Chapter IV: Over the River

Jolly was tired to death of dreams. They had left him now too wan
and weak to dream again; left him to lie torpid, faintly
remembering far-off things; just able to turn his eyes and gaze
through the window near his cot at the trickle of river running
by in the sands, at the straggling milk-bush of the Karoo beyond.
He knew what the Karoo was now, even if he had not seen a Boer
roll over like a rabbit, or heard the whine of flying bullets.
This pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled powder.
A thirsty day and a rash drink, or perhaps a tainted fruit—who
knew? Not he, who had not even strength left to grudge the evil
thing its victory—just enough to know that there were many lying
here with him, that he was sore with frenzied dreaming; just
enough to watch that thread of river and be able to remember
faintly those far-away things....

The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have
liked to know the time—to feel his old watch, so butter-smooth,
to hear the repeater strike. It would have been friendly,
home-like. He had not even strength to remember that the old
watch was last wound the day he began to lie here. The pulse of
his brain beat so feebly that faces which came and went, nurse’s,
doctor’s, orderly’s, were indistinguishable, just one indifferent
face; and the words spoken about him meant all the same thing,
and that almost nothing. Those things he used to do, though far
and faint, were more distinct—walking past the foot of the old
steps at Harrow “bill”—“Here, sir! Here, sir!”—wrapping boots in
the Westminster Gazette, greenish paper, shining
boots—grandfather coming from somewhere dark—a smell of earth—the
mushroom house! Robin Hill! Burying poor old Balthasar in the
leaves! Dad! Home....

Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no
water in it—someone was speaking too. Want anything? No. What
could one want? Too weak to want—only to hear his watch
strike....

Holly! She wouldn’t bowl properly. Oh! Pitch them up! Not
sneaks!... “Back her, Two and Bow!” He was Two!... Consciousness
came once more with a sense of the violet dusk outside, and a
rising blood-red crescent moon. His eyes rested on it fascinated;
in the long minutes of brain-nothingness it went moving up and
up....

“He’s going, doctor!” Not pack boots again? Never? “Mind your
form, Two!” Don’t cry! Go quietly—over the river—sleep!... Dark?
If somebody would—strike—his—watch!...