On the top of
the drawers were arranged a multitude of medicine-bottles, half full and
half empty, cracked and whole. The broken old washstand had been of
valuable service during the night, as with it I barricaded the door,
innocent of any lock or key. When I was dressed, I walked out on to the
tiny stoep, surrounded by a high paling. My attention was at once
attracted to a woman in a flood of tears, and presently the cause of her
weeping was explained, as an elderly man came round the corner of the
house with both his hands roughly tied up with bandages covered with
blood--a sight which caused the young woman to sob with renewed vigour.
After a little talk with the man, who, in spite of his injuries, seemed
perfectly well, the latter went away, and I entered into conversation
with the weeping female, whom I found to speak good English, and to be
the daughter of the wounded warrior, Hoffman by name and German by
birth. They were Transvaal subjects, and her father had been among the
first of the burghers to turn out when hostilities threatened. She then
proceeded to tell me that she and her mother and a numerous collection
of young brothers and sisters had trekked in from their home in the
Transvaal to spend the Sunday in the laager with their father. On their
arrival early that morning, they learnt, to their horror, that he had
been wounded, or, rather, injured, late the night before, as the
mutilated state of his hands arose from a shell exploding in the
high-velocity Krupp gun just as he was loading it.
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