CAMPAIGN PICTURES OF THE WAR IN SOUTH AFRICA (1899-1900)

Letters from the Front

by

A. G. HALES

Special Correspondent of the "Daily News"

Cassell and Company, LimitedLondon, Paris, New York & Melbourne

1901

[Illustration]

Dedication. 

This book, such as it is, is dedicated to the man whose kindliness of heartand generous journalistic instincts lifted me from the unknown, and placedme where I had a chance to battle with the best men in my profession. Hewas the man who found Archibald Forbes, the most brilliant, accurate, andentertaining of all war correspondents. What he did for that splendidgenius let Forbes' memoirs tell; what he did for me I will tell myself. Hegave me the chance I had looked for for twenty years, and the dearest namein my memory to-day is the name of

 SIR JOHN ROBINSON, Manager of the _Daily News_, London. 

CONTENTS

 PAGEWITH THE AUSTRALIANS. AUSTRALIA ON THE MARCH 1 WITH THE AUSTRALIANS 6 A PRISONER OF WAR 15 "STOPPING A FEW" 29 AUSTRALIA AT THE WAR 38 AUSTRALIA ON THE MOVE 48 SLINGERSFONTEIN 60 THE WEST AUSTRALIANS 69

AMONG THE BOERS. IN A BOER TOWN 75 BEHIND THE SCENES 83 A BOER FIGHTING LAAGER 90 THROUGH BOER GLASSES 104 LIFE IN THE BOER CAMPS 116

WITH GENERAL RUNDLE. BATTLE OF CONSTANTIA FARM 127 WITH RUNDLE IN THE FREE STATE 149 RED WAR WITH RUNDLE 159 THE FREE STATERS' LAST STAND 174

CHARACTER SKETCHES IN CAMP. THE CAMP LIAR 194 THE NIGGER SERVANT 199 THE SOLDIER PREACHER 207

 * * * * *

PRESIDENT STEYN 212LOUIS BOTHA, COMMANDANT-GENERAL OF THE BOER ARMY 218WHITE FLAG TREACHERY 224THE BATTLE OF MAGERSFONTEIN 229SCOUTS AND SCOUTING: DRISCOLL, KING OF SCOUTS 242HUNTING AND HUNTED 253WITH THE BASUTOS 264MAGERSFONTEIN AVENGED 280THE CONDUCT OF THE WAR 289HOME AGAIN 299

 Australia's Appeal to England. 

 We grow weary waiting, England, For the summons that never comes-- For the blast of the British bugles And the throb of the British drums. Our hearts grow sore and sullen As year by year rolls by, And your cold, contemptuous actions Give your fervent words the lie. 

 Are we only an English market, Held dear for the sake of trade? Or are we a part of the Empire, Close welded as hilt and blade? If we are to cleave together As mother and son through life, Give us our share of the burden, Let us stand with you in the strife. 

 If we are to share your glory, Let the sons whom the South has bred Lie side by side on your battlefields With England's heroes dead. A nation is never a nation Worthy of pride or place Till the mothers have sent their firstborn To look death on the field in the face. 

 Are we only an English market, Held dear for the sake of trade? Or are we a part of the Empire Close welded as hilt and blade? If so, let us share your dangers, Let the glory we boast be real, Let the boys of the South fight with you, Let our children taste cold steel. 

 Do you think we are chicken-hearted? Do you count us devoid of pride? Just try us in deadly earnest, And see how our boys can ride. We are sick of your empty praises! If the mother is proud of her son, Let him do some deed on a hard-fought field, Then boast what he has done. 

 A nation is never a nation Worthy of pride or place Till the mothers have sent their firstborn To look death on the field in the face. Australia is calling to England, Let England answer the call; There are smiles for those who come back to us, And tears for those who may fall. 

 Bridle to bridle our sons will ride With the best that Britain has bred, And all we ask is an open field And a soldier's grave for our dead. 

I have decided to enclose these verses in my book because some critics have pronounced me anti-English in my sentiments. Heaven alone knows why; yet the above poem was written and published by me in Australia just before war was declared between England and the Republics, at a time when all Australia considered it very probable that we should have to fight one of the big European Powers as well as the Boers. 

 A. G. HALES. 

 AUSTRALIA ON THE MARCH. 

 BELMONT BATTLEFIELD. 

At two o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, the 6th of the month, thereveille sounded, and the Australians commenced their preparations for themarch to join Methuen's army. By 4 a. M. The mounted rifles led the way outof camp, and the toilsome march over rough and rocky ground commenced. Thecountry was terribly rough as we drove the transports up and over theOrange River, and rougher still in the low kopjes on the other side. Theheat was simply blistering, but the Australians did not seem to mind it toany great extent; they were simply feverish to get on to the front, butthey had to hang back and guard the transports. 

At last the hilly country faded behind us. We counted upon pushing onrapidly, but the African mules were a sorry lot, and could make but littleheadway in the sandy tracks. Still, there was no rest for the men, becauseat intervals one of Remington's scouts would turn up at a flying gallop, springing apparently from nowhere, out of the womb of the wilderness, toinform us that flying squads of Boers were hanging round us. But socarefully watchful were the Remingtons that the Boers had no chance ofsurprising us. No sooner did the scouts inform us of their approach in anydirection than our rifles swung forward ready to give them a heartyAustralian reception. This made the march long and toilsome, though wenever had a chance to fire a shot. At 5. 30 we marched with all ourtransports into Witteput, the wretched little mules being the onlydistressed portion of the contingent. 

At Witteput the news reached us that a large party of the enemy had managedto pass between General Methuen's men and ourselves, and had investedBelmont, out of which place the British troops had driven them a few weekspreviously. We had no authentic news concerning this movement. Ourcontingent spread out on the hot sand at Witteput, panting for a drop ofrain from the lowering clouds that hung heavily overhead. Yet hot, tired, and thirsty as we were, we yet found time to look with wonder at the skyabove us. The men from the land of the Southern Cross are used to gorgeoussunsets, but never had we looked upon anything like this. Great masses ofcoal-black clouds frowned down upon us, flanked by fiery crimson cloudbanks, that looked as if they would rain blood, whilst the atmosphere wasdense enough to half-stifle one. Now and again the thunder rolled outmajestically, and the lightning flashed from the black clouds into the red, like bayonets through smoke banks. 

Yet we had not long to wait and watch, for within half an hour after ourarrival the Colonel galloped down into our midst just as the evening rationwas being given out. He held a telegram aloft, and the stillness that fellover the camp was so deep that each man could hear his neighbour's heartbeat. Then the Colonel's voice cut the stillness like a bugle call. "Men, we are needed at Belmont; the Boers are there in force, and we have beensent for to relieve the place. I'll want you in less than two hours. " Itwas then the men showed their mettle. Up to their feet they leapt like oneman, and they gave the Colonel a cheer that made the sullen, halting muleskick in their harness. "We are ready now, Colonel, we'll eat as we march, "and the "old man" smiled, and gave the order to fall in, and they fell in, and as darkness closed upon the land they marched out of Witteput to themusic of the falling rain and the thunder of heaven's artillery. 

