“And we got on with our duties. We cleaned and cooked and repaired, perversely taking satisfaction in having a roof of our own over our heads. We’d wake one another in the night to say: ‘Cor! Hear that rain? Poor old Ratty, standing lookout in this! Hope he’s found somewhere to shelter.’ I ran a tight ship, and every man did his bit.”

“Did you experience any military action?”

“We fired off quite a few rounds at the jackals. They came for the fruit. The tree wasn’t called a jackalberry for nothing! Lemony-tasting and refreshing. We ate a lot of it.”

“Your supplies were sufficient?”

“Course not! We scavenged for food like the jackals! The Boers had brought hardtack with them. Have you ever eaten biltong?” He pulled a face. “Hope you never have to. Plenty of game about, though. And we were good shots. Antelope tastes like venison, and Lieutenant Hardy was a dab hand with the roasting spit and the stewpot.

“But no enemy or friend hove into view. We exercised the horses, reconnoitred the area, watched the railway line, darned our socks and passed the time. Herbert put his skills to repairing the saddle of the black horse. An intricate piece of needlework, which he managed by equipping himself with shoe-mending materials nicked from the Boers’ kitbags. There were several individual pouches contrived for the ingots within the saddle. ‘Never know when you’ll need to hide ten bars o’ gold,’ he said with a wink. ‘That’s been used afore, I reckon. A real bit o’ craftsmanship that is!’

“Then, once he was satisfied with his repairs, he used the saddle and the horse for riding out on reconnaissance. He was the only one of us the black would tolerate near him.” He smiled. “So poor old Herb found himself doing quite a mileage up and down alongside the railway track every day. With three horses and a mule in his charge, he had his work cut out.”

Redfyre interrupted the domestic saga to ask what they had done with the body of the young rider. Had they established his identity, reported his death?