With Steyn and De Wet | Page 7

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camp; further away, on Bulwana, our biggest gun, where we knew
General Joubert was standing, his wife by his side.
Straight before us lay the key to Ladysmith--Platrand, whence now and
again came the sharp rat-tat of the Metford, followed by the Mauser's
significant cough.
Through our glasses we espied six helmeted men slowly retreating up
the mountain, pausing at every dozen yards to fire a volley at some
invisible enemy. Three of them reached the top. The sentries were
being driven in.
General Botha now arrived with the reserve force. All dismounted.
"Put your horses out of sight," were his first words to his men, "they
will draw the enemy's fire."
Scarcely had he spoken when a shrapnel shell burst overhead, and three
horses were lying on their backs, snorting and kicking. Then came
another and another. Both went wide. The animals were quickly led
behind the hill, and the three wounded put out of their pain.
Taking the best shelter possible, we gazed upon the drama being
unfolded before us.
The attack was now in full swing. The grating British volleys, the
ceaseless mill of independent firing, the sharp flash of the British guns,
the fierce whirr of our French shells, the deep boom of Long Tom
resounding through the valleys. Who can describe it all?
Yet hardly a single combatant could be discerned. Attacked and

attackers alike were invisible. One soldier only stood in plain view on
the crest of the hill, signalling with a flag. Our men reached the crest,
and the soldier disappeared. Whether in response to his signals or not,
reinforcements presently reached the hill.
In long, thin lines of yellow they ran across the plateau to the crest,
hoping to drive the Boers back the way they had come. As it
approached the line grew thinner and thinner, until there was nothing of
it left. And so on, for hour after hour, the yellow lines of gallant men
flung themselves into the open, only to fall beneath the raging fire
poured upon them from the sternly held mountain crest.
Down the hill our wounded dribbled, thirsty men, pale men, men
covered with blood and weeping with rage. How grim must be the fire
they have just passed through! One man is brought down lying across a
horse. His face hangs in strips, shattered by a dum-dum bullet. Thank
goodness, some of ours are using buckshot to-day!
A Boer mounts on a waggon.
"Who will take in ammunition?"
No response.
I turn to my chief. "Do you advise me to try?"
"I cannot; you must decide for yourself."
Throwing a sack of cartridges over my horse's back, I set off. No
sooner in the open, than whizz, whizz, went the bullets past my ear.
The pony stopped, confused. I struck the spurs into his flanks, and on
we flew, the rapid motion, the novelty of the affair, and the continual
whistle of the bullets producing in me a peculiar feeling of exaltation.
Then the sack tumbled off. I sprang down, hooked the bridle to a tree,
rushed back for the bag, and started forward again. The firing now
became so severe that I raced for a clump of trees, hoping to find
temporary shelter there. Some of our men were here, lying behind the
slender tree-trunks and taking a shot at the enemy now and then.
"Absolutely impossible to live in the open," they said. "Better wait
awhile and see how things go."
I laid myself down under the trees and listened to the bullets as they
sang through the branches.
The very heavens vibrated as the roar of artillery grew ever fiercer, and
the loud echoes rolled along from hill to hill and died away in an awful
whisper that shook the grass-tops like an autumn wind.

What were those lines of Bret Harte's about the humming of the battle
bees?... I could not remember.
My eyelids grew heavy and presently I was fast asleep.
"Wake up! They're coming round to cut us off. We must clear!" And
away went my friend.
Knowing their horses would soon out-distance my heavily laden pony,
and trusting to get away unobserved, I took his bridle and led him away.
For about twenty yards all went well. Then suddenly there broke loose
over us the thickest storm of lead I ever wish to experience. Whether it
was a Maxim or not I could not say, but it seemed to me as if the whole
British army was bent on my destruction. Like raindrops on a dusty
road the bullets struck around me. The pony snorted, shivered, and
sometimes stood stock still. I jerked the bridle savagely and struggled
on, without the slightest hope of escaping, and thinking what a cruel
shame it was that I should be shot