That there is more than one man of the name of Jan Celliers in South Africa I know, but there is only one Jan Celliers who can be honoured by the title "Poet and Patriot," and that is the remarkable personality of our friend in Pretoria, J.F.E. Celliers.
I have chosen him as the subject of this chapter, not so much because of the important, I may almost say revolutionary part he has played in the building up of South African literature since the war, as on account of the unique patriotism displayed by him throughout the war under circumstances of the severest test and trial.
How he, after active service in the field since the beginning of the war, came to be locked up in Pretoria as an unseen prisoner of war, an unwilling captive between the green walls of his suburban garden, when the British took possession of the capital on that stupefying June 5th, 1900, we shall briefly relate in this chapter.
Mr. Celliers' experience was that of many good and faithful burghers.
The news of heavy Boer losses, the desperately forced march of the British troops from Bloemfonteinto Pretoria, the crushing blows in quick succession, the departure of the Boer Administration from the seat of government, the demoralisation of the scattered forces, and the painful uncertainty of what the next step was to be—these things, combined with the fact, in Mr. Celliers' case, of having no riding-horse or bicycle on which to escape from the town, caused him to be surprised by the wholly unexpected entry of the British forces into the capital. Just a brief period of dazed inaction, a few hours of stupefied uncertainty, and he found himself hopelessly cut off from every chance of escape.
He planned escape from the beginning, for conscientious scruples forbade his taking the oath of neutrality. Of the oath of allegiance there was no question whatever.
There was nothing for it but to keep himself hidden until an opportunity for escaping to his fellow-countrymen in the field presented itself.
The first three weeks were spent in the garden, but it soon became evident that listening ears and prying eyes were being paid to discover his whereabouts, and closer confinement was found necessary. Thereafter he sat between four walls, reading and writing during the greater part of the day, keeping a watchful eye on the little front gate through a narrow opening in the window-blind and disappearing, through a trap-door, under the floor as soon as a soldier or official entered the gate.
When darkness fell he left his cramped hiding-place, and gliding unseen through the house and yard, this weary prisoner occupied himself with exercises for the preservation of his health, running, jumping,standing on his head, and plying the skipping-rope vigorously, under the protecting shadows of the dark cypress trees.
The weeks went by, broken once by the intense excitement of a visit of one of the burghers from the field.
Mrs. Celliers' brother, M. Dürr, had crept into town at dead of night between the British sentinels on a dangerous mission for the Boers. A short week he spent with his brother-in-law, sharing his confinement and making plans for his escape. Then he was gone, and the old deadly monotony settled over the house once more.
July went by, and August was nearly spent when at last an opportunity presented itself, and Mr. Celliers, in woman's garb, bade wife and children a passionate farewell, not to see them again for nearly two years.
With a cloak over his shoulders and a high collar concealing his closely cropped hair, his wife's skirt on, and a heavy veil covering a straw hat, he stepped boldly into a small vehicle standing waiting before his gate and drove through the streets of Pretoria. For the time at least he too belonged to the "Petticoat Commando." Mrs. Malan was in the cart, and had been sent by Mrs. Joubert to escort him through the town.
The disguise was taken before a thought could be given to the possible consequences of such a step. Spurred by the heroic attitude and fine courage displayed by his wife, Mr. Celliers lost not a moment in availing himself of the long-looked-for opportunity.
The thrilling adventures and hairbreadth escapes he went through in that memorable flight for duty and freedom will no doubt be found accurately recorded in his book on the war, which I know to be "in the making" at the present moment. Suffice it to say that he reached the farm of a friend near Silkatsnek in safety, where, he had been informed, he would find Boer commandos in the neighbourhood.
Disappointment awaited him, however. The commando had withdrawn to the north, followed closely by thousands of British troops whose proximity to the farm made it dangerous, not only for him, but for the people who harboured him, to remain there longer than one night. A farm-hand, a trusted native servant, was asked to undertake the task of escorting Mr. Celliers to the Boer lines. After some hesitation he consented. The risk was great, but the promise of £20 reward when the war was over acted like a charm, and the two set forth before break of day on their perilous adventure.
Here and there the tiny light of an outpost on the open field warned them to make a widedétour. The crackling of the short burnt stubbles of grass under their feet caused them to hold their breath and listen with loudly beating hearts for the dreaded "Halt! Who goes there?"
