The mail cart by which I left Pretoria was so arranged that the passengers sat back to back, but as there was the driver besides myself only. I was obliged to sit at the back to preserve the balance. Feeling very weak I tied myself in with a rope, which, having passed round my waist, I fastened to either side of the tent of the cart, so that whatever might happen, I could not be thrown out. The road to Six Mile Spruit was very smooth, the night dark, and being dead tired out, I fell to sleep at once; Morpheus, however, did not long hold me in his arms, for my slumbers were soon disturbed. I was suddenly awakened to the fact that something had gone wrong. Collecting my scattered senses, I saw at once that the driver had outspanned the horses, and tied them up, two to each wheel, where, neighing and kicking with fright, they were pulling and swaying the cart about in opposite directions to get loose, till at last over it went, and all four horses tore themselves free and broke away at a bound. Fortunately uninjured, yet unable to get out by myself, I laid tied up fast in the cart, until at dawn of day the driver, who had been sleeping in the stable of a farm-house close by, came to inspan again. Seeing the cart upset, the horses gone, he naturally looked to see where I was, and releasing me from my awkward predicament, went to seek for his horses. The farmer himself next appeared on the scene, one of the fattest, jolliest, old fellows I have ever met. He paid me more kind attention than I could ever have expected, and insisted on my going to his house, where we drank cup after cup of coffee until the sun was well up. Von Schalkveigh, for that was his name, once an Old Colony farmer, had been loyal to the backbone during the war.

At last, the horses being found, my driver made up for lost time, and after two or three changes of animals, we drove up to the “Royal Hotel” at Heidelberg just as the rain was commencing to pour in torrents.

This is a neat village of about 250 inhabitants. The Blesbok Spruit, which nearly encircled it, formed quite a picture in the foreground, while the background was filled up by the hills over which we had just come. Heidelberg had always been described to me as an oasis in the desert, my informants applying that term to it both from its natural beauties and from the geniality of its residents. It did not take me long to find out it was a colony composed almost entirely of thrifty, well-to-do Scotchmen, who had chosen, with considerable cuteness, the best position for miles round on which to settle.

Mr. MacLaren, the “institution” of the place, a prosperous merchant, and I can say without fear of contradiction one of the most hospitable Scotchmen in South Africa, invited me to lunch. His kindness to the English officers brought here as prisoners of war, after the Dutch success at Majuba, was a matter of common report. It was well known if he had not entertained them as guests of his own, they would have been confined in the common gaol. Such kindness at such a time cannot be over estimated. Here the Boers had their headquarters during the war, the Dutch flag having been hoisted at the beginning of the revolt, without resistance or bloodshed, on Durgaan’s Day, December 16th, 1880.

During the war the Boers behaved very creditably to the townsfolk, treating them well and paying for everything which they got from the stores. Round about they made laagers to defend the place, possession of which our troops from force of circumstances were unable to even attempt to gain.

It was still raining when we drove away, and just as darkness was closing round we outspanned at a farm-house where we stayed the night. The next afternoon we came to Standerton on the Vaal River.

This village, with 300 regulars and 70 civilians, was invested by 700 Boers on December 24th, 1880, and for two months and a half, until the armistice was proclaimed, it was able to act on the defensive only.

Crossing the river, in a few hours we came to the residence and store of Mr. Michaelson, where we stopped the night. These had been used as hospitals by the Boers, from January 28th, 1880, to the close of the war. Here the road divides, one branch leading to Wakkerstroom, the other to Coldstream, and over Laing’s Nek into Natal.

Within forty yards of Mr. Michaelson’s house the Boers have erected a monument to their dead who fell at Majuba; on this every death which occurred on that day, so fatal to our arms and prestige in South Africa, is distinctly recorded.

The accompanying picture is from a sketch which I made on passing. When looking at this reminder of scenes gone by, I could not help thinking over our own dead, sleeping peacefully in the graveyard at Mount Prospect, just across the border, a few short miles away.

Mrs. Michaelson and her husband were very kind, invited me into their private house, gave me a good dinner and bed; but I had not long to rest, as Mr. Michaelson awoke me before daylight in the morning, the mail cart starting very early. Passing Coldstream, the sun was just rising as we came near on our left hand to the site of the Boer camp during the late war; and now, more vividly than on my former visit, seeing both sides of the situation, could I realize the fact that if the late Sir G. Pomeroy Colley had taken any rocket apparatus, or Gatling gun, with him on his ascent of Majuba, or even ordered a diversion to be made at Laing’s Nek, the Boer camp must have lain entirely at his mercy. The day would have been his own, Gladstone’s fit of repentance unnecessary, and the English flag would yet be flying over the Transvaal.

The morning, beautiful and clear after the night’s rain, enabled me, as the post-cart passed along the road winding at its base, distinctly to see every outline of Majuba once more, towering 3,000 feet above. It is one of the finest scenes in South Africa, and will well repay a visit, the more so as within a radius of ten miles the student can read three lessons in the history of his own time.

Away on our left we drove past the battlefield of Laing’s Nek, bid farewell to the resting-place of poor Colley at Mount Prospect, took a last look at the roadside inn, now alas! in ruins, where two and a half years before I had passed such pleasant hours, until arriving at the Ingogo drift, Vormstone gave me a splendid breakfast. An hour’s rest, off we went again, crossed the Ingogo and made the gradual ascent, which I have described before in another chapter, to the battlefield of Schuin’s Hooghte.

