They were dressed in
all sorts of ragged, motley-looking clothes; trousers of cheap tweed,
such as you see hung up in an East End slop-shop; jackets once black,
now rusted, torn and stained, and battered hats. They reminded me more
of a mob of Kent hop-pickers than anything else, and it was a matter of
some surprise, not to say disgust, to some of us to think that such a
sorry crowd should be able to withstand disciplined troops in the way
they did.
I talked to several of them. They all agreed in saying that they had
been through the most ghastly time in the last ten days and were
heartily glad it was over. They exchanged nods and good-days with us and
the soldiers who were standing about, and altogether seemed in a very
friendly and conciliatory mood. All this, however, it struck me, was
rather put on, a bit of acting which was now and then a trifle overdone.
Boers are past-masters at hiding their real feelings and affecting any
that they think will be acceptable. It is a trait which has become a
national characteristic, and the craft, dissimulation, the _slimness_,
as it is called, of the Boers is a by-word. I suppose it comes from the
political situation, the close neighbourhood of a rival race, stronger
and more energetic, which fosters in the stolid Dutchman, by way of
buckler, this instinctive reticence and cunning. His one idea is to make
what he can out of the situation without troubling his head for a
moment about his own candour and sincerity.
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