After the van Warmelos had discovered on December 20th, through the enemy's rank stupidity, that they had been found out, a regular game of hide-and-seek began to be played in and around their beautiful garden.

The curious thing about this game was that it was only carried on under cover of darkness and intense silence, a silence which could almost be felt, and which became so uncanny as time went on that the women found it quite insupportable and had no peace by night or by day until the day on which, a month later, the enemy took the initiative and made what may be called an attack in front. There was only one noisy actor in the game, which was played for four solid weeks before the crash came, and as many after, and that was Carlo, but, although his feelings found relief in constant growlings and furious barkings, I do believe even his nerves suffered under the constant strain, for he became more and more irritable and restless as time went on.

That dog gave a lot of trouble in those days and was a source of great anxiety, as my reader will see presently.

The fruit season was at its height. The garden, heavily laden with the burden of luscious fruits and blooming flowers, was a scene of beauty and riotous luxury impossible to describe; and as the different fruit trees bloomed and bore their rich harvest in rapid succession, each after its kind—apricots, figs, pears, plums, apples, peaches, and, last but not least, the noble vine with its great bunches of purple and white—Hansie and her mother revelled in the wealth of Nature's extravagance from morn till eve.

Mrs. van Warmelo, an energetic and tireless gardener, spent all her time amongst the fruit, while indoors the task of putting up in jars for winter use fell mainly on Hansie's shoulders.

Nothing was allowed to run to waste, and that year was always remembered as an exceptionally fine fruit season.

It was nothing for Mrs. van Warmelo to have 100 lb. of grapes cut before breakfast and have them conveyed to the early market, and even then the vines bore no trace of having been robbed or tampered with.

The soldiers, too, got their share, and the sergeant-major's small basket was often filled—for were they not on the best of terms with one another?

But when the shades of night fell over the land, and silence settled on the birds and beasts and flowers, the sense of careless freedom and security deserted our heroines entirely.

Unseen eyes watched them from behind the leaves, and they knew that the very trees under which they sat had ears, straining to catch up their every conversation.

The Military Police—unknown to the women, as they thought—were guarding them and their property from intruders, and this was known by Carlo's incessant growlings and his furious, sudden fits of barking whenever he came upon some midnight prowler hidden under the trees.

I am sure the good dog never understood Hansie's apathy on this point.

After all he did to warn her of foul play, to have his efforts rewarded with a scolding or a careless "Do be quiet, Carlo. The kitty is only catching moths," seemed unjust and quite unlike his mistress's usual ready sympathy.

In time he got used to finding strangers in the privacy of his domain and only showed his dissatisfaction with an occasional low growl or a vicious snarl.

Perhaps "Gentleman Jim" was not so bad after all, or perhaps he was only stupid, because a few days after the flight of our friends he came to Mrs. van Warmelo with the information, given with an amused smile and more drawl than usual, that "the officer had promised him plenty money" if he ever caught a Boer on the premises or in the garden, and that in future a strict watch would be held over the property and an extra vigilance preserved whenever the dog barked.

What more proof could be wanted after that? Now they knew exactly how the land lay, and in their hearts they thanked their simple servant and still more simple foe, for the confirmation of their suspicions.

As the weeks went by and the time for the Captain's next visit drew near, Mrs. van Warmelo again and again urged the necessity of putting up the danger-signal (a small block of wood, which was kept ready with a nail through it, lying hidden behind the post), only to be met with an obstinate refusal from her daughter.

"How can you be so reckless and foolhardy, Hansie?" her mother would exclaim. "We know that the men may come in any night, and we know that the house and grounds are being watched, and yet you want me to let our friends run right into the trap, without lifting a finger to save them! It would be an unpardonable thing, and I do believe you are only longing to have the excitement of harbouring spies again!"

Hansie laughed.

"Perhaps that is it! But think of the disappointment of the men to be turned back at our very doors after having come so far through untold dangers! Depend upon it they will not come in again for nothing. They went through too much last time, and there will be work of some importance for us all to do if they come in again, you may be sure of that. No, dear mother, let us risk it, I beg of you. We are still in the house, and Naude is no chicken. He will reach us in spite of guards and fences, and——"

"Be followed right up to the house and be taken here like a rat in a trap," Mrs. van Warmelo continued gloomily.

"I am not so sure," Hansie exclaimed, as cheerfully as her sinking heart allowed, when this horrible picture rose before her.

"You know what our experience has been of English vigilance and English sagacity; now, if they had some of Carlo's intelligence we would have some reason to be anxious."

The danger-signal was not put up, but that things would have ended exactly as Mrs. van Warmelo predicted I now have not a shadow of doubt.

The spies would have glided into the house in the false security occasioned by the absence of the danger-signal, they would have been watched and followed to the very doors by the hidden foe, the house would have been surrounded and stormed by armed men, and a fierce, an unspeakably horrible encounter would have ended in death and destruction—if they had come. But they were prevented on commando from keeping their appointment that month—and at the very time when they expected to be safely housed under Harmony's hospitable roof, the place was surrounded, an entry forced and every corner of the house searched for spies.

It happened "like so," and we must now turn our attention for a moment to a matter of small importance in order to understand why Hansie was from home at a critical time, and how she missed the keen enjoyment of being present at the "raid."

For some weeks the advisability of leaving home on a pleasure trip had been discussed. While the moon was on the wane their friends from commando would not be likely to pay them a visit, but Mrs. van Warmelo, who never had much inclination to leave her little paradise, persuaded Hansie to go to Johannesburg for a few days alone to a dear young friend, newly wed, who had repeatedly begged her to come.

They hoped that such an attitude of innocent pleasure-making on their part would avert some of the suspicion which rested on their heads and cause a part, at least, of the surveillance to be withdrawn from Harmony.

Hansie hoped to be back home before the appearance of the new moon, the time appointed for Naude's next visit, and it was red-tape, nothing but red-tape, through which she was undone.

So many difficulties were placed in the way of her obtaining the necessary permits that by the time she got away she should have been on her return journey.

Let us see what her diary says.

"January 10th, Friday.

"My poor old diary! I begin to foresee that it is going to die a natural death, simply because I am tired of recording lies and rumours [this was the black-and-white diary, kept on purpose to mislead the enemy, should it fall into their hands].