All night long it was march, halt, and "Bear a hand, men, " for those thriceaccursed mules failed us at every pinch. In vain the niggers plied thewhips of green hide, vain their shouts of encouragement, or painfullyshrill anathemas; the mules had the whip hand of us, and they kept it. But, in spite of it all, in the chilly dawn of the African morning, our fellows, with their shoulders well back, and heads held high, marched into Belmont, with every man safe and sound, and every waggon complete. 

Then the Gordons turned out and gave us a cheer, for they had passed us inthe train as we crossed the line above Witteput, and they knew, thoseveterans from Indian wars, what our raw Volunteers had done; they had beenon their feet from two o'clock on Wednesday morning until five o'clock ofthe following day, with the heat at 122 in the shade, and bitter was theirwrath when they learnt that the Boer spies, who swarm all over the country, had heralded their coming, so that the enemy had only waited to plant a fewshells into Belmont before disappearing into the hills beyond. That was thecruel part of it. They did not mind the fatigue, they did not worry aboutthe thirst or the hunger, but to be robbed of a chance to show the worldwhat they could do in the teeth of the enemy was gall and wormwood to them, and the curses they sent after the discreet Boer were weird, quaint, picturesque, and painfully prolific. 

We are lying with the Gordons now, waiting for the Boers to come along andtry to take Belmont, and our fellows and the "Scotties" are particularlygood chums, and it is the cordial wish of both that they may some day givethe enemy a taste of the bayonet together. 

 WITH THE AUSTRALIANS. 

 BELMONT. 

Australia has had her first taste of war, not a very great or veryimportant performance, but we have buried our dead, and that at least bindsus more closely to the Motherland than ever before. The Queenslanders, thewild riders, and the bushmen of the north-eastern portion of the continenthave been the first to pay their tribute to nationhood with the life bloodof her sons, two of whom--Victor James and McLeod--were buried by theircomrades on the scene of action a couple of days ago, whilst half a dozenothers, including Lieutenant Aide, fell more or less seriously wounded. Thestory of the fight is simply told; there is no necessity for any wildvapouring in regard to Australian courage, no need for hysterical praise. Our fellows simply did what they were told to do in a quiet and workmanlikemanner, just as we who know them expected that they would; we are all proudof them, and doubly proud that the men in the fight with them were ourcousins from Canada. 

The most noteworthy fact about the engagement is to be gleaned by notingthat the Australians adopted Boer tactics, and so escaped the slaughterthat has so often fallen to the lot of the British troops when attackingsimilar positions. Before describing the fight it may be as well to givesome slight idea of the disposition of the opposing forces. Our troops heldthe railway line all the way from Cape Town to Modder River. At givendistances, or at points of strategic importance, strong bodies of men areposted to keep the Boers from raiding, or from interfering with the railwayor telegraph lines. Such a force, consisting of Munster Fusiliers, two gunsof R. H. Artillery, the Canadians, and the Queenslanders, were posted atBelmont under Colonel Pilcher. The enemy had no fixed camping ground. Mounted on hardy Basuto ponies, carrying no provisions but a few mealiesand a little biltong, armed only with rifles, they sweep incessantly fromplace to place, and are an everlasting source of annoyance to us. At onemoment they may be hovering in the kopjes around us at Enslin, waiting toget a chance to sneak into the kopjes that immediately overlook our camp, but thanks to the magnificent scouting qualities of the Victorian MountedRifles, they have never been able to do so. During the night they disperse, and take up their abode on surrounding farms as peaceful tillers of thesoil. In a day or so they organise again, and swoop down on some otherplace, such as Belmont. Their armies, under men like Cronje or Joubert, seldom move from strongly-entrenched positions. 

The people I am referring to as reivers are farmers recruited by localleaders, and are a particularly dangerous class of people to deal with, asthey know every inch of this most deceptive country. As soon as they arewhipped they make off to wives and home, and meet the scouts with a blandsmile and outstretched hand. It is no use trying to get any information outof them, for no man living can look so much like an unmitigated fool whenhe wants to as the ordinary, every-day farmer of the veldt. I know Chinamenexceptionally well, I have had an education in the ways of the children ofConfucius; but no Chinaman that I have come in contact with could everimitate the half-idiotic smile, the patient, ox-like placidity ofcountenance, the meek, religious look of holy resignation to the will ofProvidence which comes naturally to the ordinary Boer farmer. It is thisfaculty which made our very clever Army Intelligence people rank the farmerof the veldt as a fool. Yet, if I am any judge, and I have known men inmany lands, our friend of the veldt is as clever and as crafty as anyOriental I have yet mixed with. 

Now for the Australian fight. On the day before Christmas, Colonel Pilcher, at Belmont, got wind of the assemblage of a considerable Boer force at aplace 30 miles away, called Sunnyside Farm, and he determined to try toattack it before the enemy could get wind of his intention. To this end hesecured every nigger for some miles around--which proved his good sense, asthe niggers are all in the pay of the Boers, no matter how loyal they maypretend to be to the British, a fact which the British would do well totake heed of, for it has cost them pretty dearly already. On Christmas Evehe started out, taking two guns of the Royal Navy Artillery, a couple ofMaxims, all the Queenslanders, and a few hundred Canadians. ColonelPilcher's force numbered in all about 600 men. He marched swiftly allnight, and got to Sunnyside Farm in good time Christmas Day. The Boers hadnot a ghost of an idea that our men were near them, and were completelybeaten at their own game, the surprise party being complete. The enemy werefound in a laager in a strong position in some rather steep kopjes, and itwas at once evident that they were expecting strong reinforcements fromsurrounding farms. Colonel Pilcher at once extended his forces so as to tryto surround the kopjes. Whilst this was going on, Lieutenant Aide, withfour Queensland troopers, was sent to the far left of what was supposed tobe the Boer position. His orders were to give notice of any attempt atretreat on the part of the enemy. He did his work well. Getting close tothe kopje, he saw a number of the enemy slinking off, and at oncechallenged them. As he did so a dozen Boers dashed out of the kopje, andAide opened fire on them, which caused the Boers to fire a volley at him. Lieutenant Aide fell from his horse with two bullets in his body; one wentthrough the fleshy part of his stomach, entering his body sideways, theother went into his thigh. A trooper named McLeod was shot through theheart, and fell dead. Both the other troopers were wounded. Trooper Rosecaught a horse, and hoisted his lieutenant into the saddle, and sent himout of danger. 

