it as if fascinated, turning the leaves over slowly and murmuring blessings on his head.

"Look here," Mrs. van Warmelo whispered, "here we have the meanings of the different signals, and here the different engine-whistles are explained. Every 'toot' has a meaning, Hansie——" But Hansie had flown to her room to don her cycling dress, and was soon on her way, guarded by her faithful dog. On reaching her destination she was again shown into the drawing-room, but Mrs. Joubert came to her and asked in a whisper whether she would not like to go to the room.

Need I say that she jumped at the suggestion?

Away with caution, to the winds with prudence and reflection! Was not the mother safe at Harmony and her wise counsels forgotten?

Hansie was led silently through mysterious corridors into the open back-yard, by a mute figure in black.

This figure pointed to a door and disappeared, and at the same time another figure rose from Hansie knew not where, and stood sentinel over the gate leading into the street.

She ran up the steps and rapped smartly at the door, turning the handle after a moment and walking in, to the evident consternation of the three young men inside. There was a general scuffle, followed by a laugh of relief, when her figure became visible through the heavy clouds of smoke which filled the room.

Mr. Greyling came forward to meet her and introduced the other men, who shook her hand until it ached.

It was quite evident that the sight of a young lady was a wonderful and most welcome thing to them.

Hansie took Mr. Greyling aside and handed him the packet with strict injunctions not to mention her name on commando, for it was a well-known fact that there were traitors in the field, who lost no opportunity of conveying information to the British. She did not tell him how the book had come into her possession, although his surprise and curiosity were plainly visible, and the worst that could have happened, had he fallen into the hands of the enemy and turned King's evidence, would have been the betrayal of her name.

The other men were clamouring for a hearing, so she turned to them and inspected the huge brown-paper parcels containing clothing, etc., to which they drew her attention and which they were about to convey to the commandos.

One of them, with a look of comical despair, was shaking his head, while he counted the parcels on his fingers. The other showed Hansie how impossible it was for him to fasten his coat and waistcoat, for he had on three woollen shirts and three pairs of trousers, of different sizes. So had the other two, and Hansie could not refrain from expressing her amazement at their being so heavily laden on an expedition so perilous.

But, in high spirits, they laughed at her fears.

They had done the same thing before. One said it was his seventh visit, another said it was his third, and they so evidently enjoyed their adventures that one felt they were to be envied rather than pitied.

They parted in fun and high good-humour, but Hansie's heart was wrung with many a pang, and many a deep and earnest prayer for their protection was sent up by her that night.

"I wish you could have seen that room, mother," Hansie exclaimed as they sat in their cosy dining-room, discussing the events of the day. "It was filled with so much smoke that I could hardly breathe, and it was littered with papers and cups and plates. They wanted me to sit down and chat with them."

"I am surprised you did not," her mother retorted.

"Well, you see, I had no lamp and I was afraid I should be arrested, and besides, you would have been terrified to death, thinking I was in the hands of the English with that precious time-table."



CHAPTER XXIII

SYSTEM EMPLOYED BY THE SECRET COMMITTEE

Mr. Willem Bosch, a cripple, unable to take active work upon himself, acted as Secretary to the Committee, Mr. Els was old and infirm, and Mr. Botha, as we have heard, had been struck by lightning and was frequently prostrate with headaches of an intensely severe nature.

But for these infirmities these men would have been on commando with their brother burghers.

The wider circle of conspirators consisted of ten or twelve men and women, who carried out the instructions of the Committee, but in no case attended their meetings or conferred with them in the presence of the spies from the field.

Their work chiefly consisted in finding out men anxious to escape from town and ignorant of the way to go about it—an exceedingly difficult and dangerous task, with so many National Scouts and other traitors in their midst.

In order to protect themselves from the danger of being led into a trap, the following precautions were taken by the Committee and strictly carried out by their fellow-workers:

When a man was found anxious to join the Boers, he was instructed, under the most binding injunctions to secrecy, to keep himself in readiness to depart at a given moment, on the shortest possible notice. The arrival of an escort from commando was then awaited.

They did not have long to wait, as two or three times a week, without fail, a small escort of armed men was to be found at a certain spot in the vicinity of the capital, while one of their number was sent into town to inform the Committee of the fact.

The fugitive was then instructed to walk slowly in a certain street, from one point to another at a given hour. Here he was met by a man unknown to him, usually one of the four, who signed to him to follow him.

He was not allowed to speak to or follow his leader too closely. It was not known to him beforehand whether his destination lay north, south, east, or west. He had but to follow and to find himself, as darkness fell, in the hands of the armed burghers.

The men in town were unarmed. It was one of the first rules of the Committee that no spy entering the town should carry arms of any description, this rule having been made to safeguard them from death in the event of their being taken by the enemy.

Too often was this precaution disregarded by young and hot-headed spies, who took the risk upon themselves, preferring death to falling into the hands of the English.

Captain Naude's case was recognised by the Committee as an exception when once it became known to them that a heavy price had been set on his head.

Incidentally I may remark here that this sum was known, during the early part of the war, to be L500 and that it was gradually increased to L1,500, as the Captain became more notorious for the daring nature of his enterprises. He was told by an English officer; after the war, that the British had spent over L9,000 in the vain attempt to capture him. This statement may, or may not, have been correct, but certain it is that nothing was left undone to put an end to his activities, numbers of men and women being employed, under liberal payment, to trap him when he visited Pretoria.

In the field, too, his life was known to be even more precarious than in town, for many were the hirelings surrounding him, watching their chances to capture him and hand him, dead or living, into the power of his foes.

It was therefore an understood thing that Captain Naude should at all times be armed, heavily armed, in the field and when he came to town.

Not so the Secret Committee. What might be his only safeguard would, in the event of their arrest, prove to be their undoing, and this they fully realised as they remonstrated, not once, but many times, with the young spies who worked for them.

The violation of this rule, which they wished to see enforced so rigorously, was sometimes followed by most terrible consequences.

That this brave band of earnest men should have continued their work so long, beset, as they were, with a thousand dangers and difficulties, is a marvel indeed. With so much treachery in the air, it is a wonder to us still that they were able to carry out their daring enterprise with so much success and to escape detection for so long.

But they were prudent and cautious, they knew and trusted one another, and they observed, with conscientious thoroughness, the unwritten motto of the Committee:

"Think quickly, act firmly, calmly, prudently, without fear. Speak as little as possible."

Terrible were the experiences of some of the men on their secret visits to the town.

Captain Naude, arriving one night at the house of his friend Mr. Hattingh (the spies naturally did not take shelter in their own homes), was informed that his mother lay dangerously ill in her house close by. It was feared that she would not recover. In the shadows which enveloped her she seemed to have forgotten all about the war, and her only cry was for him, her son.

What was he to do? His mother was surrounded by nurses, and the house was filled with relatives and friends.

As Captain of the Secret Service, his name was too well known. He could not show himself at such a time, when he had every reason to believe that the enemy was watching him with extra vigilance.

The next news, while he was still in hopeless deliberation, was that his mother had passed away.

It needs a strong man's most powerful self-control to "act firmly, calmly, prudently," at such a time, and yet even then he restrained the impulse to go to her.

Of what avail to kiss that icy brow?

Next day, from his hiding-place behind the window curtain, he watched his mother's funeral procession, passing by.

His comrade, Johannes Coetzee, nicknamed Baden-Powell, the man who had left the town with him on his second expedition, once had a miraculous escape from death.

He was leaving for commando with a bag containing clothes, a number of Mauser cartridges which the Committee in town had collected by degrees, when he was taken prisoner by the enemy just as he was nearing the wire enclosure.

