With Steyn and De Wet | Page 6

fixed
in a horrid grin, foam-flecked lips, and widely staring eyes.
Horrible, in truth, but most awful of all was the soul-sickening stench
of human blood that infected the air. We soon turned back, unable to
bear it any longer.
"Did your commando lose many men?" I asked my companion.
"Only two, strange to say. Wonderful; can't explain it."
"How did you feel during the fight?"
"When we saw the vast number of soldiers steadily approaching, and
heard the thunderous explosion of hundreds of shells, we knew we
were in for a hot time. Our small commando could never have retreated
over the four miles of open country behind us. There was only one
thing to be done--fight. And we fought--fought till our gun-barrels
burnt our hands and our throats were parched with thirst--the
excitement of it all!"
"Could you see when your bullet went home?"
"You noticed that soldier lying behind the antheap, a hole in his
forehead? That man worried us a good deal. He could shoot, the beggar!
Well, two of us fixed our rifles on the spot and waited till he raised his
head; then we fired. You know the result."
Boys talking, mere boys, who should have been thinking of flowers,
music, and love, instead of thus taking a grim delight in the stern
lessons of war.
Saying au revoir to my friends, I now rode over to the telegraph office a
few miles lower down. The operators were transmitting piles of
messages to and from anxious relatives, and were not sorry to see

someone who could lend them a hand. The chief of the department
happened to be there at the time. He immediately placed me in harness.
I wired to my field-cornet at Ladysmith saying I was unavoidably
detained, as the phrase goes, and the next few weeks passed quietly by,
long hours and hard work, it is true, but on the other hand pleasant
companions and a splendid river, with boating and swimming galore.
One morning a score of Theron's scouts passed by, their famous captain
at their head. One of them--an old friend--reined in long enough to tell
me they were off to lie in wait for a small British patrol, which, a native
had told them, daily passed a certain spot suitable for an ambuscade.
In the afternoon the same band returned, several on foot, and carrying
someone in a blanket. What was my surprise to find that this was no
other than poor Harry C----!
The native had misled them, and the surprise had been the other way
about. My friend had received a bullet through the stomach, a wound
which appeared necessarily fatal. He was laid down in a tent. Theron
bent over him, his eyes filling with compassionate tears. "How now,
Harry?"
"Awful pain, captain."
To break the news gently we wired home that he was only slightly
wounded. This turned out to have been wiser than we knew, for, to our
joy, Harry lingered on, rallied, and finally recovered, a triumph of
medical skill.

PLATRAND
In Natal itself the situation was satisfactory, but the course of events
elsewhere made the speedy capture of Ladysmith imperative. It was
accordingly decided to make an attack on Platrand, or Waggon Hill, as
the British call it. If we could gain this hill the town would be at our
mercy.
The plan of attack was simple in the extreme. The Free Staters would
climb one side, the Transvaalers the other, and Louis Botha himself
ride over from Colenso with a reserve of three hundred men.
Our chief determined to view this fight, and agreed to take me along. It
had been arranged that the attack should take place on the 6th of
January. In the afternoon of the 5th we took the road to Ladysmith,
travelling in a light mule-waggon, our horses tied alongside.

Near Nelthorpe a small commando passed us. Knowing very well what
errand they were bound upon, we yet thought fit to ask them where
they were off to. "Oh, nowhere particular," was the answer. "Out for
exercise, that's all." This discretion was most commendable, for in our
mixed forces spying must have been easy and frequent.
We pitched tent for the night, and at three the next morning saddled our
horses and followed the spoor of the commando. Presently,
encountering a Kafir holding half a dozen horses, we asked him where
the owners were. He pointed to a hill near by, where we found the
gallant Villebois, the kindly Oberst von Braun, and ill-fated von
Brusewitz. Little did we think at the time that the latter would meet his
death a few weeks later on Spion Kop and the former shortly fall at
Boshof!
It was growing light, and we could see, lying on our right, the