When the light of day began to break over earth and sky, the Kaffir, in evident anxiety, warned theBaasto hide in a large dense tree while he, the Kaffir, went on ahead to reconnoitre. He departed—not to return again, base coward that he was, and the unfortunate man in the tree waited for hours untilit dawned on him that he had been deserted at the most critical moment. He stepped from his hiding-place, quickly deciding to walk nonchalantly forward, the open veld leaving no possible means of pursuing his way under cover.
He passes many isolated homesteads, some ruined and deserted, others inhabited by aged people, delicate women, and little children only. One and all they shrink from him when he relates his story. They do not trust him—he may be in the employment of the British, a trap set for the unwary; their homes are closed to him. He pursues his way wearily. What is that approaching him in the distance? With straining eyes he is able to distinguish a group of horsemen coming towards him, and with lightning-like rapidity he turns from his course and jumps into the washed-out bed of a small rivulet flowing by. A group of startled Kaffir children gaze at him in astonishment. The riders come in clear view—not horsemen, but a number of Kaffir women with earthenware pots on their heads. These they fill with water, and mounting their horses depart the way they came.
With renewed hope and thankfulness at his heart our traveller resumes his course in the lengthening shadows of the short winter afternoon. At last he reaches a German mission station.
No refuge for him here! For the inhabitants are "neutral," but he is informed that a few days before 20,000 British troops had passed that way in a northward direction, in hot pursuit of the Boer commandos fleeing to the Waterberg district. The benevolent old missionary directs him to a smallfarm in the neighbourhood where a Boer woman lives alone with her little children. Perhaps she can give him some idea of the safest route for him to take. But no, the woman turns from him in extreme agitation, refuses to answer his questions, and is so evidently distressed at his appearance that he turns away and withdraws to the veld to think. What now? What now?
He is sitting on the outskirts of the great bush-veld, that endless stretch of forest-growth, dense and dark as far as the eye can reach. Shall he enter that, unarmed, without provisions or water and totally ignorant of the direction to take? He shudders. The blackness of the night is creeping over the scene, and over his soul desolation and despair.
"I must return to the mission station," he decides at last. "Surely they will give me refuge for the night!"
Slowly he drags his weary limbs across the veld, hesitatingly he presents himself, falteringly he proffers his request. A moment's hesitation and the family circle opens to receive him, its members crowd round him with words of comfort and small deeds of love. They are not doingright, but they will dowell. Nothing is left undone to restore and refresh the exhausted fugitive, who soon finds himself in a perfect haven of domestic happiness and luxury.
As the evening wears on, the small harmonium is opened, and while the younger members of the family are singing sweet part-songs together, our hero turns over the leaves of a small book he has found lying on the table, a book of Germanquotations. His eyes are attracted by the following lines by Dessler:
Lenkst du durch Wusten meine Reise,Ich folg, und lehne mich auf DichDu gibst mir aus der Wolken SpeiseUnd Tränkest aus dem Felsen mich,Ich traue Deinen Wunderwegen,Sie enden sich in Lieb und Segen,Genug, wenn ich Dich bei mir hab.
Lenkst du durch Wusten meine Reise,Ich folg, und lehne mich auf DichDu gibst mir aus der Wolken SpeiseUnd Tränkest aus dem Felsen mich,Ich traue Deinen Wunderwegen,Sie enden sich in Lieb und Segen,Genug, wenn ich Dich bei mir hab.
They are like balm to his troubled soul, and he commits them to memory for future use. God knows the future looks desperate enough to him, for he feels that he cannot remain in this haven of rest. Consideration for the safety of his kind friends forbids this. He soon departs, having heard that, for the present at least, the western direction is open to him, and, in taking this, his tribulations begin afresh.
Unused to exercise as he has been during the long months of his confinement, this traveller, in pursuing his course with so much patience and steadfast determination, now finds himself hardly able to walk. The tender feet are swollen and bleeding to such an extent that he finds it impossible to remove his heavy boots. Halting, stumbling, he continues on his way.
By good fortune he meets with another Kaffir guide, who leads him to a small Kaffir hut and revives him with a draught of Kaffir beer. A few moments' rest, and they are on the way again.
The day was far spent when they reached a Kaffir kraal, and here Mr. Celliers sank down in agony of mind and body, too great for words. More Kaffir beer was respectfully tendered to him and he drank it gratefully, meanwhile watching with dull interestthe Kaffir babies, jet black and stark naked, except for a small fringe of blue beads about the loins, as they crept around him, like so many playful kittens.
