Sarah Raal - The Fighting Boer Woman.

 

Born in the 1870’s on a farm outside Jagersfontein in the Republic of the Orange Free State, Sarah Raal watched as her father and four brothers went off to fight the British Empire at the outbreak of the Second South African War. One day her mother and two younger siblings went to town to buy provisions and were accused, arrested and sent to a concentration camp for aiding the Boers. Her father became ill and was unable to continue on commando. He was arrested and sent to a concentration camp outside Uitenhage.

Sarah, realising she was alone, left the farm and moved around to avoid capture by the British forces. She was eventually captured and sent to the concentration camp at Springfontein from which she escaped.

She joined her brothers on commando with Commandant Niewoudt and took part in numerous guerilla engagements as part of the fighting force. She and her brothers were eventually captured. They were sent to a concentration camp in India where they were interred for more than seventeen months after the war had ended because they refused to swear allegiance to the British crown. Sarah, once again ended up in a concentration where she almost died. In 1936 she wrote a book “Met die Boere in die Veldt’ detailing her wartime experiences. It was republished in the year 2000 in English as ‘The Lady who Fought.’

 Portrait as published in   her book 'Met die Boere in die Veldt' published in 1938 by Nasionale Pers

The Marksman - A Short Story

The rider on the horse sat very still at the foot of the red mountain they called Poison. Far back in the ravine was a secret path that led to the summit and the Commandant's main camp. From the top of the mountain, you could see for miles, at least two days of miles, but the Khaki's had a new commander and they started travelling at night and in smaller groups, making it harder to see them and to shoot them. The rider had come to check on the water in the small dam. The sheep drank there. It was only a spot of mud in the heat of February but the animals would be alright for another day or two. Down on the flats there had been no tracks but, something didn't feel right, so the rider sat on the horse in the shade of the mountain with the heavy Mauser across the saddle, peering from under the brim of a wide, dusty hat at the dry, dusty veld, watching. Even in the shade, sweat dripped down the forehead stinging eyes and tickling the nose, but the rider dared not rub it away. In this war, the first to move was the first to die.

The was a small rock out in the open. There was something wrong with that rock. It was too smooth and the tree near it had a funny knob near the ground. The sheep stayed away from the dam. It was just a mud hole but the mud was cool and wet. If the soldiers were here, where were their horses? The rider could not see their horses. They must be hidden somewhere close. The Khaki's did not do well in the hot sun, always fanning themselves, but these were very still, must be fighting for a long time. A jackal moved towards the sheep but turned away from the big rock the commandant had executed the turncoat. Maybe their horses were behind it. The rider's biggest worry was the horse flicking its tail or shaking its head but it was a good horse and didn't.

A faint whistle reached the rider’s ears. It sounded like a bird, but it wasn't. The smooth stone became square and flat. The tree shook where there was no wind and the sheep came nearer the dam. On the far side of the big rock, a scared bird flew away. The rider made a decision. Moving quickly, the dusty figure dismounted and dropped to the sandy ground expecting a shot, but it never came. The Mauser was loaded as always. The khakis were too close. If they found the camp on top of the mountain, the English would send a larger force, and then the Commandant and his men would have to run again. They were tired of running. They missed their families. Did the English have families? The marksman shook the thought away and lined the muzzle on the rock. It was not now a time to think that the enemy were people. The khaki’s cannot go back to their camp. They came to kill, and they must be killed. They came out from behind the big rock in a single file. All the fingers on one hand plus one on the other were used to count them. That was more than the watcher had spotted on the veldt. Where had the others been? The marksman fired. The shot took the first Khaki in the chest. He was dead before his body hit the ground. Now, they could be counted on one hand. The others fell from their horses, scattered and disappeared in the khaki sand. A round helmet showed above a stone. The helmet was supposed to make them look taller and bigger. It only made them look silly. The Mauser was loud in the still air, and the helmet disappeared. It might just be a hole in the hat but it made a head scared. The marksman chuckled at the thought of the wet patch in the khaki crotch. Shots hit the mountain behind the marksman. The horse was hit and went down. It was a good horse, but there were others. The English had six. Puffs of smoke showed where the Khaki's were hiding and marksman took aim at one. A stone moved, and a shoulder appeared. Again, the Mauser spoke, and a cry rang out. That shoulder wouldn't be able to brace a Lee Metford. Again they let loose a volley, and again the bullets hit the mountain. Peering across the veldt from the hollow in the sand, the rifleman could see nothing moving. The air was hazy, and the bugs sang. To the left, a Khaki appeared, ran a few steps and dropped to the ground. The marksman took aim at the spot where the English had taken cover. They always made the same mistake. The Khaki thought he had not been seen and half stood up to run to the next shelter, which the marksman guessed would be the little bush near the dam, close to the sheep. The bullet hit the English man in the head. Again, they fired a volley, but there were few shots, and they did not come close. The marksman did not even duck but noticed where the shots came from. The shooter at the foot of the mountain aimed at a tree. It had a thin stem. The Mauser bullet would go through it. The marksman fired, and the soldier let out a cry of surprise and pain. If the shot through the helmet had been too high, there would be only two left. The marksman hoped there was only one left. A hot meal and a soft blanket would be nice this night. Nothing moved, but the marksman waited while the sun passed over the mountain and the shadow disappeared. A shot rang out. It struck the dead horse. The khaki thought he was hiding behind the carcass. The marksman aimed at the place where the shot came from. It was a shallow depression in the ground, darker than the sand around it. The sand trickled a bit. The English was getting ready to fire again. The rifle barrel appeared first, then a hand and face. The barrel was lowered, and the marksman at the foot of Poison Mountain fired. The Mauser bullet ricocheted off the side of the Lee Metford before hitting the soldier in the nose. The marksman quickly swung the Mauser to cover the spot where a hole had been put in the helmet but nothing moved. For a long time, the Mauser covered the spot. The marksman slipped backwards out of the hollow and crawled along the foot of the mountain into another hollow. It was not long before a shout rang out, and a soldier in Khaki charged into the open at the spot where the marksman had been. He stood there bewildered, and then the Mauser bullet hit him. He died without knowing where his enemy was.

The marksman waited until the sun was low in the west before standing up. Going down the hill, the marksman did not look at the dead soldiers but gathered up their horses and weapons and food and went up the ravine.

There was a small cabin amongst a stand of trees. Releasing the horses into a small corral, the marksman walked to the house where a woman stood in the doorway.

"Everything alright?"

"Ja, ma. The sheep are fine. The Khaki's chased away a jackal." the shooter replied before removing the dusty hat and shaking her long, brown hair out. The woman frowned at her daughter but did not ask any questions. Her husband, the Commandant, would come down from the mountain tonight with his sons, and she would give them the horses and extra rifles. Then her daughter would tell about the Khaki's. It was a pity the rifles were English and not Mausers, but that was war. Maybe there would be rain early this year.