"I am now busy preparing for a little trip to Johannesburg, but oh dear! the difficulty one has in getting permits!

"The English have never been so strict before!

"Major Hoskins (who could have helped me without further reference had he wished) sent me to the Commissioner of Police, who asked me to produce a note of recommendation from my 'ward officer' in B. Ward.

"My 'ward officer' refused to give me a permit without a medical certificate that I required a change of air.

"I told him shortly that I was going for pleasure and that I would appeal to General Maxwell if he could not assist me. He said 'that made all the difference!' (what did he mean?) and asked me for the name and address of the people with whom I would be staying in Johannesburg, so I gave him Pauline's box number.

"No, that was not sufficient, he must have the name of the street and the number of the house.

"'I do not remember the number, but I shall go home to look it up and come back at once.'

"'It will—er—be more convenient if you bring it to-morrow,' he said."

And Hansie understood that he was gaining time.

After all the fuss that had been made, she was not surprised next day when the Commissioner of Police asked her, very politely, while closely inspecting the "note of recommendation," to call for her permits on Monday (this was Thursday), as there would be some delay in having them "approved" by the other officials.

This was again done to gain time while the authorities were putting their heads together, trying to find out "what the dickens" she could want in Johannesburg.

Hansie knew this well enough, although she filled her diary with lamentations and wonderings.

"Will you be all right alone, mother, at a time like this?" Hansie asked, as, with her permits at last in her possession, she hugged her mother in affectionate farewell.

"Oh yes, I am well guarded, as you know," Mrs. van Warmelo answered, laughing; "there is plenty of time, and you will be back before anything can happen."

Hansie looked doubtful. Was her mother play-acting? Did she mind being left, and was she only eager to have her daughter out of danger's way? Or did she intend putting up the danger-signal, after all?

You see, Hansie was getting so used to plotting and scheming that she could not help turning her newly acquired detective propensities on her nearest and dearest when occasion offered, and she even misdoubted the behaviour of her mother, tried as she had been, and never found wanting, in many a crisis in the past.

"You will wire for me, won't you?" she asked suspiciously.

"Of course, of course—but there will be nothing to wire about, I am quite sure."

With a sigh and many anxious forebodings, Hansie drove to the station on her way to her "pleasure trip."

She was met in the Golden City, now more like a Dead City, by loving friends and a magnificent St. Bernard dog, Nero, who soon made her feel at home, although they could not altogether banish the cares, dimly guessed at by them, with which she was oppressed.

The most reassuring news from home continued to reach her until one morning, on the sixth day after her arrival, a brief postcard from her mother informed her in a few bald words that Harmony had been searched on "Sunday morning the 19th inst."

A few hours later Hansie was in the train, speeding, with remorse tugging at her heart, to her mother's side.

It was something of a disappointment to her, on arriving at Harmony, to find everything exactly as she had left it.

Carlo greeted her with his old extravagant demonstrations of affection and delight, and when she looked searchingly into her mother's face she was met with a beaming smile. There was no trace of the ordeal she had faced alone, and Hansie's anxious heart gave a throb of relief.

She was soon in full possession of the details of the adventure, and it appeared that the "raid" had been made in the early hours of the 19th (Jan.), Sunday morning.

It had been raining heavily all night, and the torrents were still coming down drenchingly when Mrs. van Warmelo was aroused by a knock at her bedroom window and "Gentleman Jim's" voice, with all the drawl gone, calling out anxiously, "Missis, come, the police want you!"

Mrs. van Warmelo dressed hurriedly, and on opening the front door was met by an officer, who informed her that he had been ordered by the Commissioner of Police to search her house.

Armed soldiers were standing about, guarding the different entrances.

Mrs. van Warmelo led the way, and the officer went through the house with her alone, glancing under beds, opening wardrobes and moving screens in his search "for men," as he said in reply to her questions.

"I am surprised that you should have been sent to search my house for men," she said, with righteous indignation.

"I was surprised to see your name on the black list, Mrs. van Warmelo," he answered.

She watched him in puzzled silence.

Evidently he knew her, or her name. Quite evidently he was no Englishman—only a South African could pronounce her name like that.

When they reached the passage leading to the kitchen the officer suddenly started at the sight of Flippie's form lying curled up in deep sleep. He bent over him, pulled his blanket down cautiously, and said below his breath, "Oh, a boy!"

The house having been thoroughly searched, he turned to Mrs. van Warmelo and, courteously thanking her for having allowed him to do so, asked permission to go through the out-buildings, which was instantly granted. There was no one, of course, and the military, if they had expected to make any sensational discoveries that morning, were grievously disappointed.

* * * * *

"Well, I am glad it is over, mamma," Hansie said when the story came to an end.

"It is better to have the house searched in vain, than not to have it searched at all, when one is on the black list. Perhaps the surveillance on Harmony will now be removed, at least to some extent, and the danger to Captain Naude, when he comes in again, considerably lessened."

That this was the case we shall see in our next chapter.



CHAPTER XXXIX

THE WATCHWORD. OILING THE HINGES

Three weeks went uneventfully by.

Visitors at Harmony were few and far between, for the story of the "raid" went quickly through the town, and many people who had been in the habit of visiting the van Warmelos, all unsuspecting of the cloud under which they rested, took alarm at this first open hint of danger and discreetly withdrew from the scene.

When Hansie thought of them it was with some contempt and bitterness, but her mind was, at the time, occupied with more important matters, and her fair-weather friends soon passed from her life, never to return again.

Only about a dozen remained, mostly women, friends staunch and true, upon whom one could depend through days of the most crushing adversity.

How close we came to one another in those days only those who have been through similar experiences can ever realise.

Those three uneventful weeks were by no means the least trying of the long war. Sorely tested nervous systems were giving way, fine constitutions were being broken down, and powers of resistance had reached their limit. It needed but the acute anxiety and intense strain of the last adventure which I am about to relate, to reduce our heroines to a state bordering on the hysterical.

The phases of the moon were watched in suspense, and when the time drew near for the next visit from the spies, Mrs. van Warmelo took the precaution of locking Carlo up in the kitchen before retiring for the night. Although she let him out very early every morning in order not to arouse the suspicions of the servants, "Gentleman Jim," ever on the alert, soon found out that something unusual was taking place.