He was not long allowed to rest, the good guide urging him to make a final effort, and encouraging him with the assurance that he would find a farm not far distant, the home of Mr. Piet Roos, of Krokodil Poort.
This goal was reached that night, and a cordial welcome given to the poor exhausted traveller, although he was warned that he could by no means consider himself safe on the farm, as the British passed it nearly every day. Nigh three weeks he spent there, taking refuge under the trees of an adjacent hill by day and sleeping under the hospitable roof by night. As time went on and the visits of the Khakis became rarer, he became more at ease, and often worked with the farmer and the women in the fields, helping them to dig sweet-potatoes, and assisting his host in the work of sorting, drying, and rolling up the leaves of the tobacco-plant. He also became an expert in the art of making candles, and took active part in the other small industries carried on in that frugal and industrious household, and the evenings were spent in poring over maps, geographical and astronomical, which his host happened to possess. Many were the questions put to him, and long the discussions about worlds and suns and planets, while the busy fingers plied and rolled tobacco leaves, but these discussions generally ended in a sigh, a shake of the head, and an unbelieving, "theremustbe something solidunderthis earth," from the sceptical host.
The time was now approaching for the fulfilmentof his heart's ambition, but there is still one small incident to relate before we leave our hero. One day, while he was still on the farm, he was passed by a Kaffir, whom he questioned as to his destination. The native replied that he was on his way to Pretoria, and the happy thought occurred to Mr. Celliers to ask this native to let his wife know that her husband was in perfect safety.
Now the remarkable part of this incident was, that that unknown native took the trouble to deliver his message faithfully and conscientiously, and it was only after the war that Mr. Celliers heard from his wife that she had received news of his successful escape from a strange Kaffir, who said he had been sent by her husband. This is a striking instance, well worth recording here, of the sagacity and fidelity of some members of the heathen tribes.
It was on September 13th that unexpected deliverance came in the shape of a Boer waggon in search of green forage for the horses on commando. Mr. Celliers instantly decided to accompany the waggon back to the lager, and prepared himself for departure that very day. Tender, grateful leave was taken of the good friends who had harboured him so long, and he drove away, seated, with his few worldly possessions beside him, on the top of a load of green forage.
The next day he arrived at the lager of Commandant Badenhorst's commando on the farm Waterval near the "Sein koppies," and now we close the chapter with the following words, which I have translated from his diary:
"The crown has been set on my undertaking.God be thanked, I find myself again amongst free men, with weapon in hand. For the first time in the past four months I feel myself secure. There is no one, on my arrival, who gives one sign of interest or appreciation; one burgher even asks me why I had not rather remained in Pretoria.
"This stolid and philosophic view of life is characteristic of the Boer and certainly does not discourage me.
"Excitement and enthusiasm do not appear to be the children of the great solitudes, the slumbering sunlit vastnesses; nay, rather do they spring from the unbroken friction of many spirits, sparks bursting from the anvil of the great, restlessly driven activity of the world."
Mr. Celliers remained in the field until the war was over.
The exquisite summer of 1901 was drawing to a close.
January and February had been months of unsurpassed splendour and riotous luxury in fruit and flowers, each day being more gorgeous than the last. The glorious sunsets, the mysterious and exquisitely peaceful moonlight nights were a never-ending source of joy to our young writer, thrilling her being with emotions not to be described.
Each morning at 5 o'clock, while the rest of the idiotic world lay asleep within its cramped boundary of brick and stone, Hansie revelled in the beauties of Nature, abandoning herself to at least one hour of perfect bliss before the toil and trouble of another day could occupy her mind.
The garden being so situated that its most secluded spots were far removed from any sights and sounds which could remind one of the war, Hansie had no difficulty in turning her thoughts into more uplifting channels during the peaceful morning hour, spent, when the weather permitted, in her favourite corner under the six gigantic willows below the orange avenue.
And the weather in those days nearly always permitted!
Most of the entries in her diary she made in thisfair spot, alone, but for the sympathetic presence of her big black dog. The morning solitude was amply atoned for by the dozens of young friends who joined the "fruit parties" every afternoon, filling the air with their gay voices and wholesome, happy laughter.