He was immediately taken to the Commandant, who examined the bundle containing the contraband articles, and ordered him to be escorted to another Department. Of his guilt, proof positive had been found, but this fact was not conveyed to the armed soldier who was about to escort him to his doom.

On their way, he knew not where, Coetzee pleaded with the guard to release him.

"I have been taken under false pretences," he said. "I am innocent, an employee at the Lunatic Asylum. If you will escort me over the railway line, I will pay you."

"How much money have you?" the man asked.

Coetzee took some silver from his pocket, counted it and said:

"I have only thirteen shillings."

"That will do," his guard replied, and conducted him in safety to the asylum, in the vicinity of which he found his tethered horse, still waiting for his return, the soldier himself holding his horse and assisting him to mount with the bag containing the ammunition.

Disregard for wise counsel from older men, head-strong self-will, and a sheer indifference to death and danger were the causes of much disaster in those days.

On the other hand, recklessness and the very disregard for death mentioned above brought more than one man safely through the fierce fires of adversity, as we shall see in the tragic and stirring events to be recorded in this and the next chapter.

One there was amongst the spies, noted for his extraordinary bravery, a hero of the rarest type, of whom we can only speak with bated breath and thrilling hearts. In the brief record of his heroic life—and still more heroic death—we have a rich inheritance.

Adolph Krause was his name, a man still young, a married man. He was a German by birth, but a full burgher of the State for which he sacrificed his noble life.

The first time Krause had left the capital he had been escorted out, with eight other Germans, by Mr. Willem Botha, while Captain Naude conducted seven or eight young Boers to the freedom of the veld.

There had been no adventures then.

Subsequently, in and out he came and went, with the greatest regularity, and as often as twice a week he would leave the town with large numbers of Boers and Germans, eager to join the burgher forces in the field. His services became more and more valuable.

One evening when, after two days' rest in town, he was again preparing to depart for the commandos, his friend Willem Botha called to escort him through the town, as had been previously arranged.

Mr. Botha's house was in Proes Street between van der Walt and Market Streets, while not far away his trusted friend and confederate Mr. Hocke lived, a man who rendered such innumerable services to the Boers that his name must not be forgotten here.

These two men met at Mr. Krause's house and found him ready to depart.

Although a man of slender build, he had now attained to such gigantic proportions that his friends could scarce believe their eyes, and, incredible as it may seem, the following is a full and accurate description of what he had about his person that memorable night:

Two pairs of trousers; two shirts; two full Mauser bandoliers over his shoulders and crossed over his breast; a woollen jersey; a thick coat; a long Mauser gun thrust into one trouser-leg; a German revolver belonging to Mr. Hocke; his own revolver, and a bag of about two feet in length, containing Mauser ammunition, which had been buried by Mrs. Botha and was now going "to the front"; boots, soap, washing soda, cotton, and a number of other small articles, which had been ordered by the women on commando—that unknown band of heroic women, fleeing north, south, east, and west with their men, for whom they cooked and sewed and prayed throughout the long years of the war.

Krause had been "shopping" in town for these brave sisters in the field, and I am sure his thoughts that night were not of fear for the perils he was about to face, but of satisfaction and pleasurable anticipation of the joy his arrival at commando would occasion the women at the front.

Would that one of their undaunted band could be induced to give the world a record of their unique and altogether wonderful experiences of the war!

Mr. Krause's slight form was now twice, perhaps nearly thrice its usual size, and his friends, when they looked at him, laughed in incredulous amazement.

"Oh, man, what would I not give to possess a photo of you as you are dressed to-night!" Mr. Botha exclaimed between his fits of laughter.

It was now 7 o'clock and nearly dark.

The two guards, walking up and down the street on their accustomed beat, had just withdrawn; 7 o'clock was their dinner hour, this the plotters knew.

In a moment, Krause, with the bag over his shoulder and one leg of necessity held very straight, limped out into the open street, "Oom Willie" (Botha) following and crossing to the other side.

Close to a street lamp, at the corner of Market Street, Krause suddenly saw a soldier walking on ahead, upon which he immediately turned down into Market Street, with the evident intention of pursuing his way along Vermeulen Street. This his friend quite understood as, ever on the opposite side of the street, he watched and followed Krause in his course.

Again a soldier appears on the scene, this time walking towards them in Vermeulen Street. No time to turn back now; forward, boldly forward—the fugitive has been observed.

Under one of the lamps the watcher on the other side sees to his horror that one of the bandoliers has pushed its way up to the neck and is showing plainly above the collar of the coat.

The British guard observes this too, for he turns under the lamp and watches the retreating form intently. Just a moment, and he raises his whistle to his lips, giving forth the shrill alarm.

The game is up. Mr. Botha, unarmed, can be of no assistance to his friend, who now must fight his way alone from death and danger. The Mauser gun, which has been impeding his every movement, is whipped out of the trouser-leg as he flies, weapon conspicuously in hand, through the well-lit streets of Pretoria, until, making a sudden dive, he disappears between the wires of a fence, into the seclusion of a peaceful private garden. There is no time to think. He rushes through the garden from one side to another, out into the next street, and so on; block after block he takes, until he finds himself alone in a quiet street, far from the scene of danger, and while his enemies are surrounding and searching the block into which he first had disappeared, he is many miles away, plodding weary and heavy-laden to friends and liberty.

Only half satisfied as to his comrade's escape, Mr. Botha returned home in sore distress that night to watch and await developments, and it was not until Krause surprised him later with another and wholly unexpected visit that he learnt the sequel and happy ending of that memorable flight.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE DEATH OF ADOLPH KRAUSE

Uninterrupted communication had once more been established between the conspirators, and all was going well.

So it seemed!

But the Prince of Darkness was at work. And with him an accursed band of Judas-Boers.

How can I tell the tale? How force into the background of my mind and soul the unspeakable horror with which all my being is filled when I contemplate this aspect of the war, in order to collect my thoughts sufficiently to find the words I need?

That week the town was full of spies.

Captain Naude had come in on Thursday night and was to leave again on Saturday night. Another spy, young Delport, a brave and reckless youth, was also in the capital, "recruiting" men to take out with him to commando.

That Saturday night, as Mr. Botha was on the point of leaving his home for the Captain's place of refuge, from where he had to "see him off," as arranged, Mrs. Krause arrived at his house in some agitation and said that her husband had just come in and wished to see Mr. Botha. Krause was suffering from an exceedingly painful whitlow in the thumb of his left hand, she said, and he had come to see a doctor and to have the whitlow cut. She implored Mr. Botha and his neighbour Mr. Hocke to come without delay, and to be present when the operation had to be performed.

With all the speed he could Mr. Botha hurried to the house in which Captain Naude was waiting, explained the case of Krause to him and took a warm and hearty leave, kneeling with him for a few moments first, as was his wont, in earnest prayer to God for the protection of the traveller.

He then called for Mr. Hocke, and the two men hurried to Mr. Krause's house in Prinsloo Street, where they found the doctor (a man initiated in all the mysteries of Boer espionage and a trusted friend) on the point of performing the small, though painful operation.

When it was over, Mr. Botha, prompted Heaven only knows by what foreshadowing of disaster, gave his friend a serious lecture on the dangers of his recklessness.

"How can you go about the town so much in broad daylight, whenever you come in?" he asked. "Always on that bicycle of yours! Surely you must know that you expose yourself to untold dangers!"

"Oh, I could not always stay indoors! The house is far too close," the patient exclaimed, nursing his lacerated thumb.

Mr. Botha urged him to leave on Sunday night, not to remain longer than was necessary, and to take with him a young German, who had been wounded and was now convalescent, after having been concealed and nursed for many months by trusty friends in town.