"Why you lock up the dog every night, missis?" he inquired one morning.

Mrs. van Warmelo was completely taken by surprise, but answered with great presence of mind:

"Oh, because he barks so much that we cannot sleep. But I think I will have to let him out again, because thieves will help themselves to the fruit if there is no watch-dog about."

The ruse had been found out and Carlo had to be released, although his vigilance added greatly to the dangers of the situation.

The grapes were ripe, great luxurious bunches of purple and golden fruit were weighing down the sturdy old vines.

"I wish Captain Naude would come," Hansie sighed. "Harmony is at its very best."

"He won't come again, I am convinced of that," her mother answered mournfully. "No more news from the field for us. The dangers are too great, and nothing could be gained by coming into town now that our friends have nearly all been sent away."

"We shall see," Hansie said cheerfully. "I have a strong presentiment that the men are coming in this very night. I am going to put everything in readiness for them, and we must go to bed early, dear mother. Perhaps we shall have very little rest to-night."

This was Sunday night, February 9th.

Hansie packed away various little articles lying about the bedrooms and bathroom, and generally prepared herself for the midnight adventure which she felt more than ever convinced would take place within a few hours, while Mrs. van Warmelo went about with a feather and an oil-can, oiling the hinges and locks.

She was soon sound asleep in her mother's bedroom, for the two women were not as brave as they had been during the first part of the war and had got into the habit of sleeping together "for company."

Suddenly at about 2 a.m. they both started up violently, at the sound of Carlo's furious barking near their window, where he usually kept guard.

Mrs. van Warmelo sat up and panted "Here they are," but Hansie's heart was beating so loudly in her throat that she was unable to reply.

Mrs. van Warmelo went quickly to the window, and on cautiously raising the blind saw the forms of two men close to the window, undistinguishable in the darkness but quite evidently the cause of Carlo's startled and furious barkings. She ran through the bathroom and, opening the door leading to the garden, asked softly, "Who is there?"

"Appelkoos," the welcome answer came clearly and cautiously, and Mrs. van Warmelo drew the men unceremoniously into the room, noiselessly locking the door.

"Not a word, not a sound," she commanded, "remove your boots—you have never been in greater peril."

"Hush! What was that? A man's voice outside! The sergeant-major? The police? My God! then we are lost indeed!"

But no! Only one moment of agonising suspense and the familiar voice of "Gentleman Jim" could be heard, reprimanding the growling watchdog.

"What for you make so much noise, Carlo? Go to sleep, bad dog—you frighten everybody when you kick up so much row."

Muttering discontentedly, he retired to his room, evidently reassured by the dead silence which pervaded the house.

For some time the four people inside stood close together without a word. No lights were lit, no sound whatever made until Carlo's restless growlings ceased and he had settled himself to sleep again.

Then only were a few whispered words of welcome and greeting exchanged and a breathless account given of the dangers with which Harmony was surrounded.

"How did you come in?" Mrs. van Warmelo asked.

"Through the drift," Naude replied. "There were no guards—in fact, we did not see a soul from first to last, and the dog was the only one to object to our midnight wanderings. We were nearly on top of him before he woke."

Nearly on top of the sensitive and alert watchdog before he became aware of their proximity! No wonder, then, that the Boer spies frequently glided up so close to the English outposts that they were able to knock them down with a wooden stick or the butt end of a gun before they could give the alarm or utter a sound!

The men were tired and exhausted, and gladly stretched themselves on the beds to get what sleep they could before morning, having first divested themselves of their outward trappings, helmets, etc., which they buried under the floor. As before, the Captain came in a khaki uniform, while his orderly, Venter, was dressed like a soldier.

As it was necessary for them to remain in Mrs. van Warmelo's bedroom in order to be near their place of refuge under the floor, mother and daughter retired to the dining-room, there to watch and wait for the dawn of day.

Would the long night never end?

Every time Carlo barked the two women started up from their couches and listened with straining ears for sounds of commotion outside—but in vain. Nothing disturbed the serenity of the night, and when the rosy glow of dawn broke in the eastern sky and gradually spread its glory over the hushed and expectant earth, Hansie fell into a fitful slumber.

Not so her mother. Mrs. van Warmelo had been quietly pondering over "Gentleman Jim's" unexpected appearance at the first sign of commotion in the night and had come to the conclusion that something should be done to disarm his suspicions.

That the guard of Military Police had been withdrawn from Harmony was very evident, but it was quite possible that the task of maintaining a vigilant watch had been transferred to Jim, with promises of a liberal payment if he succeeded in getting information which might lead to the arrest of Boer spies.

Mrs. van Warmelo therefore cautiously rose, while the rest of the household lay in sleep, plucked clusters of grapes from the vines and strewed them about the garden paths. The ruse answered excellently.

"Gentleman Jim" himself discovered the grapes lying about the garden and was loud in his expressions of indignation.

"Them thieves have been at the grapes again," he called out.

"Look here, missis, here is a bunch—and another, and here is some more." He shook his head in despair.

The sergeant-major too was sent for and informed of the plundering that had been carried on in the small hours of the morning.

"What is to be done?" he asked. "Shall I put a guard here again?"

Mrs. van Warmelo thanked him for his kind offer, but thought that very little damage had been done, and was of opinion that Carlo's vigilance would be sufficient to prevent the thieves, whoever they might be, from returning on a second pilfering expedition.

When Hansie woke it was past six o'clock, and the Captain was sitting near her, drinking coffee and chatting with her mother in a matter-of-fact way, evidently quite at home and glad to find himself in such comfortable quarters again.

The whole of that eventful February 10th was spent in writing dispatches and procuring articles of clothing and small necessaries for the men to take out with them; three pairs of riding-breeches, shirts, brown felt hats, leggings, boots, soap, salt, cotton, etc., etc.

Fortunately, among the few remaining men in town who could be trusted to carry out these commissions was the young man behind the counter in the store in Church Street.

To him Hansie went with a small list, which she laid before him without a word.

He glanced over it and whistled softly.

"Leggings? Riding-breeches? When must you have them?"

"If possible this evening," she replied.

"I'll do my best," he said, and she departed joyfully.

"Now, I could never have got those things myself without rousing great suspicion," she thought as she cycled rapidly to the next person whom she had been instructed to see—van der Westhuizen with the bandaged arm.