THE SIX WILLOWS, HARMONY.THE SIX WILLOWS, HARMONY.ToList
THE SIX WILLOWS, HARMONY.ToList
Four or five young men and a bevy of beautiful young girls were amongst the most constant visitors at Harmony. The girls, often referred to in Hansie's diary as the "Four Graces," were certainly the most exquisite specimens of budding womanhood in Pretoria.
There was Consuélo, tall and slender, our languid "Spanish beauty," with her rich brown hair and slumbrous dark-brown eyes; there was our little Marguerite, fresh and fair as the flower after which she was named, an opening marguerite in the dewy daintiness of life's first summer morning; there was Annie, spoilt and wilful but undoubtedly the fairest of them all; and then there was her sister Sara, Hansie's favourite, with a girlish charm impossible to describe. Her creamy white complexion, her lovely soft brown eyes, her winning smile and tender voice—what could be more delightful than to sit and watch her as she moved and spoke with rare, unconscious grace, clad in a snowy dress of fine white muslin!
One sweet summer morn, a Sabbath, if I remember correctly, when the air was filled with the fragrance of innumerable buds and blossoms, Hansie sat in the accustomed spot, with her diary on her lap. She was not writing then, but, with a slip of paper in her hands and a gleam of mischief in her eyes, she was repeating with evident enjoyment a few catching lines.
"Oh, Carlo, this is lovely! I must learn these verses and recite them to the girls when they come this afternoon! Listen, Carlo."
FROM KITCHENER TO SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR
Sunday
I am taking measures once for all to clear my reputation;I swear to give de Wet a fall that means annihilation.
I am taking measures once for all to clear my reputation;I swear to give de Wet a fall that means annihilation.
Monday
A brilliant action by Brabant, the enemy has fled,Their loss was something dreadful; ours—one single Kaffir dead.
A brilliant action by Brabant, the enemy has fled,Their loss was something dreadful; ours—one single Kaffir dead.
Tuesday
De Wet is short of food-stuffs, his ammunition's done,His horses are all dying, and he's only got one gun.
De Wet is short of food-stuffs, his ammunition's done,His horses are all dying, and he's only got one gun.
Wednesday
The cordon draws in round de Wet; he now has little room,He only can escape one way—by road to Potchefstroom.
The cordon draws in round de Wet; he now has little room,He only can escape one way—by road to Potchefstroom.
Thursday
De Wet is now caged like a rat, he's fairly in a box,Around him grouped are Clements, Cléry, Methuen, French, and Knox.
De Wet is now caged like a rat, he's fairly in a box,Around him grouped are Clements, Cléry, Methuen, French, and Knox.
Friday
An unfortunate event occurred—I report it with regret,A convoy with five hundred men was captured by de Wet.
An unfortunate event occurred—I report it with regret,A convoy with five hundred men was captured by de Wet.
Saturday
A Kaffir runner says he saw de Wet's men trekking west,With ammunition for two years, and food supply the best.
A Kaffir runner says he saw de Wet's men trekking west,With ammunition for two years, and food supply the best.
Saturday (later)
A loyal farmer told our Scouts de Wet was riding east,Each man, beside the horse he rode, was leading a spare beast.
A loyal farmer told our Scouts de Wet was riding east,Each man, beside the horse he rode, was leading a spare beast.
Carlo wagged his tail sympathetically.
Overhead the sky was of the deepest, richest sapphire blue, paling away to the horizon to the most delicate tints, against which the distant hills showed up in bold relief.
"Gentleman Jim," one of the native servants, was evidently enjoying his Sunday too, for he loitered in the garden, plucking up a weed here and there and watching the bees at work, the busy bees who know of no day of rest.
"Bring me some grapes, please, Jim," Hansie called out to him.
"Yes, little missie," with alacrity. "What you like? Them black ones or them white ones?"
"Some of both."
He walked briskly to the house to fetch a basket and disappeared into the vineyard, returning shortly with a plentiful supply of luscious grapes.
"Thank you, Jim. Enough for a week!" Hansie laughed, and he looked pleased as he went off in the direction of the river.
A few moments later, half concealed by the shrubs and rank grass with which the lower part of Harmony was overrun, Hansie noticed two stooping figures in khaki, moving forward cautiously and then making sudden dashes at some object, invisible to the girl. She watched them intently, wondering who the intruders were and what their game could be, until they came so near that she was able to distinguish what it was they nourished in their hands. Butterfly nets!