And another warning he impressed upon him with unusual earnestness:

"Whatever you do, Krause, don't associate yourself with the party leaving under young Delport's guidance. I fear that there is something terribly wrong. He is going out with far too large a number, fifty men in all, he told me yesterday, and something warns me that amongst the men there are detectives on the English side. Delport is young and very reckless, and the thought of the great number going out with him this time has made me more anxious than I can say."

Krause produced his revolver from an inside pocket, and declared that before he surrendered himself a prisoner more than one British soldier would be killed or wounded by him.

With a heavy heart and many sad forebodings, Mr. Botha left him. For he remembered, with increasing anxiety, a visit he had had from Delport, when the latter had asked for his assistance in getting his men—fifty, as he had said—safely through the town.

Mr. Botha had refused at the time, pretending that he had never taken part in such proceedings, and warning the young man that the game he was about to play was hazardous in the extreme.

"If you must go out with those men, leave on Monday night, when the others have escaped in safety," was his last advice to Delport.

Unfortunately, Fate decreed that Krause and Delport should meet accidentally on Sunday morning, the day after Mr. Botha's warning to Krause.

Together the two men, flinging caution to the winds, or perhaps in their enthusiasm entirely forgetting the wise counsel of their friend, laid their heads together, and agreed to meet at a certain point that night, Krause with the wounded German and two or three of his most faithful friends, and Delport with his party of fifty men.



As Mr. Botha, with strange intuition, had predicted, there were dastardly traitors in that group of fifty men—Judas-Boers—who, under the pretence of seeking an opportunity of joining the burgher forces, had persuaded Delport to allow them to accompany him. That he was innocent in this black crime of hideous treachery, no one who knew him ever had a doubt.

At the appointed place the two men met. Farther on they were joined by the wounded German and his comrades; still farther, beyond the boundary of the town, under a cluster of trees, well known to them as a secret trysting-place, the large party had assembled one by one and was awaiting the arrival of its leaders.

The latter, seeing in the distance a group of moving figures which they took to be their friends, walked boldly and serenely forward—to find themselves a moment later in a most deadly trap!

The conflict must have been a desperate one!

He who played so brave a part in it, Krause, the only armed man on his side, shot down his opponents one by one, until they closed on him, and then, overpowered by the fearful odds and battered beyond recognition by heavy blows from the butt-ends of their guns, he was at last pinioned to the ground by his infuriated captors.

Three men were taken, Krause, Venter (a mere boy, the son of a widow in Pretoria), and one other—who must be nameless here.

Of the rest some fled into the open veld, while others, hopelessly ignorant of their surroundings or of the route to take, wisely returned to town under cover of the darkness of the night.

With one exception. Fritz W., the wounded German, lost his way and was unable to go back to town before the curfew-bell, the hour at which every resident was supposed to be indoors.

Finding himself near a small camp of soldiers in the vicinity of the Pretoria West Station, he cautiously crept into one of the tents, where he found a solitary soldier, sound asleep. Without a moment's hesitation, he stretched himself down on the ground beside him, thinking over the tragic events of that awful Sunday evening and dozing off at intervals, from sheer exhaustion of mind and body.

During the night another soldier, evidently returning from duty as guard or outpost, entered the tent and lay beside him on the other side.

So he spent the night between two British soldiers, and with the first approach of dawn he cautiously and stealthily extricated himself from his perilous position and made his way to town.

* * * * *

Three or four days after the perfidious betrayal of the Secret Service men the Committee was staggered with the tidings of the execution of their comrades, Krause and Venter, in the prison-yard of the old Pretoria jail.

The third, the nameless one, had, it was said, saved himself by turning King's evidence.

Of their last days on earth nothing will ever be known, but those of us blessed or cursed with the divine and cruel gift of imagination see in our mind's eye two men in prison-cells in solitary confinement, one a broken-hearted husband, the other the beloved son of a widowed mother.

Wounded and suffering they lie on their last bed of pain. Friendless and alone they await the untimely end of their brief but glorious career. Longing, with all the weakness of the human heart, for one last look of love, one reassuring clasp from a tender woman's hand, they prepare themselves to meet the death they have faced so often and so manfully in their heroic struggle for liberty and independence.

Fear? Despair?

No—a thousand times, No!

Could there have been fear or despair in the hearts of those two men, with the knowledge beating in their brains that they held their lives in their own hands, that one word from them of information against their fellow-workers could avert their doom, and that they, and they alone, could save themselves at the sacrifice of honour and fidelity?

How in the end they met their fate we do not know—we can but dimly guess.

The painful task of acquainting Mrs. Krause with the fate of her husband fell to the lot of Mr. Botha and Mr. Hocke.

As she would probably be destitute, the two men decided to collect a sum of money before approaching her with their evil tidings, and this they had to do by stealth, in order not to bring suspicion on themselves.

They were successful in obtaining over L34 for the bereaved wife in a very short time, from friends and sympathisers as poor as they themselves, and later, from the same source, in the same unostentatious way, a far larger amount was collected in order to send the widow to her relatives in Germany.

These details, mundane though they may appear after the stirring acts of heroism described above, are significant of greater things—self-sacrificing generosity, unswerving loyalty, and a compassionate desire to atone, in some practical and helpful way, for their share in the disaster brought on innocent and helpless womanhood.



CHAPTER XXV

THE SHOEMAKER AT WORK

That the inborn sense of humour of the Dutch South African race should have been stunted in its growth, if not completely crushed, by the horrors of the war, would be small cause for surprise to most people who have given the matter a thought. But to those of us acquainted with the facts, an entirely different and wholly comprehensible aspect of the case has been made manifest.

The blessed gift of humour is only sharpened by the hard realities of life, can never be appreciated to the full in the calm and shallow waters of prosperity.

Of this we had innumerable proofs during those tempestuous days, and certain it is that the memory of a harmless joke, enjoyed under circumstances of unusual stress and trouble, grows sweeter and is strengthened as the years go by.

For dry humour and keen enjoyment of the ludicrous, our friend Mr. W. Botha could not easily be surpassed; and I advise you, good reader, if you have the chance, to induce him to tell you the following story in his own words, and to watch the flicker of amusement in his eye.

* * * * *

Four of Captain Naude's spies are in town again, resting, shopping, and exchanging items of war experiences with their friends and relatives.

Countless parcels have arrived from various stores of note in town, and four big bags, full to bursting, are arrayed against the wall for transportation "to the front" at 7 o'clock that night.

But what is this? Another bag? Impossible! There are but four men going out and each one has his load, quite as much as he can carry already.

What does it contain? A beautiful brand-new saddle, the property of an English officer, which Willie Els, son of the Committee member, has determined shall on no account be left behind.

Expostulations from the older men are all in vain.

The saddle, with the four other bags, is put into Delport's cab, which is waiting at the door, and, after many fond farewells, the young men drive off in the direction of the Pretoria Lunatic Asylum.

At this time there is no better spot for exit from the capital, but in order to reach it one point of extreme danger has to be passed—the point at which a British officer, with five-and-twenty mounted men, is stationed, in command of a searchlight apparatus for scouring the surrounding country.

The dangerous spot has been frequently passed in safety by these very spies.

To-night they pass again in unobserved security, but alas! when they have crossed the railway line, immediately opposite the asylum, where they are in the habit of alighting with their parcels, they find to their distress that, try as they will, they cannot carry more than the four bags allotted to them in the first instance.

The bag containing the precious saddle must go back to town.

Oh, the pity of it!

The critical spot must be passed again, and, as ill-luck would have it, the British officer hails the passing cab and is about to get in, when his eye falls on the bag.

"What is this?" he asks the driver.

No concealment possible now!

"A saddle, sir."

"A saddle! Whose, and where are you taking it?"

"From Mr. Botha to Mr. Els in town. On my way I was stopped and asked to take some passengers to the asylum, which I have just done. I was going to Mr. Botha when you stopped me."