"The Captain came last night with Venter," she whispered hurriedly. "They are at Harmony, and Naude wishes to see you as soon as possible on a matter of great importance. No one must know of his presence in town this time, not even our best friends, for he has a dangerous mission to fulfil and you must help him."

"I shall be there some time to-day," he said.

Hansie thanked him and departed.

Much writing work waited her at Harmony, and the rest of the day was spent in drawing up dispatches at the Captain's dictation and making notes of the condition of the various commandos.

In the course of a long conversation with him he told her the object of his visit and why he required van der Westhuizen's services.

"My flying column of scouts is over sixty strong, picked men and wonderfully brave," he said. "They are all in khaki and scour the country, doing the enemy incalculable harm, but they would be of more service to the commandos if they had better horses. Our horses are worn-out and underfed, their life is very hard, and it is imperative that we should have them reinforced. Now, we have heard that there are many magnificent horses kept at Skinner's Court, remounts kept in good condition for the special use of officers. Those horses we must have, and we have come to get all the information we can about the strength of the guards at Skinner's Court. For this I require van der Westhuizen's assistance."

Hansie felt a thrill of excitement.

The adventure was very much to her taste, and she remembered with delight that first successful raid on British stables. She wished she could supply the desired information. To steal the enemy's best horses seemed to her an enterprise worth toiling for, for there would probably be little or no bloodshed connected with it and, if successful, the reward would be very great.

But she felt assured that the adventure could not be in more capable, more trustworthy hands than in those of the silent van der Westhuizen.

When van der Westhuizen arrived, he and the Captain were closeted together in the bedroom for nearly an hour, and then he departed as silently as he had come, but Hansie had observed the look of steadfast determination on his face, and was satisfied.

Very unlike the previous visit was this, the last sojourn of the Secret Service men at Harmony.

There was no entertaining of shoals of trusted friends, no lying about under the trees, no sociable gathering of strawberries.

The men were not allowed to leave their bedroom during the day, but remained in safe proximity to the place of refuge under the floor, where their belongings lay buried.

Of the many plans devised by Mrs. van Warmelo for the safety of her guests, the following was decided upon as being the most ingenious:

A large bath was brought into her bedroom and half-filled with soapy water, bath-towels, sponges, and other toilet requisites being placed near by in readiness for use. In the event of a raid, Mrs. van Warmelo (if she had time to do so) would rush into the room, locking the door on the inside, while her daughter (if she had the presence of mind and kept cool enough) informed the police that her mother was having a bath. Thus time would be gained to enable the men to creep into their hiding-place.

The bath of soapy water, standing in readiness night and day, was a constant source of amusement during that time of suspense.

The men begged to be allowed to smoke, but Mrs. van Warmelo protested strongly. In case of an unexpected search, how was she going to account for the smell of smoke in her bedroom?

Seeing, however, that this restriction was becoming a source of great discomfort to them in the monotony of their imprisonment, she gave them permission to smoke in the dining-room while she and Hansie kept watch outside.

Even with these precautions Mrs. van Warmelo seemed to feel very uneasy, and Hansie coming into the kitchen unexpectedly one afternoon, found the Captain standing beside the stove and blowing vigorous puffs of smoke up the chimney!

Volcanoes and earthquakes would have been a welcome change to every one after those never-to-be-forgotten days of strain and tension; and much as Hansie had longed to see some one from commando again, her longing to see these men depart became a hundred times more intense. There was no pleasure for any one during that visit of two days, for the very air was charged with treachery, and not even the servants could be trusted with the dread secret.

The men were waited on stealthily, food was brought in unobserved and the plates and dishes washed surreptitiously by the two watchful women, who took turns in guarding the place and enjoyed what conversation they could get in fragments from their guests.

That night was spent in anxiety and unrest, and again the glorious day was hailed with joy and relief.

Van der Westhuizen was an early visitor that morning, and the report of his investigations of the past night must have been highly satisfactory to the men, to judge by their faces. The women were not taken into their confidence, but Hansie watched and wondered, and dared not even ask whether the attack on Skinner's Court was to be made or not.

It was better not to know.

The long summer's day went slowly by, broken only once when Hansie rushed into the bedroom with a breathless, "Danger, danger—hide yourselves!"

It was not at all funny at the time, but afterwards, when Hansie thought it over, she laughed and laughed again at the recollection of those two men, diving for the hole in the floor, and of their resentful looks when they emerged, on hearing that the alarm had been caused by the unexpected appearance of "Um-Ah."

The departure that night was in dead silence. There was no hearty "send-off" under the six willows, no escort through the bush, van der Westhuizen alone going on ahead to see if the coast were clear.

The events of that night are blurred and vague in the memory of the two solitary women, and Hansie's diary contains but meagre information on the subject—in fact, her war-diary practically ends here.

Frail womanhood had reached the breaking-point.

A period of dull suffering, of deadly indifference followed, broken one day by the news, with which the whole town rang, that Skinner's Court had been stormed by the Boers and that every horse had been taken, fourteen in all, valuable remounts of the officers.

Hansie just glanced at her mother and then asked hoarsely, "Was any one hurt? Was any one taken?"

"No," the answer came, with a curious look at her strained face; "the attack was so wholly unexpected, and the Boers so evidently informed of every detail of the place, that they were gone with all the horses almost before a shot could be fired."

This meant not only that the Captain had reached his men in safety, but that the enterprising object of his visit had been successfully carried out, beyond his most sanguine expectations.

* * * * *

And now we take our leave of the brave Captain whose name appears so often and so honourably in this book, and in leaving him, we quote, at his request, the tribute with which he closed his little book In Doodsgevaar ("In Danger of Death")—published in August 1903—a tribute to the women who assisted him.

"I feel it my duty, before closing this story of our personal experiences of the war, to direct a word of thanks and appreciation to those faithful South African mothers and sisters who personally supported us during those difficult days and did what they could in Pretoria to further our cause in the field. But how can this be done? I have no adequate words at my command, and I feel that the work of these women is above all expression of appreciation."