A pair of harmless Tommies, spending their Sundaymorning in catching butterflies and the other insects of which there abounded so large a variety at that time of the year.
They did not catch sight of the girl until Carlo sprang up barking furiously, and then they started back in consternation and surprise.
"Lie down, Carlo," Hansie commanded sharply. "Good morning," to the men.
"Good morning, miss," respectfully; "I hope we are not intrudin'."
"Certainly not. Are you catching butterflies? Show me what you have got."
The men produced their spoil with pride.
"Will you have some grapes?" Hansie asked, handing the basket to one of them, who helped himself gratefully and then passed it on to his comrade. The latter, evidently not of a very sociable disposition, took a bunch and walked off in pursuit of more butterflies.
The first soldier, however, squatted down on the ground at some little distance from the girl and began to talk, as he ate the grapes with great relish. At this point Carlo raised himself with the utmost deliberation, yawned, stretched himself, and sauntering (I cannot call it anything exceptsauntering) slowly towards his mistress, laid his full length on the ground between her and the Tommy. Then he went sound asleep to all appearances, but his mistress observed that when the soldier made the slightest movement, the dog's ears twitched or an eyelid quivered.
Slowly eating his grapes, the man glanced curiously at the book on Hansie's lap.
"Are you sketchin', miss?" he asked.
"No; writing."
"Poetry?"
There was no answer.
"I am one of Lord Kitchener's body-guard," he went on presently. "We are encamped near Berea Park on the other side of your fence. We were in Middelburg last week and I saw one of the Boer Generals, General Botha."
Hansie's heart bounded. She looked at the man incredulously.
"Indeed! How was that possible?"
"Quite simple, miss. Lord Kitchener invited the General into town to have an interview with him. His brother—I think his name is Christian—came with him. I acted as their orderly."
"Tell me more, tell me everything," the girl's voice shook with ill-controlled emotion.
"There were five or six other men with them. They arrived at about nine in the morning and stayed until half-past four that afternoon. They had lunch with Lord Kitchener. A fine man the General is, well set up, big and broad-shouldered."
"Yes, I know." Hansiecould notwithhold those words.
"You know!" he exclaimed in great surprise. "Doyouknow General Botha?"
"Yes, indeed. And what is more, he ismyGeneral."
The soldier looked at her in ludicrous amazement.
"Are you a Boer? You don't look like one, and I never heard any one speak better English."
"I don't know whether what you are saying is meant as a compliment to me, but I don't like beingtold that I don't look like a Boer, and I certainly would not be pleased if you took me for an Englishwoman."
The poor Tommy looked troubled and muttered something about "no offence meant, I am sure."
"Now please go on and tell me more about the General. Did you hear anything of what he said to Lord Kitchener?"
"Nothing, miss, except when he went away. They shook hands very hearty-like and the General said, 'Good-bye; I hope you will have good luck.' That was all."
"Good luck! What do you think he could have meant?"
"We don't know, miss, but we think he meant good luck in Natal, for Lord Kitchener went yesterday and I hear there is some talk of peace."
Hansie sat silent for a long time, turning these things over in her mind.
"But what is all this accursed war about, miss? We soldiers know nothing except that we have to fight when we are ordered to do so."
"Of course you know nothing. An English soldier is nothing but a fighting machine, not allowed to think or act for himself. Discipline is a grand thing, but Heaven protect a man from the discipline of the British army. The war? I will tell you if you want to know. The war is a cruel and unjust attempt to rob us of our rich and independent land, and England is the tool in base and unscrupulous hands. You suffer too, I know, and all my heart goes out in sympathy to the bereaved and broken-hearted Englishwomen across the seas. Their onlycomfort is their firm belief that their heroes died a noble death for freedom and justice. Did they but know the truth! They died to satisfy the lust for gain and greed of gold of mining magnates on the Rand."
"Suffer, miss! As long as I live I will not forget that march from the colony, through Bloemfontein to Pretoria. Fighting nearly every day and marching at least thirty miles a day, onone biscuit. There was no water to be had! Will you believe that for three days not a drop of water passed my lips? And I heard the other fellows say, not once, but a thousand times, 'Would to God that a bullet find me before night!' Our tongues were hanging from our mouths and our lips were cracked——"
"Stop!" Hansie cried, putting her hands to her ears. "I do not want to hear another word. These things cannot be helped, and your officers suffered too!"