Meantime the R. H. Battery, taking range from Lieutenant Aide's fire, openedout on the enemy. Their guns put a great fear into the Boers, and a generalbolt set in. The Boers fired as they cleared, and if our fellows had beenformed up in the style usual to the British army in action, we should havesuffered heavily; but the Queensland bushmen had dropped behind cover, andsoon had complete possession of the kopjes; another trooper named VictorJones was shot through the brain, and fourteen others were more or lessbadly wounded. The Boers then surrendered. We took 40 prisoners, and foundabout 14 dead Boers on the ground, besides a dozen wounded. They were allCape Dutch, no Transvaalers being found in their ranks. We secured 40, 000rounds of their ammunition, 300 Martini rifles, and only one Mauser rifle, which was in the possession of the Boer commander. After destroying allthat we took, we moved on, and had a look at some of the farms near by, asfrom some of the documents found in camp it was certain that the wholedistrict was a perfect nest of rebellion. Quite a little store of arms andammunition was discovered by this means, and the occupants of the farmswere therefore transported to Belmont. Our fellows carried the littlechildren and babies in their arms all the way, and marched into Belmontsinging, with the little ones on their shoulders. Every respect was shownto the women, old and young, and to the old men, but the young fellows wereclosely guarded all the time. The Canadians did not lose a single man, neither did any of the others except the Queenslanders. 

Another Boer commando, about 1, 000 strong, with two batteries of artillery, is now hovering in the ranges away to the north-west of Enslin, but ColonelHoad is not likely to be tempted out to meet them, since his orders are tohold Enslin against attack. However, should they venture to make a dash forEnslin, they will get a pretty bad time, as the Australians there are keenfor a fight. 

Concerning farming, it is an unknown quantity here, as we in Australiaunderstand it. These people simply squat down wherever they can find anatural catchment for water. There is no clearing to be done, as the landis quite devoid of timber. They put nigger labour on, and build afarmhouse. These farmhouses are much better built than those which theaverage pioneer farmer in Australia owns. They make no attempt atadornment, but build plain, substantial houses, containing mostly about sixrooms. The roofs are mostly flat, and the frontages plain to ugliness. Theydo no fencing, except where they go in for ostrich breeding. When they farmfor feathers they fence with wire about six feet in height. This kind offarming is very popular with the better class of Boers, as it entails verylittle labour, and no outlay beyond the initial expense. They raise justenough meal to keep themselves, but do not farm for the market. They breedhorses and cattle; the horses are a poor-looking lot, as the Boers do notbelieve much in blood. They never ride or work mares, but use them as broodstock. This is a bad plan, as young and immature mares breed early on theveldt, and throw weedy stock. Their cattle, however, are attended to onmuch better lines, and most of the beef that I have seen would do credit toany station in Australia, or any American ranch. They mostly raise a fewsheep and goats; the sheep are a poor lot, the wool is of a very inferiorclass, and the mutton poor. I don't know much about goats, so will passthem, though I very much doubt if any Australian squatter would give themgrass room. 

On most of the farms a small orchard is found enclosed in stone walls. Hereagain the ignorance of the Boers is very marked; the fruit is of poorquality, though the variety is large. Thus, one finds in these orchardspears, apples, grapes, plums, pomegranates, peaches, quinces, apricots, andalmonds. The fruit is harsh, small, and flavourless, owing to bad pruning, want of proper manure, and good husbandry generally. The Boer seems tothink that he has done all that is required of him when he has planted atree; all that follows he leaves to nature, and he would much rather sitdown and pray for a beautiful harvest than get up and work for it. He is agreat believer in the power of prayer. He prays for a good crop of fruit;if it comes he exalts himself and takes all the credit; if the crop failshe folds his hands and remarks that it was God's will that things should socome to pass. He knocks all the work he can out of his niggers, but doesprecious little himself. In stature he is mostly tall, thin, and active. Hemoves with a quick, shuffling gait, which is almost noiseless. Some of hiswomen folk are beautiful, while others are fat and clumsy, and are neverlikely to have their portraits hung on the walls of the Royal Academy. 

 A PRISONER OF WAR. 

 BLOEMFONTEIN HOSPITAL. 

I little fancied when I sat at my ease in my tent in the British camp thatmy next epistle would be written from a hospital as a prisoner, but such isthe case, and, after all, I am far more inclined to be thankful than togrowl at my luck. Let me tell the story, for it is typical of this peculiarcountry, and still more peculiar war. I had been writing far into thenight, and had left the letter ready for post next day. Then, with a clearconscience, I threw myself on my blankets, satisfied that I was ready forwhat might happen next. Things were going to happen, but though the nightwas big with fate there was no warning to me in the whispering wind. Somemen would have heard all sorts of sounds on such a night, but I am notbuilt that way I suppose. Anyway, I heard nothing until, half an hourbefore dawn, a voice jarred my ear with the news that "there was somethingon, and I'd better fly round pretty sharp if I did not mean to miss it. "

By the light of my lantern I saddled my horse, and snatched a hasty cup ofcoffee and a mouthful of biscuit, and as the little band of Tasmaniansmoved from Rensburg I rode with them. Where they were going, or what theirmission, I did not know, but I guessed it was to be no picnic. The quiet, resolute manner of the officers, the hushed voices, the set, stern faces ofthe young soldiers, none of whom had ever been under fire before, all toldme that there was blood in the air, so I asked no questions, and sat tightin my saddle. As the daylight broke over the far-stretching veldt, I sawthat two other correspondents were with the party, viz. , Reay, of theMelbourne _Herald_, and Lambie, poor, ill-fated Lambie, of the_Melbourne Age_. For a couple of hours we trotted along withoutincident of any kind, then we halted at a farmhouse, the name of which Ihave forgotten. There we found Captain Cameron encamped with the rest ofthe Tasmanians, and after a short respite the troops moved outward again, Captain Cameron in command; we had about eighty men, all of whom weremounted. 

As we rode off I heard the order given for every man to "sit tight and keephis eyes open. " Then our scouts put spurs to their horses and dashed awayon either wing, skirting the kopjes and screening the main body, and so foranother hour we moved without seeing or hearing anything to cause ustrouble. By this time we had got into a kind of huge basin, the kopjes wereall round us, but the veldt was some miles in extent. I knew at a glancethat if the Boers were in force our little band was in for a bad time, asan enemy hidden in those hills could watch our every movement on the plain, note just where we intended to try and pass through the chain of hills, andattack us with unerring certainty and suddenness. All at once one of ourscouts, who had been riding far out on our left flank, came flying in withthe news that the enemy was in the kopjes in front of us, and he furtheradded that he thought they intended to surround our party if possible. Captain Cameron ordered the men to split into two parties, one to movetowards the kopjes on our right; the other to fall back and protect ourretreat, if such a move became necessary. Mr. Lambie and I decided to moveon with the advance party, and at a hard gallop we moved away towards aline of kopjes that seemed higher than any of the others in the belt. As weneared those hills it seemed to us that there were no Boers in possession, and that nothing would come of the ride after all, and we drew bridle andstarted to discuss the situation. At that time we were not far from theedge of some kopjes, which, though lying low, were covered with rockyboulders and low scrub. 