The officer looks doubtful, feels the bag all over and, taking a notebook from his pocket, enters all the details of this most suspicious-looking affair, the number of the cab, the name and address of the driver, the names and full addresses of the two men who have been mentioned.

Then he gets in and peremptorily orders the cabman to drive to such-and-such an hotel in the centre of the town.

With a throb of relief Delport deposits his fare at the hotel and, whipping up his horses, drives at the utmost speed to Mr. Els' house, to warn him of the danger he is in.

Mr. and Mrs. Botha have just retired for the night, when they are aroused by a hurried knock at the front door. They admit two girls, one of them the daughter of Mrs. Els, the other a sister to Mrs. Naude, both extremely agitated.

Miss Els speaks first:

"Oom Willie, you must please come to our house at once. My father is very ill."

Oom Willie's heart sinks into his slippers.

This, the long-expected sign that their game is up, has come at last.

He hastens to the home of his friend.

When he learns the truth the case does not seem so hopeless after all and he feels his courage returning.

"We must think of some plan with which to meet the police when they come. Quick! There is not a moment to lose. They may be here at any minute."

In an incredibly short time the officer's new saddle is buried in a bag of coal, which is again sewn up and thrown into the back-yard, while an old and worthless saddle is produced, Heaven only knows from where, cut up into pieces and placed in a large basin of water on the dining-room table.

"Now, Oom Gerrie," Mr. Botha says, as soon as he can find his breath, "you are a shoemaker by trade, and this old saddle has been sent to you by me to make shoes for my children."

"But you have not got any! and I have never made a shoe in my life!"

"Well, then, for my nieces and nephews. Never mind about your ignorance. When any one comes in, remember you are just on the point of beginning your work. I shall send you an old last when I get home."

A pocket-knife, a hammer, and a few nails scattered on the table complete the shoemaker's outfit, and there he sits, with trembling hands and spectacles on nose, far into the night, for does he not expect the dreaded knock at his front door before the dawn of another day?

Next morning Oom Willie raps smartly at the door and walks in unceremoniously, to find Oom Gerrie just about to begin his work, as with shaking hand he adjusts his spectacles.

"How is trade this morning?" he asks, with a jolly laugh, as he settles himself on a chair to watch his friend's discomfiture. But Oom Gerrie is not pleased at all. The trade is getting on Oom Gerrie's nerves, and he takes no part in the hilarity around him.

Two days pass, three, four, and no English officer appears, no search is made for contraband of war in Oom Gerrie's house; but every time the door is opened or a footstep heard on the verandah, Oom Gerrie may be found with one hand plunged in a basin of water, while with the other he adjusts his spectacles.

Poor Oom Gerrie!

He gives up his trade in despair at last, for after all it does not pay, but as long as the old man lives he will be forced to listen to the question:

"How is the boot-making trade?"



CHAPTER XXVI

BITTEN BY OUR OWN DOGS

The events about to be recorded in this chapter have just reminded me of an incident which took place immediately after the occupation of the capital.

An old Kaffir, who had been with the English just before Pretoria was taken, told Mrs. van Warmelo that three Boer men had ridden out on bicycles to the English lines, and held consultation with them—traitors evidently, in secret understanding with the enemy, to whom they took information of some sort.

The old Kaffir wound up his remarks by saying:

"Missis, you are bitten by your own dogs."

How true this was, was soon to be brought home to us in the most forcible way; but before we go on to the next developments in our story I must not forget to tell you, good reader, that the three spies from whom Hansie parted on the evening of August 15th had quite an escape as they left the town.

They were driven in a cab, with their numerous parcels, as far as the wire enclosure, by a friend who always escorted them through the most dangerous parts of the town.

This friend, a young Mr. van der Westhuizen, played an important but unobtrusive role in the history of the men with whom we are concerned.

When Hansie met him first he was in the Pretoria hospital with a badly wounded arm, of which some of the muscles had been completely severed. As he never recovered the entire use of that arm, he was detained in Pretoria with other men unable to escape, and, carrying his left arm in a sling, he was made use of by the Secret Committee and by Mrs. Joubert, who employed him as her coachman.

He carried a residential pass, which he produced on every imaginable occasion, and was able to render untold services to the spies by conveying them with their parcels to the wire fence. But on this occasion they nearly got into serious trouble, for, just as the cab was nearing the enclosure, a searchlight from one of the forts was turned full on them. In consternation, one of the men ordered the driver to turn to the left, another to the right, but with great presence of mind he ignored them both, and drove straight on, thus disarming a group of soldiers, standing near, of any suspicions they might have had at seeing a cab so near the fence at night.

Fortunately, the light was soon turned in another direction.

The spies descended with their parcels, and were shortly in the deep furrow along which they had to creep to reach the wire fence, cautiously wending their way to friends and liberty, when some one came running after them, shouting to them to stop.

It was van der Westhuizen with a parcel they had left in the cab.

In this way the three men left the town with the railway time-table, not to come in again until September 10th.

My readers will remember the five men who were cut off from their refuge in the Skurvebergen some time back, and one of whom Mrs. van Warmelo had refused to harbour.

I shall not name them, for I do not feel myself justified in damning the reputation of the Boer traitors for ever by publishing their names, but the events I am about to relate cannot be excluded without changing the entire character of this story.

These men had been concealed by other friends, and when the scare was over they escaped from Pretoria to the commandos. They had nearly been forgotten when news reached the capital of their capture by the enemy, five of them in all, and of their imprisonment in jail.

While their life hung in the balance a time of nervous dread, not to be forgotten, was passed through, for they would either be shot as spies or they could save themselves by betraying their friends.

The suspense was soon over.

One of them—the very one, in fact, who had been refused admittance to Harmony through Mrs. van Warmelo's prudence, turned King's evidence and, to save his own precious skin, revealed the names of the good friends who had sheltered him at their own peril.

Rumour said that two of the betrayed would be shot on the evidence he gave against them.

Not only the names of his friends in town did he betray, but he also told the authorities how and when and where the spies came in, the names of the men who worked with him on commando, and the families who harboured them in town.

More than eighty people were incriminated.

On every side whole families were arrested, the men being put into jail, while their women and children were sent away to Concentration Camps.

My readers must understand that this was an entirely different set of people, not known to those at Harmony, and with whom they had had no dealings. It was no credit to Hansie that she and her mother were not on the list of the betrayed. She remembered with humility and shame her unreasonable fit of temper when her mother refused to harbour the traitor, and determined to give ear to her wise counsel in future.

They and their friends were in no way affected by his treachery, except in so far that it cast a gloom over them and made them realise that the Boers would not be able to hold out much longer against the machinations of these traitors of their own flesh and blood. Another matter for grave concern was the thought that Captain Naude might attempt to pass through his usual route, not knowing that the enemy had been informed of it, and run straight into the traps prepared for him.

How to get out a warning to the Skurvebergen in time was the problem before them now.

Hansie spent the next few days in flying about on her bicycle to find out if any one in the "inner circle" had been arrested.

Thank God, no. Mr. Willem Botha was at home, the Jouberts were still in undisturbed security, all the other members of the Secret Committee were safe.

They congratulated themselves and one another on their escape, and Mr. Botha, visiting at Harmony a few days later, once more impressed on them the danger of coming into contact with any spies other than those they knew and trusted.

And again he warned them to keep no papers in the house—"for," he continued, "we must always bear in mind that we can never be sure we have not been betrayed. Our names may be on the black list already, and the enemy may only be waiting to catch us red-handed. No one is safe, and no one ought to feel safe."

