Life in the Boer camps.

Headquarters, orange river colony.

It is an article of faith with many people that a Boer commando is a mere mob, that its leaders exercise no control over men in laager or on the field, and that punishment for crimes is a thing unknown.  But this is far from being the case.  It is quite true that a Boer soldier does not know how to click his heels together, turn his toes to an acute angle, stiffen his back, and salute every time an officer runs against him.  He could not properly perform any of the very simplest military evolutions common to all European soldiers if his immortal welfare depended upon it.  That is why he is such a failure as an attacking agent.  Still, in spite of these things, the Boer on commando has to submit to very rigid laws.  The penalty for outrage, or attempted outrage, on a woman is instant death on conviction, no matter what the woman’s nationality may be.  For sleeping on sentry duty the punishment is unique; it is a punishment born of long dwelling in the wilderness.  It is of such a nature that no man who has once undergone it is calculated ever to forget.  When a clear case is made out against a burgher by trial before his commandant the whole commando in laager is summoned to witness the criminal’s reward.  He is taken out beyond the lines to a spot where the sun shines in all its unprotected fierceness.  He is led to an ant-hill full of busy, wicked, little crawlers; the top of the ant-hill is cut off with a spade, leaving a honeycombed surface for the sleepy one to stand upon (not much fear of him sleeping whilst he is there).  He is ordered to mount the hill and stand with feet close together.  His rifle is placed in his hands, the butt resting between his toes, the muzzle clasped in both hands.  Two men are then told off to watch him.  They are picked men, noted for their stern, unyielding sense of duty and love for the cause they fight for.

These guards lie down in the veldt twenty-five yards away from the victim.  They have their loaded Mausers with them, and their orders are, if the prisoner lifts a leg, to put a bullet into it; if he lifts an arm, a bullet goes into that defaulting member; if he jumps down from his perch altogether, the leaden messengers sent from both rifles will cancel all his earthly obligations.  The sun shines down in savage mockery; it strikes upon the bare neck of the quivering wretch, who dare not lift a hand to shift his hat to cover the blistering skin.  It strikes in his eyes and burns his lips until they swell and feel like bursting.  The barrel of his rifle grows hotter and hotter, until his fingers feel as if glued to a gridiron.  The very clothes upon his body burn the skin beneath.  He feels desperate; he must shift one arm, for the anguish is intolerable.  He makes an almost imperceptible movement of his shoulder, and glances towards his guards.  The man on his right front lays his pipe quickly in the grass, and swiftly lifts his Mauser to his shoulder.  The wretch on the ant-heap closes his eyes with a groan, and stands as still as a Japanese god carved out of jute-wood.  The guard lays down his rifle and picks up his pipe.