We had drifted a few hundred yards behind the advance party, but were agood distance in front of the rearguard, when a number of horsemen made adash from the kopjes which we were skirting, and the rifles began to speak. There was no time for poetry; it was a case of "sit tight and ride hard, "or surrender and be made prisoners. Lambie shouted to me: "Let's make adash, Hales, " and we made it. The Boers were very close to us before weknew anything concerning their presence. Some of them were behind us, andsome extended along the edge of the kopjes by which we had to pass to getto the British line in front, all of them were galloping in on us, shootingas they rode, and shouting to us to surrender, and, had we been wise men, we would have thrown up our hands, for it was almost hopeless to try andride through the rain of lead that whistled around us. It was no wonder wewere hit; the wonder to me is that we were not filled with lead, for someof the bullets came so close to me that I think I should know them again ifI met them in a shop-window. We were racing by this time, Lambie's bigchestnut mare had gained a length on my little veldt pony, and we were notmore than a hundred yards away from the Mauser rifles that had closed in onus from the kopjes. A voice called in good English: "Throw up your hands, you d---- fools. " But the galloping fever was on us both, and we onlycrouched lower on our horses' backs, and rode all the harder, for even abarn-yard fowl loves liberty. 

All at once I saw my comrade throw his hands up with a spasmodic gesture. He rose in his stirrups, and fairly bounded high out of his saddle, and ashe spun round in the air I saw the red blood on the white face, and I knewthat death had come to him sudden and sharp. Again the rifles spoke, andthe lead was closer to me than ever a friend sticks in time of trouble, andI knew in my heart that the next few strides would settle things. The blackpony was galloping gamely under my weight. Would he carry me safely out ofthat line of fire, or would he fail me? Suddenly something touched me onthe right temple; it was not like a blow; it was not a shock; for half asecond I was conscious. I knew I was hit; knew that the reins had fallenfrom my nerveless hands, knew that I was lying down upon my horse's back, with my head hanging below his throat. Then all the world went out in onemad whirl. Earth and heaven seemed to meet as if by magic. My horse seemedto rise with me, not to fall, and then--chaos. 

When next I knew I was still on this planet I found myself in the saddleagain, riding between two Boers, who were supporting me in the saddle as Iswayed from side to side. There was a halt; a man with a kindly face tookmy head in the hollow of his arm, whilst another poured water down mythroat. Then they carried me to a shady spot beneath some shrubbery, andlaid me gently down. One man bent over me and washed the blood that haddried on my face, and then carefully bound up my wounded temple. I began tosee things more plainly--a blue sky above me; a group of rough, hardy men, all armed with rifles, around me. I saw that I was a prisoner, and when Itried to move I soon knew I was damaged. 

The same good-looking young fellow with the curly beard bent over me again. "Feel any better now, old fellow?" I stared hard at the speaker, for hespoke like an Englishman, and a well-educated one, too. "Yes, I'm better. I'm a prisoner, ain't I?" "Yes. " "Are you an Englishman?" I asked. Helaughed. "Not I, " he said, "I'm a Boer born and bred, and I am the man whobowled you over. What on earth made you do such a fool's trick as to tryand ride from our rifles at that distance?" "Didn't think I was welcome inthese parts. " "Don't make a jest of it, man, " the Boer said gravely;"rather thank God you are a living man this moment. It was His hand thatsaved you; nothing else could have done so. " He spoke reverently; there wasno cant in the sentiment he uttered--his face was too open, too manly, toofearless for hypocrisy. "How long is it since I was knocked over?" "Aboutthree hours. " "Is my comrade dead?" "Quite dead, " the Boer replied; "deathcame instantly to him. He was shot through the brain. " "Poor beggar!" Imuttered, "and he'll have to rot on the open veldt, I suppose?"

The Boer leader's face flushed angrily. "Do you take us for savages?" hesaid. "Rest easy. Your friend will get decent burial. What was his rank?""War correspondent. " "And your own?" "War correspondent also. My papers arein my pocket somewhere. " "Sir, " said the Boer leader, "you dress exactlylike two British officers; you ride out with a fighting party, you try toride off at a gallop under the very muzzles of our rifles when we tell youto surrender. You can blame no one but yourselves for this day's work. " "Iblame no man; I played the game, and am paying the penalty. " Then they toldme how poor Lambie's horse had swerved between myself and them after Lambiehad fallen, then they saw me fall forward in the saddle, and they knew Iwas hit. A few strides later one of them had sent a bullet through myhorse's head, and he had rolled on top of me. Yet, with it all, I hadescaped with a graze over the right temple and a badly knocked-up shoulder. Truly, as the Boer said, the hand of God must have shielded me. 

For a day and a half I lay at that laager whilst our wounded men werebrought in, and here I should like to say a word to the people of England. Our men, when wounded, are treated by the Boers with manly gentleness andkind consideration. When we left the laager in an open trolly, we, somehalf-dozen Australians, and about as many Boers, all wounded, were drivenfor some hours to a small hospital, the name of which I do not know. It wassimply a farmhouse turned into a place for the wounded. On the road thitherwe called at many farms, and at every one men, women, and children came outto see us. Not one taunting word was uttered in our hearing, not onebraggart sentence passed their lips. Men brought us cooling drinks, ormoved us into more comfortable positions on the trolly. Women, with gentlefingers, shifted bandages, or washed wounds, or gave us little daintiesthat come so pleasant in such a time; whilst the little children crowdedround us with tears running down their cheeks as they looked upon thebloodstained khaki clothing of the wounded British. Let no man or woman inall the British Empire whose son or husband lies wounded in the hands ofthe Boers fear for his welfare, for it is a foul slander to say that theBoers do not treat their wounded well. England does not treat her own menbetter than the Boers treat the wounded British, and I am writing of thatwhich I have seen and know beyond the shadow of a doubt. 

From the little farmhouse hospital I was sent on in an ambulance train tothe hospital at Springfontein, where all the nurses and medical staff areforeigners, all of them trained and skilful. Even the nurses had asoldierly air about them. Here everything was as clean as human industrycould make it, and the hospital was worked like a piece of militarymechanism. I only had a day or two here, and then I was sent by train in anambulance carriage to the capital of the Orange Free State, and here I amin Bloemfontein Hospital. There are a lot of our wounded here, bothofficers and men, some of whom have been here for months. 

I have made it my business to get about amongst the private soldiers, toquestion them concerning the treatment they have received since the momentthe Mauser rifles tumbled them over, and I say emphatically that in everysolitary instance, without one single exception, our countrymen declarethat they have been grandly treated. Not by the hospital nurses only, notby the officials alone, but by the very men whom they were fighting. Our"Tommies" are not the men to waste praise on any men unless it is welldeserved, but this is just about how "Tommy" sums up the situation:

"The Boer is a rough-looking beggar in the field, 'e don't wear no uniform, 'nd 'e don't know enough about soldiers' drill to keep himself warm, but 'ecan fight in 'is own bloomin' style, which ain't our style. If 'e'd comeout on the veldt, 'nd fight us our way, we'd lick 'im every time, but whenit comes to fightin' in the kopjes, why, the Boer is a dandy, 'nd if therest of Europe don't think so, only let 'em have a try at 'im 'nd see. Butwhen 'e has shot you he acts like a blessed Christian, 'nd bears no malice. 'E's like a bloomin' South Sea cocoanut, not much to look at outside, butwhite 'nd sweet inside when yer know 'im, 'nd it's when you're wounded 'nda prisoner that you get a chance to know 'im, see. " And "Tommy" is aboutcorrect in his judgment. 