"The officers! When at last the water-carts came, we had to stand aside and watch while bucketsful were being carried into the tents for theirbaths!"
There was silence again.
"If I were an English soldier, I would run away," Hansie said.
"I've had enough, God knows, and when I get home I mean to leave the Army and take up my old work—carpentering. The war can't last very long. England is mighty—but I wish the bloomin' capitalists would come and do the fighting, if they want this country and its gold-mines."
"There are only a 'few marauding bands' left, so the English say," Hansie answered bitterly."But remember what I tell you now. South Africa will be soaked in blood and tears, and a hundred thousand hearts will be broken here and in your country, before the mighty British Army has subdued those 'few marauding bands.'"
The soldier's face grew troubled once again.
It was a good, strong face—a patient face—and it bore the marks of much suffering, endured in silence and alone.
He rose and took off his cap.
"You've been very good to me, miss. I wish I could be of some use to you."
"Run away from Lord Kitchener!" she said, laughing. "I would be very sorry indeed if you fell by the hand of one of my brothers."
He looked at her sympathetically.
"How many brothers have you in the field?"
"God only knows," she answered sadly. "There were two left when last we heard of them. The third has been made a prisoner."
The soldier took his leave and Hansie lost herself in reverie.
And when at last she roused herself, she wrote with rapid pen:
"Two Tommies have been in our garden, catching butterflies——" We know the rest.
That afternoon about ten or twelve young people assembled in the garden and were later joined by several members of the Diplomatic Corps—Consul Cinatti, Consul Aubert, and Consul Nieuwenhuis, the most frequent visitors at Harmony.
Thetopic of conversation was connected withGeneral Botha's visit to Lord Kitchener in Middelburg, and when Hansie told her friends what she had heard from the soldier that morning, they expressed their conviction that every word he said must have been true.
And the latestofficialwar news, in rhyme, the dispatch from Kitchener to the Secretary of State for War, came in for its share of attention, occasioning no small amount of merriment.
Oh, happy afternoon! Oh, memories sweet! Oh, long departed days of good fellowship and mutual understanding! Bright spots of gold and crimson in our sky of lead!
Mrs. van Warmelo never at any time encouraged evening visitors. They were all early risers at Harmony and their life could not be adapted to the artificial, the unnatural strain of modern civilisation.
So the quiet evenings were spent by the mother in reading and writing, while the daughter gave herself up to the indulgence of her one great passion, music. Scales and exercises, Schubert and Chopin, and invariably at the end—before retiring for the night—Beethoven, the Master, the King of Music.
How the routine of life at Harmony was broken in upon by news "from the front" that April month in 1901, I shall endeavour to relate.
Hansie coming home one morning from a shopping expedition, found her mother in a state of suppressed excitement.
Everything was as much as possible "suppressed" in those days—goodness only knows why, for surely it would have been better for the nervous and highly strung mind if an occasional outburst could have been permitted. Hansie suffered from the same complaint, and had to pay most dearly in after years for the suppression of her deepest feelings.
There is a Dutch saying which forcibly expresses that condition of tense self-control under circumstances of a particularly trying nature. We say we are "living on our nerves," and that describes the case better than anything I have ever heard.
Our heroines, like so many other sorely tried women in South Africa, were "living on their nerves," those wise, understanding nerves, so knowing and so delicate, which form the stronghold of the human frame.
The external symptoms of this state were onlyknown by those who lived in close and constant intercourse with one another. Hansie therefore knew, by an inflection in her mother's voice, that something out of the way had happened when she said:
"I have had a note from General Maxwell."
"Indeed! What does he say?"
"He writes that Dietlof has been made a prisoner, and he encloses a telegram from the Assistant Provost-Marshal at Ventersdorp, in the name of General Babington, to say that Dietlof is well, as was Fritz when last seen. See for yourself."
Hansie grabbed—yes, grabbed—the papers from her mother's outstretched hand.
"'When last seen?' Mother, what can that mean? Why have the boys been separated?"
"That is what I should like to know," her mother answered. "I wonder how we can find out. We must ask to see General Maxwell at once."
That afternoon the two women called at the Government Buildings and were shown into the Governor's office.
He seemed to be expecting a visit from them, and Mrs. van Warmelo apologised for troubling him, reminding him of the promise he had made on the occasion of their very first visit to him, that he would help them if they came to him in any trouble.
This he remembered perfectly.
"What is it you want me to do?" he asked.
