men. Brave men.' Beside him the boy, Hennie, was crying openly.
The tears falling on to his patched tweed jacket.
'Be still, Jong,' Jan Paulus murmured gently. Tears are for women.'
And he urged his pony into the narrow passage between the dead. It was
the dust and the sun and the lyddite fumes which had irritated his own
eyes, he told himself angrily.
Quietly, lacking the triumphant bearing of victors, they came to the
guns and spread out among them. Then a single rifle-shot 1 cracked out
and a burgher staggered and clutched the wheel of a gun carriage for
support.
Whiding his pony, and flattening himself along its neck, Jan Paulus
charged the don ga beyond the guns from which the shot had come.
Another shot hissed past his head, but by then Jan Paulus had reached
the don ga Pulling Ins mount down from full gallop on to its haunches,
he jumped from the saddle and kicked the rifle out of the British
private's hands before dragging him to his feet.
'We have killed too much already, you fool. ' Stumbling over the
English words, his tongue clumsy with rage, he roared into the
soldier's face. 'It is finished. Give up.' And then turning on the
surviving gunners who huddled along the don ga 'Give up, give up, all
of you! ' None of them moved for a long minute, then slowly one at a
time they stood up and shuffled out of the don ga
While a party of Boers led the prisoners away, and the others went
about the business of hitching up the guns and the ammunition wagon,
the British stretcher-bearers began filtering forward through the
mimosa trees. Soon khaki figures were mingled everywhere with the
burghers as they searched like bird-dogs for the wounded.
Two of them, dark-skinned Indians of the Medical Corps, had found a man
lying out on the left flank. They were having difficulty with him, and
Jan Paulus handed the reins of Ins pony to Hennie and walked across to
them.
In semi-delirium the wounded man was cursing horribly and resisting all
attempts by the two Indians to fix splints on his leg.
'Leave me alone, you bastards,' and a flying fist knocked one of them
sprawling. Jan Paulus, recognizing the voice and the punch, started to
run.
'You behave yourself, or I'll klop you one,' he growled as he reached
them. Groggily Sean rolled his head and tried to focus on him.
'Who's that? Who are you? Get the hell away from me.
Jan Paulus did not answer. He was looking at the wounds and they made
him want to vomit.
'Give to me.' He took the splints from the shaken bearers and squatted
down beside Sean.
'Get away!' Sean screamed at him. 'I know what you're going to do.
You're going to cut it off!' dean ' Jan Paulus caught his wrist and
held it while Sean writhed and swore.
'I'll kill you, you filthy bastard. I'll kill you if you touch it.
'Sean! It's me. Look at me!'
And slowly Sean relaxed, his eyes steadied.