Here I got the post-cart driver to stay for a quarter of an hour, while I paid a second visit to the graveyard close to the road. I found everything just the same as when I was last there immediately after the war, except that close alongside a neat little monument had been erected in commemoration of those who fell on the field, and those who died, ignominiously deserted three short years before.

Galloping down from Schuin’s Hooghte, a few miles more brought us to Newcastle, and as the mail for Maritzburg did not start till next day, I got a good rest. Everything in Newcastle had gone back. No signs of the lavish spending of Imperial money! No military camp with its reckless expenditure now. The fine hotel, which on my former visit was crowded with officers, contractors, sutlers and army hangers-on, had been burnt down, and was in ruins. “The place thereof shall know it no more for ever.” My old friend, Greenlees, invited me to dinner, but I noticed that he looked upon me with kindly pity, as one with whom cruel fortune had made merry, and not as

I left Newcastle early next morning, travelling over the same ground as I did years before, stayed at Ladysmith an hour or two, and tried to eat a most infamously served lunch in, I think, the “inn’s worst room,” and started again for Colenso, where I rested the night. At early dawn we were on the move. On we went, calling at Pinchin’s hotel at Estcourt, kept by a fellow passenger who came with me to Natal “two decades” before in the “Tugela” then away again past Howick and the beautiful falls of the Umgeni, to Maritzburg.

The railway embankment in course of construction showed me the rapid strides civilization was making, and was a proof that the iron horse would soon neigh at a distance of 100 miles from the seaboard. In former days I always went to the “Plough Hotel;” and, with a feeling I have of never forsaking old friends or places, I went there again, but the hotel had evidently been decorated (?) by contract for external show. The backyard was covered in with glass, the floor paved with tawdry tiles, and a few stunted plants sprouted in despair from green painted pots. Everything for mere meretricious effect. The bugs, mosquitoes, dirt and disorder of my bedroom were sufficient to drive me away to D’Urban next day. Before I went, however, I found opportunity to see a few friends whom I had known years before. Among them Mr. Henrique Shepstone, who in my Natal days was Coolie Immigration Agent, afterwards Judge Philip’s private secretary during the memorable trials in the Barbadoes, then Secretary of Native Affairs in the Transvaal during the Lanyon régime, and subsequently Imperial Government agent in charge of Cetywayo during his visit to London, but now the Hon. H. Shepstone, Secretary of Native Affairs, having lately been promoted by Sir H. Bulwer to this post, which was formerly held by his father, Sir Theophilus Shepstone. Mr. Polkinghoene, the Treasurer General, whose beautiful coffee estate on the banks of the Umhloti River I had often visited, was looking after the finances of his adopted country, while my old partner in planting when I was on the coast had forsaken the cure of coffee, and taken to the cure of souls!

Reclining in a luxurious railway carriage, I was able to look back on post-cart travelling and its miseries, thinking of Virgil’s “Forsitan hæc olim meminisse juvabit,” the present comfort making up for the disagreeables of the past. Every comfort or pain in this world is by comparison, and a first-class railway carriage seemed a very haven of rest after my 700 mile post-cart trip through Griqualand West, the Transvaal, and Natal. “Comparisons are odious,” but after the “Plough” at Maritzburg, the “Royal” at D’Urban, where I stayed, seemed a perfect paradise. I can scarcely tell how thoroughly I enjoyed my few days rest before the steamer “Asiatic” bore me to Capetown!

The Indian waiters robed in spotless white, the recherché bills of fare, the noble dining-room with punkahs in constant play, the beds supplied with mosquito curtains, the obliging landlord, the tout ensemble in fact, forced me, after an experience of nearly every large hotel in South Africa, to one conclusion, which was that the “Royal” at D’Urban was beyond any comparison the hotel of the country.

After a few days pleasant coasting, calling at East London, Port Elizabeth and Mossel Bay, meeting friends at every place, we anchored at last in Table Bay, but as the wind had suddenly commenced to blow great guns from the southeast, the Captain would not risk docking his steamer.

Expecting to meet my wife, who had cabled she was coming out, after hearing of my accident, I risked going ashore in a small boat, getting drenched through for my pains. “All’s well that ends well,” however, and on landing I found that she had arrived safely the day before in the “Athenian” and was awaiting me.

I was naturally very curious to learn what had caused her unaccountable anxiety, which I mentioned in my last chapter, as particular care had been taken to keep the fact of my accident from being cabled to her, and she had remained in entire ignorance of my condition until letters reached her. She told me that she was sitting alone reading, much interested in her book, when she felt a sharp thrill, like an electric shock, pass through her from head to foot. This distracted her attention for a moment, but as she was about to resume her book, she heard a voice distinctly say “Pray for Joe, pray for Joe.” This occurred on Sunday, December 2d, which was the day after my accident, and when in both Kimberley and Du Toit’s Pan prayers had been offered in many churches for my recovery.

In as far as I have read the accounts of such phenomena, this differs from them in some respects, and so I think may be interesting to members of the Psychical Research Society, and those engaged in investigating such mental phenomena or coincidences as clairvoyance, thought reading, etc.

Although I ought to have taken a longer rest from work, I could not hear inactivity, and resumed the practice of my profession on February 14th, 1884. This I continued as before until August, 1886, when, as I tell later on, I visited the Kaap Gold Fields.