"When I look back on those days, there floats across my mind not only the names, but also the personality of each of these worthy women, and I remember to the minutest detail their self-sacrifice and the zeal with which they stood by us during our visits to Pretoria, while exposed to the danger of themselves being plunged into the greatest difficulties. But for this they had no thought, no care, as long as the sacred cause could be advanced. I feel, however, that it would be out of place to mention the names of a few where so many risked their all, willingly offering even the sacrifice of their lives, if necessary, to further the interests of our cause."

"How fervently I should have wished to see their great work crowned with a well-deserved reward!"

"He who rules the destinies of nations decreed it otherwise, however, and we must bow in resignation to His will, but, faithful women and girls of South Africa, rest assured that your noble work and self-sacrifice have not been in vain. For myself I find in that which was performed by you this great abiding comfort, that so long as South Africa possesses women and girls of your stamp, so long can we go forward to meet the future hopefully and cheerfully; so long as the spirit, nourished by you, still lives and thrives in our midst, so long may we pursue our way fearlessly."

"The struggle is over, brought to an end more than a year ago, and some of us have already learnt to adapt ourselves to our altered circumstances. We have been taught by those whose position, as leaders of the people, gives them the fullest right thereto, how to conduct ourselves, and we require no further encouragement to follow that advice."

"But we feel that we cannot lay sufficient emphasis on the injunction to be true to one another as a nation, to be true to our traditions of the past, true to the lessons we have learnt in the recent conflict."

"We have seen to what a pass one can be brought by infidelity."

"Let us in future live in such a way that nothing may be lost of the honour which is our inheritance from the battle-fields of South Africa."

"Farewell."



CHAPTER XL

PEACE, PEACE—AND THERE IS NO PEACE!

If I may dare to hope that there are, among my readers who have followed me with so much patience through this book, some sufficiently interested in the heroine to desire information on what befell her in her future lot, I should wish to give to them just a glimpse or two into scenes as totally different from the events recorded in this volume as night is from day. And to do this freely, unreservedly, I must endeavour to forget my close connection with the heroine, a connection the thought of which has hampered and restricted me, from first to last, in choosing and rewriting the material from her diary.

Her diary, as I have said before, had ended soon after her last adventure with the spies, never to be resumed again.

I do not, however, write from memory in this brief chapter on her subsequent experiences, for I have before me for reference a pile of letters from her to her mother.

Almost her last word when she left her native land was an injunction to her mother to preserve her letters for the future,—"for when I am married, mother dear, you will be my diary."

Hansie's health gave way.

Not in a week or a month, not in any way perceptible to those around her, but stealthily, treacherously, and relentlessly the fine constitution was undermined, the highly strung nervous system was shattered. This had taken place chiefly during the desolate and dark hours of the night, when, helpless in the grip of the fiend Insomnia, the wretched girl abandoned herself to hopelessness and despair.

And the time was soon to come when she feared those dreadful waking hours even less than the brief moments of fitful slumber which overcame her worn-out, shattered frame, for no sooner did she lose her consciousness in sleep than she was overpowered by some hideous nightmare, and found herself, shrieking, drowning in the black waters of some raging torrent, or pursued by some infuriated lunatic or murderer, or enveloped in the deadly coils of some hideous reptile.

Shuddering from head to foot after each of these most awful realities of the night, she was soothed and comforted by the tender hands of her distressed and anxious mother.

Something had to be done, of that there was no doubt. Not even the strongest mind could have endured such a strain for any length of time, and that Hansie's reason was preserved at all I put down to the fact that she had never once throughout the war entertained the idea, the possibility, of the loss of her country's independence.

The blow, when it came, found her so far from the scenes of her recent sufferings, as we shall see presently, that she was able to endure it, as one, far removed from the death-bed of her best beloved, is spared the crushing details, the cruel realities of that last parting scene.

The thought of the strong heart across the seas, waiting to receive her, would have been of more support to her in those days had she known by experience what it could mean to a woman, tried as she had been, to place herself and all her grief in the protecting, understanding love of a good and noble man.

But even this comfort was denied to her; in fact, the thought of her uncertain future, and her fear that the step she was about to take might prove to be a great mistake in her abnormal condition, were an added burden to our sorely tried and now completely broken-down patriot.

Plans were made to send her out of the country.

Her sister, Mrs. Cloete, who had for some months been trying to procure a permit to visit the Transvaal, was, after great trouble and inconvenience, successful in her endeavours and arrived at Harmony on Saturday, March 29th, 1902.

What words from my poor pen can describe the emotions of that meeting?

Even Hansie's diary has nothing to say except "let us draw the veil," but memory is strong and the bands of love and kinship are unbreakable, even under the adversities of long and bitter years—nay, rather are they strengthened by the threads of common woe, woven into their very fibre at such a time of bitter trial.

The mother spent hours with her elder daughter, happy beyond power to express, relating her experiences and adventures, comparing notes and making plans for their future.

All that month of April was filled with rumours of an early peace, and hopes were buoyed up with the certainty that "peace with honour" would and could be the only termination to the peace conferences. Incredible as it may seem to some of my readers, the Boer opinion was that England was about to end hostilities and that, under certain terms, the independence of the two Republics would be assured.

No reliable information reached our friends at Harmony, for the activities of the Secret Service had ceased entirely—at least, as far as the town was concerned.

Uncertainty, excitement, expectation filled the air, reaching their height on April 12th, when the news of the Boer leaders' arrival at the capital spread like wild-fire through the town.

Steyn, Botha, de Wet, de la Rey, Reitz, and a host of others were amongst "their own" again, under circumstances of unique importance. They were not allowed to mix freely with the crowd, but kept in a state of highly honoured captivity in the beautiful double-storied house known as "Parkzicht," opposite Burghers Park, well guarded night and day by armed patrols, who kept the crowd at bay with a friendly "Move on, please," when they touched the limit of their beat.

Mrs. van Warmelo and her two daughters, like so many other citizenesses, lost no opportunity of walking in the neighbourhood of "Parkzicht," and they were fortunate beyond their wildest hopes in being greeted by the Generals on more than one occasion.

One day as they were passing they observed the familiar figure of General Botha on the balcony.

They waved their handkerchiefs and there was no doubt about his recognition, for he took off his hat and waved it, kissing both his hands to them.

(General Botha it was who, after the war, said to Mrs. van Warmelo, clasping her hand and looking earnestly into her eyes:

"You have done and risked what even I would not have dared.")

