The English had entrenched themselves at the Modder River, we at
Magersfontein. There was little or nothing for us to do, and yet I never
had a more troublesome time in my life. I had all the Transvaalers under
my orders, in addition to the burghers of the Free State, and the
positions which I had to inspect every day extended over a distance of
fifteen miles from end to end. I had to listen to constant complaints;
one of the officers would say that he could not hold out against an
attack if it were delivered at such and such a point; another, that he
had not sufficient troops with him, not to mention other remarks which
were nonsensical in the extreme.

In the meantime, the enemy was shelling our positions unceasingly. Not a
day passed but two of their Lyddite guns dropped shells amongst us.
Sometimes not more than four or five reached us in the twenty-four
hours; at other times from fifty to two hundred, and once as many as
four hundred and thirty-six.

In spite of this, we had but few mishaps. Indeed, I can only remember
three instances of any one being hurt by the shells. A young burgher,
while riding behind a ridge and thus quite hidden from the enemy, was
hit by a bomb, and both he and his horse were blown to atoms. This youth
was a son of Mr. Gideon van Tonder, a member of the Executive Council.
Another Lyddite shell so severely wounded two brothers, named Wolfaard,
Potchefstroom burghers, that we almost despaired of their lives.
Nevertheless, they recovered. I do not want to imply that the British
Artillery were poor shots. Far from it. Their range was very good, and,
as they had plenty of practice every day, shot after shot went home. I
ascribe our comparative immunity to a Higher Power, which averted
misfortune from us.