There was a moment's pause, and then he went on, with evident reluctance: "I have good reason for warning you again. I do not wish to alarm you, but only last night, as I was walking in the moonlight with my wife, we passed a man I know well, with a girl on his arm. The moon was shining very brightly, and, as they passed me, I distinctly heard him say, 'This man has also been given away.'"

Hansie felt a thrill of acute anxiety for her friend. The two women looked at one another.

They tried to console themselves with the thought that the man might have mistaken Mr. Botha for some one else. There was nothing to do but wait, but the suspense and uncertainty were very hard to bear, and long were the discussions over every imaginable possibility.

They knew that the traitor was acquainted with the Captain of the Secret Service and his private secretary Mr. Greyling. Did he also know the names of the members of the Committee? Did Greyling confide the secret of the time-table to him? These young men were reckless. Death was their daily bread, and caution was a thing unknown to them.

Wonderful developments could be expected within the next few days.

The lowering clouds of adversity gathered closely, surely, mercilessly, around our friends.

Clasp that hand again, and once again, in mute farewell. Look deep into those steadfast eyes. It may be for the last time for many long, relentless years; it may be for the last time—on earth!



CHAPTER XXVII

THE BETRAYAL OF THE SECRET COMMITTEE. A MEMORABLE DAY OF TROUBLE

It was only a few days after the van Warmelos had parted from Mr. Botha that Mr. J. Joubert arrived at Harmony with the tidings that four men had again entered the town that night. One of them was a lad of nineteen, young Erasmus, whose parents had been killed by lightning when he was a child, and to whom Mrs. Joubert had been a second mother.

When he arrived at their home that night they were very angry with him, and demanded what he meant by coming into the very heart of danger.

He meekly answered that he had merely come to see how they were all getting on, and to spend a few days at home, casually remarking that there was a dearth of horse-shoe nails on commando, and that he had been ordered to bring some out.

He and his comrades knew nothing of the recent betrayal, and it was their good fortune that they had used an entirely different route, coming through Skinner's Court. They had not seen a single guard.

Besides the horse-shoe nails, there was the usual demand for clothing and European and Colonial newspapers.

Mrs. van Warmelo immediately made a parcel of the cuttings which she and her friends had been collecting for some time past, and wrote a tiny note to Mr. Greyling, warning him and his fellows against coming in through the usual way, which was now guarded, and informing him that his name had been betrayed. This note was hidden in a match-box with a double false bottom, covered with matches, and given to Erasmus to be handed to Greyling.

Since the revelations made, it was not safe to see the spies, nor was it known by whom the match-box had been sent.

After all, in spite of Mrs. Joubert's vexation with the reckless youth, she was thankful to know that some one was going out to Skurveberg with a warning to the Secret Service.

Erasmus had to leave without the horse-shoe nails, because, though J. Joubert hunted all over the town, he could not procure enough to send out.

The stores sold them only to the military and blacksmiths, and the latter were curious to know why he did not bring his horses to them to be shod.

Mother and daughter were there at 5.30 p.m., with their parcels, and at 6 p.m. the spies were to leave, Mrs. Malan and van der Westhuizen driving out with them as far as they could.

That was a real danger, compared with which all other risks were as nothing, to drive through the streets of Pretoria with spies, at a time when everyone was liable to be stopped to produce residential passes and to show permits for horses and carriages.

But, indeed, those women were not to be intimidated by anything!

We have now come to a morning into which many events of disastrous importance were crowded, the fateful September 9th. Before breakfast, an agitated girl, unknown at Harmony, arrived with the intelligence that Mr. Willem Botha had been arrested at 8 o'clock the night before.

No other names were mentioned then, but it was felt instinctively that the entire Secret Committee had been betrayed and arrested, and the news, when it reached Harmony during the course of the day, found mother and daughter to some extent prepared. The shock, nevertheless, was so great, so crushing, that it took them some time to recover sufficiently to form a plan of action.

Hansie hastily swallowed some food and was preparing to go to town, when her mother asked her what she meant to do, whether she had thought of anything, or if it was advisable to show herself at all just then.

"I don't know what I am going to do afterwards, mother," she said, "but I am going straight to Mrs. Botha now."

"Hansie!" exclaimed Mrs. van Warmelo in consternation, "you will do nothing of the kind. Their house will be watched, and you will be followed home. You can do nothing to help that poor woman now, and to be seen with her would be an unpardonable and unnecessary risk."

But Hansie had made up her mind, and nothing could persuade her that it was not her duty to stand by her friend in her hour of need. There was good reason, too, for her anxiety.

After thirteen years of happy, though childless married life, Mr. and Mrs. Botha's home was about to be blessed with an infant child, and it was the thought of the expectant mother's anguish and despair that took Hansie to her side.

"Well" (Mrs. van Warmelo was secretly pleased with her daughter's behaviour), "if you are determined to expose yourself to this danger, I think I had better begin to pack at once, for we shall certainly be sent away."

"All right, mother," Hansie laughed; "pack away, and I'll come home as soon as I can to help you."

She took tender leave of her mother, cheering her with hopeful words and whistling gaily to Carlo to come and protect her on her adventurous expedition.

No one could have been more surprised to see Hansie than Mrs. Botha. She stared as if she could not believe her eyes, and then fell sobbing on her young friend's shoulder.

"How could you risk it to come here?" she exclaimed.

"No one else has been near me, and I am deserted by all my friends since——" here she fell a-weeping again, and clung to Hansie for support.

As soon as she could speak, she gave an account of all that had taken place.

She and her husband were sitting under the verandah the night before, talking about the miserable business of the spy's infidelity and its disastrous results to so many people in town. Mr. Botha was just saying that, in the event of his arrest, his wife need have no fear of his betraying a friend, and that the English might shoot him, but they would not get a shred of information out of him, when two detectives on bicycles rode up and dismounted at the steps.

Mrs. Botha just had time to whisper hurriedly to her husband that she would rather see him dead than have him come back to her a traitor, when the detectives, producing a warrant for his arrest, approached him.

He gave himself up quietly; there was nothing else for him to do. He was unarmed, for it was one of the first rules of the Committee and practically their only safeguard in the event of an arrest, to carry on their work without weapons of any sort.

The house was thoroughly searched for spies and all books and papers were taken away, but, thanks to Mr. Botha's prudence and foresight, not a single incriminating document was found.

The remembrance of this was a source of great comfort to his wife, for, without proofs, his life was safe, although he would probably be sent as prisoner of war to one of the distant islands.

Mrs. Botha was a brave and true woman. She did not think of herself at all, but she was so much concerned for Hansie's safety that she urged her to go home at once and not to come again. The first part of her injunctions Hansie obeyed, but she refused to promise not to be seen at that house again.

It was being closely watched, there was no doubt of that, and on getting into a cab she soon became aware of being followed by two men on bicycles.

This was rather exciting, and Hansie actually enjoyed the chase. Instead of urging her cabby to whip up his horses, she gave him instructions to go as slowly as possible, well knowing that it would be more difficult for any one on a bicycle to follow a crawling cab unnoticed than to pursue a more swiftly moving vehicle.

When she reached Harmony and paid her fare she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that the men dismounted before the War Office.

"Were you followed home?" was her mother's first question.

"Yes, indeed," she replied, laughing; "they are near our gate at this very moment, and I can just imagine them going to the sergeant-major presently, asking questions about the people living here. And I am quite sure his answer will be, 'Bless you, no. Those two ladies are quiet and well-behaved, and you don't suppose they could be carrying on any of that business under my very nose!'"

Hansie's diaries had all been removed to an office in town and placed in a safe safe. All safes were not "safe" in those days, but this one belonged to a man who was known as a model of good behaviour throughout the war. White envelopes, diaries, copies of official dispatches from the field, all had been removed from Harmony, except the "White Diary" which lay open on her writing-table, and to which we owe a detailed account of the stirring events of September 1901.