The Boers have made most excellent provision for the treatment of woundedafter battle. All that science can do is done. Their medical men fight ashard to save a British life or a British limb as medical men in Englandwould battle to save life or limb of a private person. At the BloemfonteinHospital everything is as near perfection, from a medical and surgicalpoint, as any sane man can hope to see. It is an extensive institution. Oneend is set apart for the Boer wounded, the other for the British. Nodifference is made between the two in regard to accommodation--food, medical attendance, nursing, or visiting. Ministers of religion come and godaily--almost hourly--at both ends. Our men, when able to walk, are allowedto roam around the grounds, but, of course, are not allowed to go beyondthe gates, being prisoners of war. Concerning our matron (Miss M. M. Young)and nurses, all I can say is that they are gentlewomen of the highest type, of whom any nation in the world might well be proud. 

I have met one or two old friends since I came here, notably LieutenantBowling, of the Australian Horse, who is now able to get about, and ischeerful and jolly. Lieutenant Bowling has his right thumb shot off, andhad a terribly close call for his life, a Mauser bullet going into his headalongside his right eye, and coming out just in front of the right ear. Hisfriends need not be anxious concerning him; he is quite out of danger, andhe and I have killed a few tedious hours blowing tobacco smoke skywards, and chatting about life in far off Australia. Another familiar face wasthat of an English private, named Charles Laxen, of the Northumberlands, who was wounded at Stormberg. I am told that he displayed excellent pluckbefore he was laid out, firstly by a piece of shell on the side of thehead, and, later, by a Mauser bullet through the left knee. He is gettingalong O. K. , but will never see service as a soldier again on account of thewounded leg. 

I had written to the President of the Orange Free State, asking him togrant me my liberty on the ground that I was a non-combatant. Yesterday Mr. Steyn courteously sent his private secretary and carriage to the hospitalwith an intimation that I should be granted an interview. I was accordinglydriven down to what I believe was the Stadt House. In Australia we shouldterm it the Town Hall. The President met me, and treated me verycourteously, and, after chatting over my capture and the death of myfriend, he informed me that I might have my liberty as soon as I consideredmyself sufficiently recovered to travel. He offered me a pass _viâ_Lourenço Marques, but I pointed out that if I were sent that way I shouldbe so far away from my work as to be practically useless to my paper. ThePresident explained to me that it was not his wish nor the desire of hiscolleagues to hamper me in any way in regard to my work. "What we want morethan anything else, " remarked the President, "is that the world shall knowthe truth, and nothing but the truth, in reference to this most unhappywar, and we will not needlessly place obstruction in your way in yoursearch for facts; if we can by any means place you in the British lines wewill do so. If we find it impossible to do that you must understand thatthere is some potent reason for it. " So I let that question drop, feelingsatisfied that everything that a sensible man has a right to ask would bedone on my behalf. 

President Steyn is a man of a notable type. He is a big man physically, tall and broad, a man of immense strength, but very gentle in his manner, as so many exceptionally strong men are. He has a typical Dutch face, calm, strong, and passionless. A man not easily swayed by outside agencies; oneof those persons who think long and earnestly before embarking upon aventure, but, when once started, no human agency would turn him back fromthe line of conduct he had mapped out for himself. He is no ignorantback-block politician, but a refined, cultured gentleman, who knows thefull strength of the British Empire; and, knowing it, he has defied it inall its might, and will follow his convictions to the bitter end, no matterwhat that end may be. He introduced me to a couple of gentlemen whose namesare very dear to the Free Staters, viz. , Messrs. Fraser and Fischer, andwhilst the interview lasted nothing was talked of but the war, and itstruck me very forcibly that not one of those men had any hatred in theirhearts towards the British people. "This, " said the President, "is not awar between us and the British people on any question of principle; it is awar forced upon us by a band of capitalistic adventurers, who havehoodwinked the British public and dragged them into an unholy, an unjuststruggle with a people whose only desire was to live at peace with all men. We do not hate your nation; we do not hate your soldiers, though they fightagainst us; but we do hate and despise the men who have brought a cruel warupon us for their own evil ends, whilst they try to cloak their designs ina mantle of righteousness and liberty. " I may not have given the exactwords of the President, as I am writing from memory, but I think I havegiven his exact sentiments; and, if I am any judge of human nature, thelove of his country is the love of his life. 

 "STOPPING A FEW. "

I saw him first, years ago upon a station in New South Wales; a neat, smartfigure less than nine stone in weight, but it was nine stone of fencingwire full of the electricity of life. He was in the stockyard when I firstsaw him, working like any ordinary station hand, for it was the busyportion of the year, and at such times the squatters' sons work like anyhired hand, only a lot harder, if they are worth their salt, and have notbeen bitten by the mania for dudeism during their college course in thecities. There was nothing of the dandy about this fellow. From head to heelhe was a man's son, full of the vim of living, strong with the lust oflife. The sweat ran down his face, dirty with the dust kicked up by thecattle in the stockyard. His clothes were not guiltless of mire, for he hadbeen knocked over more than once that morning, and there was an edge uponhis voice as he rapped out his orders to the stockmen who were working withhim. He did not look in the least degree pretty, and there was not enoughpoetry about him just then to make an obituary jingle on a tombstone. Ilittle thought that day that a time would come when he would prove theglory of his Australian breeding in the teeth of an enemy's guns on Africansoil. 

I saw him again--under silk this time--as a gentleman rider. He was thesame quiet, cool little fellow, grey-eyed, steel-lipped, stout-hearted, with "hands" that Archer might have envied. He rode at his fences that dayas the Australian amateurs can ride, with a rip and a rattle, with thelong, loose leg, the hands well down, and head up and back, and "Over orThrough" was his motto. I did not know him to speak to in those old days. We were to shake hands under peculiar circumstances away in a foreign land, in a foreign hospital, both of us prisoners of war, both of us wounded. That was where and how I spoke to little Dowling, lieutenant in the FirstAustralian Horse, as game a sample of humanity as ever threw leg oversaddle or loosed a rifle at a foe. He came to my bedside the morning afterI entered the hospital, and standing over me with a green shade over oneeye, and one hand in a sling, said laconically:

"Australian ain't you?"

"Yes, by gad, and I know you. " He reached out his left hand, and placed itin mine. 

"Been 'stopping one'?" he remarked. 

"Only a graze, thank God, " I replied. 

