The times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1897-1901, 1900-05-05
rhc pnthos of the -Boer War.



Something of the spirit in which the
Beers are fighting can be seen frJm the
following story, told by the Australian
journalist, Mr.. Hales. The conversation
took place wnen he was prisoner in the
narls Of the Beers.
What 90 you fellows think of Austral-
ians as fighters?
Il asked the question carelessly. but tie
answer that | got brought me to my ar
ings quickly, for then | learned that more
than one gallant Australian officer dear TO
me had fallen. never to rise again, SIM
l had been taken prisoner. The man wto
spoke was little more than lad, a pa e.
faced, slenderlybu son of the veldt. He
had tangled curly hair and big. pathetic
blue eyes, soft as a girls. and limbs II at
lacked the rugged strength OF the old Boer
stock; but there was that nameless sone-
thing. that indefinable expression in his
face which warranted him a brave man.
He carried one arm in a sling, and the
bandage round his neck hid bullet wound.
The Australians can fight he said
simply. They wounded me. and-they
killed my father Perhaps it was the
wind signing through the hospital trees
that made the Boer lads voice grow
strangely husky; possibly the same cause
flied the blue eyes with unshed tears.
1t was in fair fight, lad. | said gently;
1T was the fortune of war;
Yes he murmured. it was in fair
fight an awful fight hope / IL never look
upon another like it. Damn the fighting
he broke out fiercely. Damn the fighting
| don't hate you Australians. | didn't
want to kill any of them, My father had
no ill-will 10 them, nor they 10 him. yet
he is out there-out there between two
great kopjes-where the wind always blows
cold and dreary at night time The laddie
shuddered. 1t makes a man doubt the love
of the Christ he said. My father was a
good man, kind man, who never turned
the stranger emptyhanded from his door;
even the Kaffirs on the farm loved him.
and now he is lying where no one can weep
over his grace. We piled great rocks on his
grave. My cousin and | buried him. We
had no shovels; We scooped a hole in the
hard earth as well as we could. long shall
low hole, and We laid him in it. | took his
head and Cousin Gustave carried his feet.
We folded his hands on his breast laid his
old rifle by his side because he had always
loved that gun and never used any other
when out hunting, Then we pushed the
earth in on him gently with our hands.
breaking the hard Jumps up and crumbling
them in orr palms so that they should not
bruise his poor flesh. He had always been
so kind. We could not hurt him, even
though We knew he was dead. for he had
been gentle to all OF us in life; even the
COWS and oxen at home loved him-and
now who Will go back and tell mother and
little Yacoba that he is deaG: that he will
come to them no more? Oh. damn the
war the lad called again in his pain. L
don't know-only God knows-whieh side
is right or wrong. but I do know that the
curse of the Christ will rest on the head.
of those who have made this war for am
bition's sake or the greed of gold. and the
good God will not let the widow and the
orphan child go unavenged; blood will yet
speak for blood, and it must rest either on
the heads of Kruger and Steyn or Cham
berlain and Rhodes"