What it naturally did not contain was accurate information of the arrest of the other Committee members and their subsequent experiences.

Trusted friends were beyond her reach, and she had to content herself with what information she could gather from men "about the town," but this information, verified by what she was told by the men concerned long after the war was over, will give the reader a fair idea of the events of this period.

Not only Mr. Botha, but all the members of the Secret Committee had been arrested that night, and two days later the staggering tidings came of Mr. Jannie Joubert's removal to the Rest Camp, where "political prisoners" were detained.

Now indeed fears of a speedy raid on Harmony were justified.

Their fellow-conspirators were all in the hand of the enemy, and although they trusted them implicitly, and knew there was no one amongst them base enough to betray his friends, they had no reason to think that the people who had betrayed the others would spare them.

One revelation after the other was made that day, and Hansie learnt from some one, who said he was in possession of all the facts, that, despicable though the treacherous spy's behaviour had been, he was not responsible for the exposure of the Secret Service Committee.

Alas, no! the appearance of another traitor in our midst has to be recorded here.

One of the young spies in the service of the Committee had been taken by the enemy, how and where I am not at liberty to say, but there were circumstances connected with his capture, and facts known to the enemy of the hazardous part he had played on previous occasions, which made it clear from the beginning that he would be convicted.

Some one who was allowed to visit him regularly in his cell told me that he stood his trial bravely and steadfastly refused to betray a single name to save himself. Threats and persuasions were of no avail.

On Saturday night in his cell his death sentence was read to him.

The execution was to take place on Sunday morning at 6 o'clock, he was told.

Incidentally his jailers informed him that there was still a chance for him if he would give the authorities the names of some of the people in town who were in communication with the Boers in the field.

He was then left to his pleasant reflections.

Reader, we must not be too harsh in our judgment of him. He was only a boy, not yet twenty years of age, and we shall never know what anguish of mind he endured that night.

When day broke he was in no way fit for the harrowing scene awaiting him. His father, his sister, and his fiancee were admitted to his cell at the fateful hour that morning, to take their last leave of him.

They clung to him, sobbing, wailing, and imploring him to give the names of his fellow-conspirators. What arguments were brought to bear upon him we shall never know.

He yielded, and in that God-forsaken cell on Sunday morning he gave the names required of him, the five members of the Secret Committee and other names familiar to us all, Jannie Joubert, Franz Smit, Liebenberg, etc.

Ah, if he had been executed that day, how his memory would have been revered by his friends and respected by his foes! But what was he now?—a traitor, oh God! a traitor to his land and people!

And a coward too, base and craven-hearted, shielding his miserable life with dishonour and treachery.

That the enemy would not have shot him in any case, because of his youth, makes no difference to the blackness of his deed, except perhaps to add to the bitterness of his remorse when afterwards he was apprised of this fact.[4]

The death sentence was commuted, and instead he was sentenced to several years' hard labour; he was, in fact, still "doing time" in Pretoria and Johannesburg two years after peace had been declared.

Of the women who were the cause of his downfall I can only say that they were never in any way connected with the "Petticoat Commando."

* * * * *

When the news of Jannie Joubert's arrest became known, Mrs. van Warmelo positively forbade her daughter to go to Mrs. Joubert's house.

There was nothing to be done, and although they had every reason to believe that their names were on the list of the betrayed, nothing could be gained by exposing themselves to unnecessary danger.

It was told Hansie, the day after the last sweeping arrests had been made, that Mrs. Joubert's carriage had been standing before the Military Governor's office for some time.

This information brought the reality of the situation vividly to her mind.

What was the old lady doing there? Pleading for her son? Was there no way of helping her? These questions preyed on Hansie's mind, until she obtained permission from her mother to visit Mr. Jannie's sister, Mrs. Malan.

Mrs. Malan was in bed with influenza, she said, but it was quite evident that acute distress of mind had a large share in her indisposition.

On Sunday night, after the fateful morning of the last betrayal, the Jouberts were surprised by a visit from the Provost-Marshal himself, accompanied by another officer.

They asked permission to search the house for the ammunition which they knew to be concealed there. Ammunition! Jannie said he knew of none, except a boxful of cartridges standing in the loft. They had been found lying about the house and were stowed away when the English had taken possession of Pretoria. He took the officers up to the loft and showed them the box, but they were not satisfied, and ordered him to appear before the Provost-Marshal the next day, to give a satisfactory explanation.

A search was also made for documents, but nothing was found except an old heliographic chart which his father, Commandant-General Joubert, had used long ago in Kaffir wars.

Jannie Joubert went the following day to give an account of himself, and the next thing his mother heard was that he had been arrested and removed to the Rest Camp. (Arrest Camp, some people called it!)

He was very independent and refused to take the oath of neutrality, which, strange to say, he had hitherto avoided, and it would certainly not have been to his taste had he known that his mother had been to the Military Governor to intercede for him.

The result of that interview was not satisfactory. He would only be released on signing parole.

This, Mrs. Malan thought, he would certainly refuse to do.

"We were treated with marked kindness," she continued, "and this may be taken as proof that the English are not aware of the real facts."

The two women laughed in mutual understanding of their conspiracies.

"Still this leniency may be only a blind, Hansie. It is painful not to know how much the enemy knows."

"What will you do if Captain Naude and Mr. Greyling come in to-night?" Hansie asked.

"Shelter them, of course!" was the undaunted reply.

* * * * *

That night as Hansie lay on her sleepless pillow, she felt as if all the batteries of the gold mines were thumping on her heart.

Mrs. Malan's last words to her rang continually in her ears:

"Willie Botha will be executed without a doubt."

But before day dawned Hansie's heart was at rest and she slept, for she had solved the problem in her mind.

She would go to General Maxwell and plead with him for the life of her friend.

He was human and tender-hearted, that she knew, and she would tell him how an innocent young life hung in the balance, how the lives of both mother and child would be imperilled if such a cruel fate befell the father. If her pleadings were of no avail, she would offer to give, in exchange for his life, the name of one well known to her as a dangerous enemy to the English.

And when she had made sure of his release, hers would be the name she would reveal.

During the dark days which followed Hansie found her strong support in the thought of this resolve.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: The writer was misinformed on this point. After the age of fourteen, boys are liable to be executed.]



CHAPTER XXVIII

HANSIE EARNING THE VOTE

Events moved quickly in those days.

The conspirators had hardly had time to recover from the shock of the recent arrests, they were just beginning to wonder what would happen if their unsuspecting friends from commando walked into the pitfalls prepared for them, racking their brains for plans to avert such a catastrophe, when the very thing they feared took place.

Instead of the familiar figure of Willie Botha coming up the garden path with news, Mrs. Malan drove up with Jannie Joubert's fiancee, Miss Malan.

Their appearance at Harmony brought all that had happened most forcibly to the minds of the stricken inmates, filling them with the sense of acute loss; and when they heard what their visitors had to tell, four women more forlorn would have been hard to find.

In short sentences Mrs. Malan told how four young men, all ignorant of the fate of their fellows in town, had tried to come in from the High Veld, bearing with them dispatches from Captain Naude to the President and to the Committee of spies in town.

These men had gone to and fro for months without a single encounter with outpost or guard, but on this occasion, when they reached the wire enclosure, they were unexpectedly met by a storm of bullets.

One of them, as he stooped to get through the fence, felt the hot air of a bullet passing under his nose.

He hastily gave the order to retreat over the "koppies" and across the railway line, thus entering Pretoria on the opposite side.

When they met again, before entering the town, one of them was missing!