"If you will be so good, we want a permit to visit our prisoner in the Johannesburg Fort, where he will probably be kept until he is sent to Ceylon or where-ever he may have to go."
"Certainly; I will do this with the greatest pleasure. But first we must wire and find out his whereabouts. I'll see about the matter and let you know at once."
Thanking him gratefully, mother and daughter took their leave.
"We should have asked permission to take a box of clothes and other little necessaries for our boy," the mother said.
"Yes, what a pity we did not think of it! But surely there could be no objection to that! Let us get everything ready at least, and ask permission when we hear from General Maxwell again."
The largest portmanteau in the house was overhauled and carefully and thoughtfully packed by the mother's yearning hands.
No article of comfort was overlooked, no detail of the wardrobe considered too small for her closest attention and care.
Presently Hansie came withhercontribution, a thick exercise-book and a couple of pencils.
"Put these in, mother, if you still have room. I am going to ask Dietlof to write down all his adventures in this book for us to read afterwards. It will help him to get through his time of imprisonment."
(This small act, I may add here, led to the publication of her brother's book,Mijn Kommando en Guerilla-Kommando leven—On Commando, in the English edition—which was begun in Ladysmith and written in the Indian Fort at Ahmednagar and smuggled out to Holland under conditions of such romantic interest: the first book on the war, writtenduringthe war and devoured by the public in Hollandlong before it was allowed to reach South African shores—a book famed for its moderation and its truth, direct, sincere throughout.)
That Saturday night poor Mrs. van Warmelo never closed her eyes. She feared, and she had good reason to fear, that her son would pass through Johannesburg, and be transported to some foreign isle, before a word of greeting and farewell could be made by her. The thought of the morrow's Sabbath rest and inactivity intensified her fears.
The first thing she said to Hansie next morning was:
"You must go to General Maxwell and ask whether there is no news for us."
"But, mother, this is Sunday!"
"I know that. You will have to go to his house."
"Oh, I could not possibly do that. What does he care about our anxieties? Besides, I think it would be most indiscreet."
"I don't care," shortly.
In the end Hansie had to go, and when once she had made up her mind she looked forward with some pleasure to her little adventure, for there was no one of the officials known to her for whom she had a more sincere regard than General Maxwell. His house was but a few minutes' walk from Harmony, and Hansie, looking up at the gathering clouds, hoped that she could be home again before the approaching storm broke loose.
Our "brave" heroinetrembledwhen she rang the bell, for all her distaste of the task had returned with redoubled force, but her self-confidence was soonrestored under the genial warmth of the General's greetings.
He did not seem to be the least annoyed or displeased at this intrusion on his Sabbath privacy. And he was quite alone—not, as Hansie had feared to find him, surrounded by a crowd of officers.
He told her that though he had not been able to get news of her brother direct, he knew that a large number of prisoners had arrived at the Johannesburg Fort from Ventersdorp. He thought her brother would probably be amongst them, and gave her special permits to Johannesburg and back, and also a letter of introduction to the Military Governor in Johannesburg, asking him as a personal favour to assist the ladies in their quest.
"If I were you, I would not wait for definite news, but go to-morrow on the chance of finding him. Delay might bring you great disappointment. But, tell me, Miss van Warmelo, are you not glad that your brother has been captured and is out of danger now?"
"Glad? No, how can I be glad? It means a man less on our side—andhe is a man, I can assure you. If all the Boers were as brave and true—and such unerring marksmen—the war would soon be over."
The Governor looked disturbed.
"It seems to me a strange thing for a girl like you to feel so strongly. Are all your women such staunch patriots?"
"Not all, perhaps, but there are many who feel even more strongly than I do."
The General kept her there and talked of many things, asked her innumerable questions on thecountry and its people, and drew her out upon the subject of the war.
Outside, the elements were raging, for the storm had broken loose, and the rain came down in torrents, while the crashing thunder pealed overhead.
Hansie looked anxious, and the Governor said:
"It will soon be over. Are you afraid?"
"Oh no, I love our storms; but my mother is alone at home, and she doesnot."
She told him, toying with her permits, of her curious collection of passes and other war-curios, and he left the room with a friendly—
"Perhaps I can find something for you too," returning with a button from his coat and a colonel's crown.
"The storm is over; let us see what damage has been done," and he led the way into the garden, showed her the flowers, asked the names of shrubs unknown to him.