After six or seven days in Pretoria the Boer leaders left for their commandos, to deliberate, with what result Hansie did not know until nearly two months later in mid-ocean, where at a distant isle the news of the declaration of peace was made known to her.

The three women at Harmony now turned their thoughts into another channel.

The mother being far from well herself, arrangements had to be made to leave her in the companionship of some suitable and congenial woman, until her "boys" came home—one from the front, if he were still alive, the other from captivity. A girl friend offered to take Hansie's place at Harmony and promised not to leave Mrs. van Warmelo until the country was in a settled state again.

This was Hansie's only crumb of consolation during those last days at home.

Many difficulties were made about her permits when she applied for leave to go to Holland, and many were the questions asked, her interview with General Maxwell being the least unsatisfactory when she told him of her approaching marriage.

"You may go with pleasure," he had said; but a few days afterwards Hansie received a letter from the Provost-Marshal, saying that "the present regulations do not allow burghers or their families to leave South Africa."

Hansie wrote to Lord Kitchener, but received no reply, and it was nearly the middle of May, after some weeks of uncertainty, harder far to bear than trouble of a more decided character, when she and Mrs. Cloete left the capital for Cape Colony.

Hansie's last words in her diary are:

"There is quite a history connected with the procuring of my permits, which I shall relate another time. I am too tired now."

Words significant of what the girl had endured in parting from her mother and leaving her beloved country at a time so critical!

* * * * *

On an ocean-steamer she found herself at last—alone, for in that crowd there was no face familiar to her to be seen.

She mixed freely with the crowd; she sought, in the games with which these voyages usually are passed, to forget—to forget; but the nights of sleeplessness remained—her waking terror, with which she was consumed.

Two men there were who proved sympathetic, one a Scotchman, the other an Englishman—both anti-Boer and sadly misinformed when first she met them, both "converts" by the time they reached their native shores.

Sitting at table she listened intently to the conversations on the war—the war, the never-ending war. On no occasion did she breathe a word of what she knew, of what she felt, until one day at dinner a young English lieutenant, "covered with glory" and returning home a hero of the war, enlarged on the services rendered by one brave officer, well known by name to Hansie.

"It is not only what he achieved with so much success in the field," he continued. "I am thinking now of those two years he spent in the Pretoria Forts before the war, as a common labourer, doing menial work with other men, and secretly making plans and drawing charts of the Pretoria fortifications. Every detail was made known to our military before we went to war."

Exclamations of surprise, a murmur of admiration, ran along the table.

Hansie waited until there was a lull, and then she asked:

"The work carried out by him, was it done under oath of allegiance to the Transvaal Government?"

There was one moment's painful silence before the young lieutenant answered, with a laugh:

"Of course; it could not possibly have been done otherwise—but all is fair in love and war."

"War?" Hansie exclaimed—"I thought you said that this was done some years before the war."

"Yes, but we all knew what things were leading to!"

This incident was the first hint among the passengers that she was not one of them.

At first they looked at her askance, but as the days went on and the girl steadfastly avoided every allusion to the war, refusing to express her opinions to any one, except the two men mentioned above, the feeling of discomfort passed, and she was once again included in the pastimes of the ship's company.

As they were nearing Teneriffe the longing for news, for the latest cables from England and South Africa, possessed every soul on board—and now I find that, search as I will, within the recesses of my mind, for words with which to describe adequately such scenes, brain and hand are powerless.

* * * * *

There was peace in South Africa—peace "with honour" for England, peace and defeat for the Boers!

* * * * *

In a moment the ship's crew went mad, as the wild cheering rolled over the waves.

Hansie stood stupefied until (and strange it is that at a time like this an insignificant detail should stand out in sharp relief against the background of her dulled sensibilities) an hysterical woman ran up to her with outstretched hands, crying:

"Oh, my dear, my dear, let me congratulate you! Let us shake hands!"

The girl, thus taken by surprise in all that crowd, recoiled in shuddering distress, while, with hands clasped convulsively behind, she murmured:

"Oh, I could not—I could not!"

A wave of deep resentment passed over the ship's passengers, and hostile eyes looked on her frowningly.

* * * * *

That night, as the good ship was ploughing the waters on her way once more, a solitary figure stood on the deserted decks.

In the saloons great bumpers of champagne were passing round, while the strains of "God save the King" and "Rule Britannia" floated over the ocean waves.

A man in search of her, fearing perhaps, I know not what, approached the drooping figure of the girl, and pressed her hand in silent sympathy.

"There is no peace!" she said. "Do you think I believe these lying cables? The Boers will never yield. If you knew what I know, you would take these reports for what they are worth. I have been trying to think what it all can mean, and this is the conclusion I have come to. If it be true that peace has been proclaimed, then the Boers have preserved their independence, and this last fact has been excluded from the cables in view of the approaching Coronation. But my own conviction is that there is no peace at all, but that these cables have been sent to reassure the English public, and to make it possible to celebrate the crowning of the King in a splendour unclouded by the horrors of the South African war. Believe me, when the Coronation is over you will hear of a mysterious renewal of hostilities."

The man was silent, troubled. He had not the heart to argue with the girl, perhaps he thought, and rightly thought, that this strange illusion of the brain, this confident belief in her own convictions, would help to tide her over the first days to follow.

"I cannot understand," he said, "how Mrs. —— could have asked you to shake hands with her."

"Oh, I was wrong," Hansie said. "She meant it kindly. How could she understand? I will apologise—to-morrow."

* * * * *

It had been arranged that Hansie should spend a few days in London to see some friends before proceeding to Holland.

She found the mighty metropolis in the throes of preparation for an event of unparalleled magnificence.

Every sign of splendour and rejoicing was a fresh sword through the heart of our sorely tried young patriot.

The people with whom she stayed, old Pretoria friends, had not an inkling of what was passing in her mind.

Their warm and loving greetings, their loud expressions of delight that the war had come to an end at last, were so many pangs added to her grief.

"You will come with us to the Coronation?" her hostess said; "we have splendid reserved seats, and this event will be unparalleled in the history of England."

Again the unfortunate girl found herself recoiling, taken by surprise; again she said:

"Oh, I could not! Not to save my life!"