Then the matron and the German doctor, as fine a gentleman as ever drewbreath, came along to have a look at me, and he was turned out; but wechummed, as Australians have a knack of doing in time of trouble, and Itried hard to get him to talk of his adventures, but he was a mummy on thatsubject. He would not yarn about his own doings on the fateful day when hewas laid out, though he was eloquent enough concerning the doings of hiscomrades. All I could get out of him in regard to his own part in the fraywas that his men and he had been ambushed, and that he had "stopped one"with his head, and one with his hand, and another with his leg, his horsehad been killed, and he knew mighty little more about it until he foundhimself in the hands of the Boers, who had treated him well and kindly. Iasked the matron about his wounds, and she told me that a bullet hadentered the corner of his right eye, coming out by the right ear, ruiningthe sight for ever. Another had carried away his right thumb, and a couplehad passed through his right leg, one just below the groin, another 'justabove the knee. That was what he modestly termed "stopping a few. "

After I had been in hospital a little while, the matron gave me leave toprowl about to pick up "copy, " and my feet soon led me into the ward wherethe wounded Dutchmen were lying, and there I met a couple of burghers whohad been in the _mêlée_ when Dowling was gathered in. One of them wasa handsome Swede, with a long blonde moustache, that fell with a glorioussweep on to his chest, as the Viking's did of old. He was an adventurer, who knew how to take his gruel like a man. He had joined the Boers becausehe thought they were the weaker side, and had done his best for them. Hesaw Dowling talking to me one day, and asked me if I knew the "littledevil. " "Yes, " I replied, "we are countrymen. " "Americans?" he asked. "No, Australians. " He raised himself on his elbow, whilst I propped hisshoulders up with pillows, and as he remained thus he gazed admiringly atthe slight, boyish figure which limped lazily through the ward. "What alittle tiger cat he is, " muttered the recumbent giant. "I thought we'd haveto kill him before we got him, and that would have been a shame, for I hateto kill brave men when they have no chance. " "Tell me about it, " I said. "He won't give me any information himself, only tells me he 'stopped afew. '" The big, handsome Swede laughed a mighty laugh under his greatblonde moustache. 

"Stopped a few, did he? If all your fellows fought it out to the bitter endas he did, we should run short of ammunition before the war was very old. "

A Boer nurse came over and asked us "what nonsense we made one with theother, that we did laugh to ourselves like two hens clucking over one egg. "The blonde giant turned his joyous blue eyes upon her, and paid her acompliment which caused her to bridle, whilst the blood swept like arace-horse in its stride over neck, and cheek, and brow, causing herdainty, girlish face to look prettier than ever. "Ah, little Eckhardt, " hewhispered, and then murmured something in Dutch. I did not understand thewords, but there was something in the sound of the adventurer's voice whichconjured up a moonlit garden, a rose-crowned gate swinging on one hinge, agirl on one side and a fool on the other. The nurse tossed her pretty headwith its wealth of jet black hair, and as she smoothed his pillows withinfinite care she murmured: "Fighting and making love, making love andfighting--it is all one to you, Karl. I know you, you big pirate; you areas a hen that lays away from home. " And with that round of shrapnel sheleft us. 

Karl got rid of a fourteen-pound sigh, which sounded like the bursting of alyddite shell. Then he slipped his hand under his pillow and drew forth aflask of "Dop. " "Drink to her, " he said. "To whom?" I asked, falling inwith the humour of the man. "To the girl I love, " he muttered like aschoolboy. "Which one, Karl?" I asked, and I laughed as I spoke. Hesnatched the brandy from my hand, lifted the flask to his lips, and drankdeeply. Then again his mighty laugh ran through the hospital ward. "Whichone?" he said; "why, all of them, God bless them. But the maid that isnearest is always the dearest. " "Shut up, you Goth, " I said, "and tell meabout Dowling, for some day I shall write the story, and I would like tohear it from the lips of one of his enemies. " The Swede lay back upon hispillow, stroking the golden horns of hair that fell each side of his mouth, and I noticed that the lips which a little time before had been smilinginto the face of the nurse were now hard set and stern. So I could haveimagined him standing by the side of his gun, or rushing headlong on to ourranks. A man with a mouth like that could not flinch in the hour of perilif he tried, for his jaw had the Kitchener grip, the antithesis of theparrot pout of the dandy, or the flabby fulness of the fool. 

"It was in the fore part of the day, " he said at length. "We had beenposted snugly overnight on both sides of two ranges of kopjes, for we knewthat your fellows were going to attempt a reconnaissance next day. How didwe know? you ask. Well, comrade, ask no questions of that kind, and I'lltell you no lies. The truth I won't tell you. "

But we knew, and we were ready. We were disappointed when we saw the force, for we had expected something much bigger, and had made arrangements for alarger capture. It was only a troop of Australian Horse that came our way, and 'the little devil' was riding at their head. We bided our time, hopingthat he might be followed by more men, and, above all, we expected andwanted some guns; but they did not put in an appearance, so we loosed uponthe little troop. They were fairly ambushed; they did not know that a riflewas within miles of them until the bullets were singing through theirranks. Horses plunged suddenly forward, reared, lurched now to the nearside, now to the off, then blundered forward on their heads, for many ofour men fired at the chargers instead of at the riders. Dowling's horsewent down with a bullet between the flap of the saddle and the crease ofthe shoulder, and the little chap went spinning over his head amongst therocks. But a good many saddles were empty. He was up in a moment, yellingto his men to ride for their lives, and they rode. We charged from cover, and rode down on the men who had fallen, and as we closed in on them yourcountryman lifted his rifle and loosed on us. 

"One of our fellows took a flying shot at him at close quarters, for hisrifle was talking the language of death, and that is a tongue no man likesto listen to. The bit of lead took him in the eye and came out by his ear, and down he went. But he climbed up in a moment, and his rifle was going tohis shoulder again, when I fired to break his arm, and carried his thumbaway--the thumb of the right hand, I think. The rifle clattered on to therocks, but as we drew round him he pulled his revolver with his one goodhand, and started to pot us. He looked a gamecock as he stood there in thesunlight, his face all bathed in blood, and his shattered hand hangingnumbed beside him. So we gave him a couple in the legs to steady him, anddown by his dead horse he went; but even then he was as eager for fight asa grass widow is for compliments, and it was not until Jan Viljoens jammedthe butt of his rifle on the crown of his head that he stretched himselfout and took no further part in that circus. We carried him into our lines, and handed him over to our medical man, though even as we gathered him upour scouts came galloping in to tell us that a big body of British troopswere advancing to cut us off from our main body. But we knew that if weleft him until your ambulance people found him, it was a million to onethat he would bleed to death amongst the rocks, and he was too good afighter and too brave a fellow to be left to a fate like that. Had he shownthe white feather we might have left him to the asvogels. "

"And so, " said I, "that is how little Dowling, son of Australia, came, ashe said, 'to stop a few' for the sake of his breeding. If I live, the menout in the sunny Southland shall hear how he did it, and his name shall beknown round the gold-hunters' camp fires, and be mentioned with pride wherethe cattle drovers foregather to talk of the African war and the men whofought and fell there. "

 AUSTRALIA AT THE WAR. 

