Then gripping the riem
I kicked the beast to a canter, Anscombe flogging up the team as
we swung down the bank to the edge of the foaming torrent, on the
further side of which the Swazis shouted and gesticulated to us
to go back.
We were in it now, for, as I had hoped, the horses followed the
mare without hesitation. For the first twenty yards or so all
went well, I heading up the stream. Then suddenly I felt that
the mare was swimming.
"Flog the horses and don't let them turn," I shouted to Anscombe.
Ten more yards and I glanced over my shoulder. The team was
swimming also, and behind them the cart rocked and bobbed like a
boat swinging in a heavy sea. There came a strain on the riem;
the leaders were trying to turn! I pulled hard and encouraged
them with my voice, while Anscombe, who drove splendidly, kept
their heads as straight as he could. Mercifully they came round
again and struck out for the further shore, the water-logged cart
floating after them. Would it turn over? That was the question
in my mind. Five seconds; ten seconds and it was still upright.
Oh! it was going. No, a fierce back eddy caught it and set it
straight again. My mare touched bottom and there was hope. It
struggled forward, being swept down the stream all the time. Now
the horses in the cart also found their footing and we were
saved.
No, the wet had caused the knot of one of the riems to slip
beneath the strain, or perhaps it broke--I don't know.
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