Young Els had disappeared, and no one knew whether he had been shot or taken, or whether he had fallen into some hole and perhaps been so severely injured that he could not follow them. His comrades were in deep distress. To go back and search for him was impossible, so they entered the town at the utmost peril of their lives. Torn and bleeding, they slunk through the streets of Pretoria, avoiding the light of the electric lamps, and concealing themselves behind trees at the sight of every man in khaki, until they reached Mrs. Malan's house.

Their guardian angels must have kept them from going to Mrs. Joubert's house, as usual, that night.

Imagine their surprise and horror when they heard of the betrayal of the Committee, for the warning sent out to Skurveberg did not reach them, they having come from the High Veld.

The news of Jannie's arrest and of Mrs. Joubert's house having been searched, and now being so closely watched that they could not possibly take shelter there, came as a crushing blow.

True to her word, Mrs. Malan determined to shelter them that night, but the house being too dangerous a hiding-place, they were stowed away in Mr. David Malan's waggon-house, closely packed in one small waggon, and there they still lay when the van Warmelos heard of their arrival.

From the bosom of her dress Miss Malan produced the dispatches and a number of private letters.

The dispatch to the President Hansie offered to send by the first opportunity, without telling her friends that it would go by the very next mail per White Envelope. This was a secret she naturally could not divulge to her most trusted fellow-workers, although she could guarantee that the work would be carried out, and they had enough confidence in her to leave the matter in her hands.

The letter from the Captain to the Committee was left at Harmony to be read and destroyed. Needless to say, Hansie, with her mania for collecting war-curios, made a full copy of both letter and dispatch in lemon-juice before regretfully consigning them to the flames. It was hard to destroy original documents for which such risks had been run!

What was most disconcerting was to hear that the authorities, evidently aware that the men had come through in spite of having been fired upon, were searching for them in town. It was imperative that they should leave that day, or at least as soon as night fell, for the risk they ran was very great.

Hansie promised to think of some way of helping them to escape safely, and said she would see them in the afternoon.

The feeling of responsibility on her young shoulders was very great. There was no one to turn to, no man to whom this dangerous mission could be entrusted, except one, her young friend, F.

She thought of him and wondered whether she could confide to him a scheme which had been slowly forming in her mind.

That afternoon she was on the point of leaving for Mrs. Malan's house, with a packet of letters and newspapers, when two lady callers arrived at Harmony brimming with the news that the town was in a great state of excitement. Armed soldiers were patrolling the streets, men were stopped to show their residential passes, and every cab and carriage was held up for inspection.

The general opinion was that there were spies in town, for the lower part of the town and west of Market Street were cut off by a patrol, while a systematic search of the private houses was being carried on.

Hansie chafed at the delay, listening with impatience to their excited talk, and wondering what they would say if they knew that she was on the point of going to those spies with the parcel in her hands.

By a happy coincidence, when the callers had taken their departure, another visitor arrived—F., the very man she wished to see.

But he, too, was full of the excitement in town and did not notice the unusual anxiety in Hansie's manner.

"General Botha has come in 'to negotiate,'" he said. "The town is alive with soldiers, but there must be something else brewing at the same time, for every house is being searched, and a cordon has been drawn round some parts of the town. It is impossible for any one to get through from one place to another beyond Market Street."

Hansie's heart sank for a moment.

Then she said: "I have to go to town at once, F.; will you come with me? I have a great deal to tell you and we can talk as we go along. You remember you once said that I must come to you if ever I got into any trouble. Well, I am in serious trouble now—not for myself—but, tell me, have you your residential pass with you?"

He produced it.

She continued: "Then we are safe for the present. Let us sit in the Park while I tell you in what way I want you to help me."

They found a secluded spot under one of the trees in Burgher's Park, and there Hansie took him into her confidence, unfolding her plan to him.

"If, as you say, F., a cordon is being drawn around the houses that have already been searched, those three men may be cut off at any moment. They cannot wait where they are at present, no more can they show themselves on the streets without residential passes. If you can help me to borrow three passes for them, I myself will walk with them as far as the wire enclosure and bring the passes back to you."

F. whistled, called her "plucky," but thought the whole thing far too risky.

"You would all be taken near the wire fence," he said, "and what about the men who would be without their passes while you had them?"

"They must not show themselves," she said.

"And if they are found in their homes?"

"Oh!" she cried impatiently, "they must be willing to risk something too."

"Have you thought of any one?" he asked.

"Yes, I have thought of D. and G., if you will bring them to me. Fetch them, F. I'll go and tell the men to wait for the passes. You will find me at your gate."

"But then you would have only two passes, Hansie."

She looked earnestly into his eyes, and he turned away without a word.

He went off in one direction and Hansie in another, and when she reached Mrs. Malan's house she was told that the three men had decided to risk the dangers of the street and to leave immediately. In this they were impelled, not so much by the consideration of their own safety, as the thought of the perils to which they exposed the Malans by remaining in their house. When Hansie told them she was procuring residential passes for them, they held a short consultation and eventually decided to wait another half-hour. With passes in their pockets they would be comparatively safe.

Promising to come back immediately, Hansie rushed to F.'s rooms, where she met him coming through the gate with D. and G.

"F.," she whispered, "be quick. They are on the point of leaving."

He drew her aside and said: "I am very sorry, Hansie. The fellows refuse to lend you their passes."

"Refuse!" she echoed in miserable incredulity. "Refuse! oh Heaven, and this means life or death to those men! They cannot appear on the streets to-night without passes."

"It is a great thing to ask, Hansie. You cannot blame them."

"F., I must once again remind you of your promise. Help me now. I am not pleading for myself."

He drew his residential pass from his pocket and placed it in her hand, motioning her to go. She gave him a quick look of gratitude, but returned the pass with the words, "No good to me unless I have three. Think of something else."

He called to the two other young fellows who were standing moodily apart and ordered them to think.

They thought. Perhaps they would have been standing there thinking still, if F. had not suddenly burst out with:

"Look here, you fellows, it is not safe to stand out here like this, and we are losing time. Let us go into my room and talk this thing over."

They walked rapidly towards the house, where a number of bachelors lived together, and reached the room unobserved.

F. drew the blinds, locked the door, and placed Hansie in an easy chair, while he and D. rummaged in a writing-table for some papers. G. sat on the bed with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

The two young men were whispering together, bending eagerly over some papers they had found.

"This one will do," Hansie heard F. say, "but it will take some time."

"Don't you think I ought to go and tell the men to wait?" she asked.

"No, better not be seen walking in and out here. We will make haste!"

Ah, why did Hansie not obey the warning voice within, and go?

For the next ten minutes nothing was said. The men cut and glued and typed without a word, and the result, when it was placed in Hansie's hands, was a document exceedingly well-planned and put together.

This was what she read:

MILITARY GOVERNOR'S OFFICE, PRETORIA.

Special Pass

for J.W. Venter, G. Vermaak, and L. Erasmus to be out until midnight, on Secret Service.

Signed by MAJOR J. WESTON, Assistant Military Governor.

What puzzled her at first sight was the small official crown above, undoubtedly authentic, and the unmistakable signature of the Major below; but on closer inspection, she observed that the part containing the original letter had been cut away from the centre, the top part with the heading and the bottom part with the signature being pasted down on the blank page underneath.

On the middle part of the blank sheet the "Special Pass" was typed, and the whole when completed, with the date plainly typed underneath, looked like a single sheet of paper folded in three.

Hansie shook hands with them all, and asking G. to go to Harmony to reassure her mother, she sped on her way to Mrs. Malan's house.

F. called out after her, "If you come back this way, Hansie, I'll wait for you and see you home."

"All right, thank you," the answer came.

It was now past 6 o'clock and nearly dark. Every one else was at supper, and Hansie flew through the deserted streets with apprehension at her heart.