 ENSLIN CAMP. 

Lately I have been over a very considerable tract of country in the saddle. I might remain at one spot and glean the information from various sources, but do not care to do my business in that manner, simply because one isthen at the mercy of one's informants. I find it quite hard enough to getat the truth even when it is personally sought for. It is really astoundinghow lies increase and multiply as they spread from camp to camp. At onespot a fellow ventilates an opinion that a big battle will be fought nextday at a certain spot; some other person catches a portion of theconversation, and promptly tells his neighbour that a big battle has takenplace at the spot mentioned. A little later a passing train pulls up atthat camp, and a party possessing a picturesque and vivid imagination atonce informs the guard that a fearful fight has occurred, in which aGeneral, a Colonel, twelve subs. , and six hundred men have been killed onour side, with fourteen hundred wounded and nine hundred prisoners. TheBoer losses are generally estimated at something like five times thatnumber. 

The guard tells the tale later on to some traveller, who embellishes it, and passes it along as a fact. He goes into details, tells harrowingstories concerning hair-raising escapes from shot and shell. He splashesthe surrounding rocks with gouts of blood, and then shudders dismally atthe sight his fancy has conjured up. When the thrilled listener hasrefreshed the tale-teller from his whisky flask, the romancist takes up thethread of his narrative once more, and tells how the Lancers thundered overthe shivering veldts in pursuit of flying hordes of foemen, and for awhile, like some graveyard ghoul, he revels in the moans of the dying and theblood of the slain. Another pull at the flask sets him going again likeclockwork, and he makes a vivid picture out of the thunder of the guns asour gallant (they are always gallant) fellows bombarded the enemy from theheights. 

Then he switches off from the artillery, and tells a blood-curdling tale ofBoer treachery and cowardice. He tells how the enemy held out the whiteflag to coax our men to stop firing. Then, in awe-inspiring tones, he sobsforth a tale of dark and dismal war, how our soldiers respected the whiteflag and rested on their arms, only to be mowed down by a withering riflefire from the canaille who represent the enemy in the field. Having got sofar, he does not feel justified in stopping until he has thrown in someflowery language concerning a Boer cannonade upon British ambulancewaggons, full of wounded; from that he drifts by easy and natural stages toDum-Dum bullets, and the robbing of the wounded, and insults to the slain. And that is very often the person who is quoted in newspaper interviews--asa gentleman who was an eye-witness, and etc. , etc. , etc. 

And yet, for some reason which I have been unable to gauge, the militaryauthorities talk of sending all correspondents away from the front. Itseems to me that it would be far better to give _bonâ fide_ newspapermen every reasonable opportunity of discovering the truth instead ofhampering them in any way. I fail to see why Great Britain and her Coloniesshould be kept in the dark concerning the progress of the war, for all theforeign Powers will be well supplied with information from the Boer lines;and, if we are blocked, some at least of the British newspapers will mostassuredly go to foreign sources for news, if they are not allowed to obtainit for themselves. Others will content themselves with news gatheredhaphazard, and the last state of the Army, as far as the public mind isconcerned, will be far worse than the first. 

Colonel Hoad, who commands the Australians at Enslin, has offered the sevenhundred and sixteen men, who up to date have acted as infantry, to theauthorities as mounted infantry, and the offer has been accepted, much tothe delight of the men, all of whom are very eager to get into the saddle, as they imagine that when their mounts arrive they will get a chance to gointo action. They have been practising horsemanship during the day, and didfairly well, as many of them are expert riders, many more are fair; but afew of them are more at home on a sand-heap than in a saddle. There are notmany of the latter kind, however. They will soon knock into shape, forColonel Hoad hates the sight of a slovenly horseman as badly as a duckhates a dust storm. He is an untiring rider himself, and will work thebeggars who cannot ride until they can. 

After the arrival in Capetown of the two celebrated soldiers, Lords Robertsand Kitchener, I made it my business to converse with as many Boers aspossible in regard to the two Generals, and was astonished to find how muchthey knew concerning them. How, and from whom, they get information passesmy comprehension, but the fact remains that they knew all over the countryas soon, if not sooner, than we did that our great leaders had arrived. They do not seem to fear them, though they invariably speak of them aswonderful soldiers. "God and Oom Paul Kruger will look after us, " is theircreed. Their faith in President Kruger is simply boundless. Not only dothey fancy that he is a man of dauntless courage, great sagacity, andindomitable will, but they really seem to think that he has God's specialblessing concerning this war. 

He is to the Boers what Mahomet was to the wild tribesmen of Arabia, and itis as impossible to shake their faith in him as it would be to shake theirfaith in the story of Mount Calvary. It is all very well for a certainclass of writers to attempt to cast unbounded ridicule upon these men andtheir leader, but it is not by ridicule that they can be conquered. It isnot by contemptuous utterances or by untrue reports that they can beovercome. It is not by belittling them that we can raise ourselves in theeyes of the men of to-day or ennoble ourselves upon the pages of history. It would be conduct more in accordance with the traditions of a greatnation if we gave them credit for the virtues they possess and the couragethey display. 

It is hard to drag any sort of information from a Boer, whether bond orfree, but from what I can pick up they are perfectly satisfied with whatthey have done up to date. They think that President Kruger has astonishedthe world, and they wag their heads, and give one to understand that thesame old gentleman has a good many more surprises in store for us. It isimpossible to get a direct statement of any kind from them, but by patchingfragments together I incline to the opinion that they really count on CapeColony rising when Kruger wants a rising. Personally, from my own limitedobservations, I would not give a fig of tobacco for the alleged loyalty ofthe Cape Colony. If I am correct, this "surprise" will give the enemy anadditional force of 45, 000 men, most of whom will be found able to ridewell and shoot straight. 

It is nonsense to say that they will only form a mob destitute ofdiscipline and unprovided with officers. They will not be a mob, they willbe guerilla soldiers of the same type that the North and South in Americaprovided, and they will take a lot of whipping at their own peculiartactics. As for officers--well, up to date, they have not gone short ofthem. It is true they do not bear the hallmark of any modern university, but they know how to lead men into battle, all the same. They wear nouniforms, neither do they adorn themselves with any of the stylishtrappings of war, but they are brainy, resourceful men, highly useful ifnot ornamental. Like Oliver Cromwell's hard-faced "Roundheads, " they arethe children of a great emergency, not much to look at, but full of a "getthere" quality, which many school-bred soldiers lack entirely. 

I rode down to Belmont a couple of days ago, and had a look at theCanadians and Queenslanders, who are quartered there. They are all inexcellent health and spirits, and seem to be just about hungry for a fight. The Munsters, who are quartered there, are simply spoiling for a brush withthe enemy, and seem to be as full of ginger as any men I have ever seen. 

