ut off from Lydenburg by a flank movement. On the 16th of
September, 1900, an incident occurred which is difficult to describe
adequately. Hector Spruit is one of the many unattractive stations
along the Delegoa Bay railway situated between the great Crocodile
river and dreary black "kopjes" or "randjes" with branches of the Cape
mountains intervening and the "Low Veldts," better known as the
"Boschveldt." This is a locality almost filled with black holly
bushes, where you can only see the sky overhead and the spot of ground
you are standing on. In September the "boschveldt" is usually dry and
withered and the scorching heat makes the surroundings seem more
lugubrious and inhospitable than ever.

The station was crowded with railway carriages loaded up with all
sorts of goods, and innumerable passenger carriages, and the platform
and adjoining places filled with agitated people. Some were packing
up, others unpacking, and some, again, were looting. The majority
were, however, wandering about aimlessly. They did not know what was
happening; what ought to be done or would be done; and the only
exceptions were the officers, who were busily engaged in providing
themselves and their burghers with provisions and ammunition.

I now had to perform one of the most unpleasant duties I have ever
known: that of calling the burghers together and telling them that
those who had no horses were to go by train to Komati Poort, there to
join General Jan Coetser. Those who had horses were to report
themselves to me the next morning, and get away with me through the
low fields.

Some burghers exclaimed: "We are now thrown over, left in the 'lurch,'
because we have not got horses; that is not fair."

Others said they would be satisfied if I went with them, for they did
not know General Coetser.

Commandant-General Botha did not see his way to let me go to Komati
Poort, as he could not spare me and the other commandos. Those of the
men who had to walk the distance complained very bitterly, and their
complaints were well-founded. I did my best to persuade and pacify
them all, and some of them were crying like babies when we parted.

Komati Poort was, of course, the last station, and if the enemy were
to drive them any further they would have to cross the Portuguese
border, and to surrender to the Portuguese; or they could try to
escape through Swaziland (as several hundreds did afterwards) or along
the Lebombo mountains, via Leydsdorp.