She was met at the gate by Mrs. Malan, wringing her hands and crying out:

"Oh, where have you been so long? Why did you not come sooner? They've gone!"

Then Hansie felt inclined to lie down and die.

Fortunately there was no time for that.

There was still something to be done, and, with the precious paper clasped to her heart, she could at least pursue the men. Perhaps she could overtake them before evil should befall them.

"What direction did they take, and how many of them are there?" she asked.

"Four," Mrs. Malan answered. "One has a residential pass. If they are held up, the other three will escape while he pretends to be searching for it. Go over the Sunnyside bridge and call 'Jasper' when you see four men——"

Without waiting to hear more, Hansie turned and ran, stopping only a moment at F.'s gate to call out his name. She did not wait to see whether he had heard, but ran again, and he, sauntering towards the gate a moment later on the look-out for her, saw her flying form just disappearing in the darkness.

"Something has evidently gone wrong," he muttered, and he, too, in his turn began to run, pursuing the figure of the girl as she sped after the Secret Service men.

She did not stop when he caught up with her, pulling her arm through his, but ran on, telling him in brief sentences what had happened.

Every few yards she called, "Jasper! Jasper!" in the vain hope that this might bring the fugitives forward, should they have concealed themselves behind the trees along the road.

Poor Hansie was becoming thoroughly exhausted, when suddenly, as they neared the Sunnyside bridge, four men under the electric light became plainly visible.

"You must run again, Hansie," F. said, and putting his arm around her, he literally carried her along.

Alas! the figures proved to be four Kaffirs coming towards them, and, with a broken sob, Hansie realised that all their efforts were in vain.

It was no use running now.

Sunnyside was badly lit, and one could barely see two yards ahead, so the plotters walked slowly to Harmony, encouraging one another with the thought that the men must already be beyond the outskirts of the town.

"We have heard no shots, and that is a good sign," Hansie said, "for the men were armed, and in the event of a surprise they meant to fight for their lives."



CHAPTER XXIX

A WAR-BABY AND A CURIOUS CHRISTENING

As far as was known, no men were arrested that night.

The man who had escorted the spies through Sunnyside and over the railway line, the dauntless van der Westhuizen with the bandaged arm, had left them not far from the wire enclosure, and had then waited some time, listening for sounds of commotion.

As no shots had broken the stillness of the night, he had every reason to believe that they had escaped with their lives.

* * * * *

For some weeks there was a "lull in spies." But there was no lack of other sensations, for September 1901 will ever be remembered as one of the most trying months throughout the year of the war.

It reminded one of that September month before war was declared, when the air was filled with the sweet, penetrating odour of orange-blossoms and many hearts were torn with the agony of suspense and a feeling of impending disaster.

Again the orange trees were in full bloom, bringing back to one's senses the remembrance of past suffering, and the full realisation of present horror and unrest.

The great weeping-willows were showing their first mysterious tinge of pale yellowish green, and Hansie, watching them, wondered what developments would have taken place before those overhanging branches would be crowned with the full beauty of midsummer. September 1901 was a month of proclamations and peace negotiations, all of which "ended in smoke."

After General Botha's visit to Pretoria the Boers concentrated their forces around the capital, strong commandos under General Botha, de la Rey, Beyers, and Viljoen. It was said that there were quite 6,000 troops in town awaiting developments, and Hansie coming home one evening, surprised her mother by saying that "Khaki was in the deuce of a funk!"

Her mother remonstrated with her, expressing her strong disapproval of such language, but Hansie only laughed.

"I was told so in town, mother. The enemy seems to expect our people to sweep through the town, if only to release our prisoners. How I wish they would come and carry off some of our splendid men in the jail and Rest Camp!"

The fate of the Committee men had not yet been decided.

As they were kept in solitary confinement and naturally not allowed to hold communication with any of their friends, nothing was known at the time of the troubles undergone by them, and it was some years after the war before Hansie came into full possession of the facts.

Ten men in all had been taken that night, the five members of the Committee and five other men in their service, and they were kept separate, not being allowed to see one another during the sixteen days of their imprisonment in the Pretoria jail.

Now, the remarkable part about this story is, that though nothing had been arranged between these men in the event of an arrest, no line of action agreed upon by them by which they could safely guard themselves and their friends, they one and all adopted the same policy under the severe cross-questioning to which they were subjected in their cells.

My readers must understand that trials under martial law are not necessarily conducted with the ordinary formalities of a court of justice; in fact, in the case of these men it cannot be said that there was a trial at all, for they were cross-questioned in their cells apart, and without witnesses.

They never saw the light of day except for a ten-minutes' exercise in the prison-yard every morning; and, on comparing notes afterwards, they found that they had been subjected to the same treatment undergone by the unfortunate men who had turned King's evidence and who had been the cause of their undoing. To some of them the death sentence was read at night, with a promise of pardon if they betrayed the names of their fellow-conspirators in town, and sometimes they were visited in their cells by officers who informed them that one or other of their fellow-prisoners had "given away the show."

"You may safely speak out now, for we know everything. So-and-so has turned King's evidence." But these brave men saw through the ruse, and steadfastly refused to sell their honour for their lives. With one accord they answered, "So-and-so may have given you information, but I know nothing."

They were subjected to severe treatment, half-starved, threatened, told that they were condemned to death, and then severely left alone with the sword hanging over their heads—to no avail. Not a word of information was wrung from them, no murmur of complaint crossed their lips.

This lasted sixteen days, and during that time they suffered intensely, the food being unfit for consumption and their surroundings filthy beyond words. As I have said before, there were among their number men physically unfit for hardships like these.

Mr. Willem Botha was one of them, and as the days dragged on, the headaches with which he was afflicted became more frequent and increased in violence.

He feared that he would lose his reason and, in losing it, betray all to his jailers, and he was consumed with anxiety for his wife.

After the first shock of his arrest, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the recollection that he had forgotten to destroy the slip of paper on which the message concerning the Boer traitor in the Free State had been conveyed to him through a prisoner in the Rest Camp. He tried to remember what he had done with it, but in vain. Each day found him torn with anxiety, searching his memory for the threads of recollection, broken in the stress of the last stirring events before his arrest. Suddenly one day it flashed across his mind that he had pushed the slip of paper between the tattered leaves of an old hymn-book.

Bitterly he reproached himself with his unpardonable negligence. That slip of paper, containing injunctions to the Committee to convey information of such a serious character to the Boer leaders, would be sufficient proof against him and his fellows. No other evidence would be required to bring them to their death, if it had fallen into the hands of the enemy.

The unfortunate man, in his prison cell, prayed for deliverance, not only for himself, but for the trusty comrades who would be exposed to such deadly peril by this, his one act of indiscretion.

The weary days dragged on.

Suffering, not to be described by words, was the daily portion of this man.

His fellow-prisoners shared the same fate, with one exception.

Mr. Hattingh in his prison cell, who had been taken in his deacon's frock-coat that Sunday night, reaped the rewards of the sagacity he had displayed on the occasion of the visit to his house of the Judas-Boer.

There was a marked difference in the treatment he received at the hands of his jailers. He was not once condemned to death, and he was hardly cross-questioned during the entire term of his imprisonment—better food, kinder treatment being accorded him than to any of his fellows, as he found on comparing notes with them afterwards.

It was quite evident that he was the only man about whose guilt the enemy was in a certain amount of doubt.

His family, too, was privileged, his wife being allowed a few days' grace to sell her household goods before she was conveyed to a camp with her children, while the families of the other men were instantly removed and their homes taken into possession by the English.

If the enemy had only known it, Mr. Hattingh, who was known for his uprightness and moral integrity, had no intention of perjuring himself in the witness-box, but had fully made up his mind to confess his complicity and to face his death like a man and a patriot.