"Not go to see the Coronation! I am surprised at you. Very few South African girls are lucky enough to benefit by such an opportunity. I must say I think it very narrow-minded of you. You disappoint me. The war is over now, and while we are all trying to promote a feeling of good-fellowship you nourish such an unworthy and narrow-minded spirit."

Narrow-minded, unworthy!

The iron entered deep into her soul; and when she looks back now and takes a brief survey of what she suffered throughout those years, that moment stands out as one into which all the fears, the hopes, the agonies of one short lifetime had been crowded.

Sometimes the human heart, when tried beyond endurance, will reach a point where but a trifling incident, an unkind word, is needed to break down life's stronghold.

This point our heroine had reached.

Something passed out of her soul, an undefinable something of which the zest for life is made, and as she felt the black waters of despair closing over her she almost gasped for breath.

She turned away.

"You will never understand. I think it very kind of you to make such plans for my enjoyment, but—to the Coronation of the English King I will not go. Leave me here—I have some writing to do—no need to be distressed on my account. My one regret is that my presence here, at such a time, should be a source of so much painfulness to us both."

With cold courtesy the subject of the approaching Coronation was dropped, until the next day, when the appalling, the stupefying news of the postponement of the Coronation spread through the hushed streets of the great metropolis.

The King was dying, was perhaps already dead. The King had undergone a critical operation and his life still hung in the balance.

The King could not be crowned.

Already the black wings of Death seemed to be stretched over the mighty city, with its millions and millions of inhabitants. The multitude was waiting in hushed expectancy, in breathless suspense.

Hansie, walking through the streets with one of the men whose sympathy on board had been of such unspeakable comfort to her, never felt more unreal in her life. Her mind was in a maze, she groped about for words with which to clothe her thoughts, but groped in vain, for even the power of thought had been suspended for a time.

Her companion, glancing at her face, asked suddenly, curiously:

"Would you be glad if King Edward were to die?"

There was a long pause, while the girl strove to analyse her feelings.

At last she answered slowly, simply, truthfully:

"No; I would be sorry."

And in these words, good reader, when I think of them, I find a certain solution to the problem of her behaviour on many occasions when brought into close contact with her country's enemies.

There was never anything personal in the most bitter feelings of resentment and hatred of her country's foes, and never at any time did she belong to the ranks of those among her fellow-patriots who deemed it an unpardonable crime to recognise and appreciate the good qualities possessed by them.

A love of fair-play characterised her, even as a child, and it is certain that the cruel circumstances of the war developed this sense of justice to an abnormal extent, often bringing upon her, in later years, misunderstanding and distrust from those who should have been her friends.

* * * * *

It is June 28th, a glorious, cloudless summer's morn.

Speeding swiftly, almost silently, cutting its way through the calm, blue waters of the English Channel, a passenger-boat is fast approaching Holland's shores.

The hour is early, and of the few figures moving on the pier, one stands apart, watching intently, as the ship draws near.

He waves his hat, he has recognised the figure of the girl who stands on deck and waves her handkerchief in response to his greeting.

His strong hand clasps hers; and now the discreet reader need not avert his eyes—no need here to "draw the veil"—for Hansie had written from London to this tall, broad-shouldered man:

"What is left of me is coming to you now, but we must meet as friendly acquaintances, until we are both certain of ourselves."

How long this "friendly acquaintance" lasted it is difficult to say, for there is a difference of opinion on the point.

She says, not less than sixty minutes.

He asserts, not more than thirty-five!

* * * * *

The exquisite serenity of her father's native land, especially on such a perfect day in midsummer, had never seemed to her so sweet.

Here, indeed, she felt that peace could come to her at last.

* * * * *

But not yet—not yet.

Strong emotions of a different kind awaited her, the meeting of beloved friends and relatives, after seemingly endless years of pain, proving no less trying than the introduction to a large circle of future relatives and friends.

Hansie had to be "lionised" as heroine of the war, and this was done in a whole-hearted, generous way which was a constant source of wonder to her.

She was "carried on the hands," as the Dutch saying goes, by all who had the remotest claim on her.

Functions were arranged for her, receptions held, to which white-haired women and stately venerable men came from far to shake her hand, because she was a daughter of the Transvaal, nothing more—not because of what she had done and endured, for this was known to only one or two.

Old friends from South Africa there were in scores, and for the time the State of Holland was transformed into a colony of Boers, which seemed complete when the Boer leaders, Botha, de Wet, and de la Rey, arrived with their staffs. Then it seemed as if the people of Holland lost their heads entirely, and scenes such as those which took place daily in the streets are never to be forgotten by those who witnessed them.

All this, though wonderful, was not the best thing for our heroine, who was "living on her nerves," though in a different way, as surely as she did during those cruel years of war.

Added to this she was frequently tried beyond endurance by the questions:

"Why did the Boers give in? How could the Boers give in and lose their independence?"

One conversation in particular was burnt into her brain.

"Was it the Concentration Camps?"

"No," the answer came slowly, "no, it was not the Concentration Camps. The high mortality was past, the weakest had been taken, and there was no cause for anxiety for those remaining in the Camps. Their rations had been increased and improved—there was no more of that first awful suffering."

"What was it, then? The arming of the natives?"

The answer came more slowly:

"No, it was not the arming of the natives. Their forces were more scattered, for they were chiefly employed in guarding the railway lines, in protecting stock and guarding block-houses. Though their addition to the British ranks undoubtedly weakened our strength to some extent, their inborn respect for the Boer would have prevented them from ever rendering valuable services to the English. How we laughed, my sister and I, when, on the railway journey from Pretoria to Cape Town, we saw the line patrolled by hundreds of these natives, with gun in hand, stark naked except for a loin-cloth and a bandolier! So much waste of ammunition! No, the arming of the natives would have been the last thing to induce the Boers to surrender."

"Then it seems to me incomprehensible! surely death were preferable to defeat!"

"Yes, a thousand times; but you forget the National Scouts—the Judas-Boers. They broke our strength. Not by their skill in the use of arms, not by their knowledge of our country and our methods—no!"

"They broke our strength by breaking our ideals, by crushing our enthusiasm, by robbing us of our inspiration, our faith, our hope——"

With averted eyes, and seemingly groping for one last ray of light, the man continued:

"But where were your heroes—your heroes of Magersfontein, Spion Kop, and Colenso?"

"Where were our heroes?" the girl echoed bitterly. "In their graves—in our hospitals—in captivity! Ever foremost in the field—one—by one—they fell—— 'But the remnant that is escaped of the house of Israel shall again take root downward and bear fruit upward.'

"Although, under the shadow of this great national calamity, we cannot see it now, there is hope for our sad South Africa. It is too soon to speak of a united race, but the time will surely come when, in the inter-marriage of our children and our children's children, will be formed a nation great and strong and purified."

Through all those weeks our heroine never slept. It seems incredible that the frail form of a girl should be endowed with so great a power of endurance, and that the human mind can stand the strain of smiling self-control by day, abandonment of grief by night.

Those nearest to her, divining something of what she was passing through, lavished countless proofs of tender sympathy on her, innumerable acts of loving care for her personal comfort, and well-thought-out plans for drawing her away from herself into the charmed circle of the B—— Labouchere house.

And when her marriage-day drew near she turned away with a superficial glance at the array of costly presents, to devour once again the cables from South Africa, the telegrams from her Generals, the letter and the photograph of her beloved President, inscribed in his illegible hand, "For services rendered during the late war."

Last, but not least, there came to her official-looking documents from Het Loo, the personal congratulations of the Queen, the Prince Consort, and the Queen-mother—and the ancient blood of Holland coursed more swiftly through her veins as she thought of Wilhelmina, the dauntless young Queen of the Netherlands, now her Queen.

In all the ranks of the "Petticoat Commando" there was not one woman who had dared more, risked more, than the brave Queen of Holland when she dispatched her good man-of-war to bear away from the shores of Africa the hunted President of the South African Republic, to the refuge of her hospitable land.

* * * * *

Flowers, flowers everywhere, first in baskets, then in cartloads, then in waggon-loads, they were deposited at the doors until they overflowed from the reception-rooms into the halls and staircases, and even the verandahs—chrysanthemums and roses in riotous profusion, nestling violets, rarest orchids, bright carnations, heavy with the richest perfume.

Each flower had a separate message for the bride. They understood, and they enveloped her with their unspoken sympathy.

Some there were adorned with her beloved, her most tragic "Vierkleur," and over them she lingered long, breathing a prayer to merciful Heaven to still her beating heart for ever.

Not in the wild beauty of the Swiss scenery did she find rest, not by the calm lakes of sapphire blue in which she saw reflected the rugged mountains, soul-satisfying in their majestic grandeur, not in the soundless, the mysterious regions of the eternal snows—but in the north of Holland, where she found herself when autumn fell, Hansie slept.

Languid and more languid she became; drooping visibly, she sank into oblivion in that northern village home, conscious only in her waking hours of the cold, the driving sleet, the howling wind, the ceaseless drip, drip of the swaying trees.

As the long winter months crept by, her sleep became more and more profound, less haunted by the hideous nightmares of the past, and though she at first rebelled, ashamed of her growing weakness, she was soon forced to yield to the resistless demands of outraged nature.

In this she was supported by her husband, who, unknown to her, was acting on the advice of the famous nerve-specialist who had watched her unobserved.

"Let her sleep, if need be for a year, and in the end you will find her normal and restored, of that I am convinced," he had said; and in these words her husband found his greatest comfort, as he tucked his little dormouse in and tip-toed from the darkened room.

Hansie lost count of time, but there were two days in the week of which she was quite sure—the day on which the South African mail reached her and the day on which it was dispatched. In between she slept, as we have seen, but when she woke she always knew that her enfranchised spirit had been to her native land.

* * * * *

A full year had gone by, fifteen months, and when the first breath of winter once more touched the land she gradually became aware of voices calling to her, insistent, imperative voices from across the seas.

"I must go," she said. "What am I doing here? South Africa is calling. My people want me there. You and I must go. There is a great work for us both." And he, no less ardent and enthusiastic, yielded to her prayers, bade farewell to home and fatherland, sailed away with her to the unknown.

"In all the world," she said, "there is no pain to be compared with the pain of being born a patriot; but a patriot in exile—may Heaven protect me from the tragedy of such a fate!"



CONCLUSION

The veil is lifted for one last brief glimpse.

Ten years have gone by since the declaration of peace, ten years each more wonderful than the last, full to overflowing of life's rich experience of joy and grief.

By some strange turn in the hand of Destiny, our heroine finds herself, after many vicissitudes, an inhabitant of the Golden City—that Golden City which had wrecked her youth and very nearly wrecked her life.

For years it has seemed incredible to her that she should have been destined for the position she now holds, a position of so much trust, so difficult, so critical.

A plaything in the hand of Fate, she thought at first, when looking from her balcony she saw the Golden City, with its extensive suburbs stretched out at her feet, and heard the distant, never-ceasing roar of the innumerable mine-batteries of the Rand. But the resistless hand of Fate was drawing her into the sphere of work for which she longed most ardently—woman's work, at home, abroad—and the glamour of Johannesburg stole over her in time.

* * * * *

The terms of peace have been fulfilled, responsible government for the Transvaal and Free State, and Hansie thinks with an intolerable pain of that day at Teneriffe. Had she but known—had she but known—but the cables (she had called them "lying cables" then, and she was not far wrong) had spoken only of a glorious victory for the English and unconditional surrender on the part of the Boers. No word about the terms, the only terms on which the Boers would ever have yielded their independence.

Responsible government has been followed by the Union of the South African provinces.

South Africa is united in name, if not yet in reality, but the time will surely come, as we have said before, when, under the softening influence of time, a great united race will be born.

* * * * *

Closely pressing around Hansie as she writes are eager little faces, reverent little fingers touching the scattered pages before her, brave eyes of blue and brown, looking wonderingly into hers.

"Writing a book, mother? About the spies? And the lemon-juice? Oh, mother, what will the English say?"

And the accents falling on her ear are in the expressive sweetness of the South African Dutch, in its most cultured form.

* * * * *

Hansie ought to be a happy woman. None of the joys of life have been withheld from her, and yet—and yet——



Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.



- Typographical errors corrected in text: Page 100: 'unkemp hair wast' replaced with 'unkempt hair was' Page 222: rovolver replaced with revolver -

THE END