And every one of them with whom I conversed--and I chatted with a good manyof the burly young Irishmen--expressed a keen desire to meet in open fightthe Irish brigade now fighting on the side of the Boers. Should it evercome to pass during the progress of the war, I devoutly hope that I may behandy to witness the struggle. It will not be a long-range fight if I amany judge of men and things; it will be settled at close quarters, and the"baynit and the butt" will play a prominent part in the _mêlée_. 

A few of our New Zealand fellows got to close quarters with the enemyrecently up Colesberg way, and they did just as we knew they would when itcame to the crossing of steel. The Boers stormed the position, and the NewZealanders joined in the bayonet charge which drove them back. Our men hada couple killed and one or two wounded. The enemy left a goodish number ofdead on the field when they retired, about thirty of whom met their fate atthe bayonet's point. The British losses were small. There was nothingremarkable about the behaviour of the New Zealanders in action; they simplydid coolly and well what they were ordered to do, and proved that they arequite as good fighting material as anything the Old Country can produce. The gravest misfortune which has yet befallen any of the Australianshappened at the same locality, when eighteen New South Welshmen allowedthemselves to be pinned in a tight place. Eight escaped, but the others areeither prisoners or killed. We do not like the surrender business, andwould rather see our men do as their fathers and grandfathers used todo--bite the motto, "No surrender, " into the butts of their rifles withtheir teeth, and fight their way out of a hot corner. There has been a gooddeal too much of this throwing up of arms during the present campaign, andI hope that we shall hear less of it in the future. 

We had a nasty night here at Enslin. Word reached our headquarters thatthree thousand mounted Boers were on the move towards our camp, which, forstrategic purposes, is the most important between Methuen's column and DeAar. If the enemy could take Enslin they could make things very awkward forGeneral Methuen, because they would then have him between two fires. Assoon as the news came our fellows, with the Gordons, were ordered to occupythe surrounding heights. All night long, and well on into the day, we heldthem until we learned that the enemy had decided not to attack us. Had theydone so they would have paid bitterly for their rashness, for the place ispractically impregnable. A thousand resolute and skilful men, who knew howto use both rifle and bayonet, could hold the place against 20, 000 of thefinest troops in the world, providing the defenders were not hopelesslycrushed by an immense artillery force. 

General Hector Macdonald went through here the other day to take thecommand of the Highland Brigade, in the place of the late General Wauchope. The "Scots" who were with us lined up and gave the General a thrillingwelcome, whilst our fellows, who are not usually demonstrative, crowdedaround the railway line to get a look at the brilliant soldier who, bysheer merit, dauntless pluck, and iron resolution, forced his way from theranks to the high place he holds. The Australians had expected to see agaunt, prematurely aged man, war-worn and battle-broken, and were surprisedto see a dashing, gallant-looking man, who might in appearance comfortablyhave passed for five-and-thirty. The grey-clad men, in soft slouch hats, from the land of the Southern Cross, lounging about with pipes in theirteeth, did not break into hysterical cheering--they are not built that way;they simply looked at the man whose full history every one of them knew aswell as he knew the way into the front door of a "pub. " But their flashingeyes and clenched hands told in language more eloquent than a salvo ofcheers that this was their ideal man, the man they would follow rifle inhand up the brimstone heights of hell itself, if need be; aye, and standsentry there until the day of judgment, if Hector Macdonald gave the order. 

 AUSTRALIA ON THE MOVE. 

 RENSBURG. 

A complete change has come to the Australians who are in Africa underColonel Hoad. We have left General Methuen's column, and joined that ofGeneral French. Formerly we were at Enslin, within sound of the guns thatwere fired daily at Magersfontein; now we are two hundred and twenty milesaway, and are within easy patrolling distance of Colesberg. 

Before we left Methuen's column we had one small night affair, which, however, did not amount to a great deal, though it has been very muchexaggerated in local newspaper circles, and will, I fear, be unduly boomedin some of the Australian journals. The whole affair simply amounted tothis. One hundred of the Victorian Mounted Rifles went out to make ademonstration towards Sunnyside, in Cape Colony, where a number of rebelswere known to congregate. A hundred Queenslanders and Canadians were withthem, when a corporal and a trooper of the Victorians saw an unarmed Boerand a nigger riding towards them in the twilight. The Boer, as soon as hewas challenged, wheeled his horse and rode off at a gallop; our men rodeafter the runaway, but would not fire upon the white man because theythought he was simply a farmer who had got rather a bad scare at meetingarmed men. 

The Boer, however, played a deep game; he rode for a bit of a rise composedof broken ground, where, unknown to our scouts, a party of rebels layconcealed. As soon as the flying rebel was in safety the Boers opened fire, shooting Peter Falla, the trooper, twice through the arm, one bulletentering a few inches below the shoulder, the other shattering the bone alittle way above the elbow. The corporal got away safely, taking hiswounded comrade with him. Our fellows rode out and swept the veldt formiles, but saw no more of the enemy. So ended what has grandiloquently beentermed "an Australian engagement, " which, I may add, is just the kind offlapdoodle our troopers do not want. What they most desire on earth atpresent is an opportunity to show what they are made of. They don't wantcheap newspaper puffs, nor laudatory speeches from generals. They want toget into grip with the enemy, and, as an Australian, let me say now thatImperial federation will get a greater shock by keeping these fine fellowsout of action than by anything else that could happen under heaven. Theydid not come here on a picnic party, they did not come for a circus; theydon't want a lot of maudlin sentiment wasted on them whilst they stay outof the firing line to mind the jam, or give the African girls a treat. 

Mr. Chamberlain has made a good many mistakes in regard to the war, mistakes that will live in history when his very name is forgotten, but heneed not add to them by alienating Australian sentiment by coddling men whocame across the Indian Ocean to prove to the whole world that on the fieldof battle they are as good as their sires. Our fellows have got hold of arumour (the prophets only could tell whence camp rumours originate) thatinstructions have been received from England that they are to be kept outof danger, and a madder lot of men you could not find anywhere between hereand Tophet. They wanted to send a petition to Lord Roberts asking to beallowed to face the enemy, but though the officers are quite as sore as themen, they could not permit such a breach of discipline. So now the men easetheir feelings by jeering at each other. 

"What are we here fer, Bill?"

"Oh, get yer head felt; any fool knows why we are here. There's a blessedmarmalade factory somewhere about, and we are going to mind it whilst theBritish Tommy does the fighting. "

"Marmalade be d----!" chirruped a voice down the lines. "Think they'd trustus to look after anything so important?"

"Oh, you're a blessed prophet, you are, " snarls the little bugler. "P'rapsyou'll tell us what our game is. "

"Easy enough, little 'un. Our officers 've got to practise making mud mapsin the dust with a stick, and we've got to fool around and keep the fliesaway. "

"I suppose they'll keep us at this till the war's over, and then send us toEngland, 'nd give us a bloomin' medal, 'nd tell us then we are gory, crimson heroes. Ugh!" grunts a big West Australian with a face like anightmare, and a voice that comes out of his chest with a sound like asteam saw coming through a wet log. 

"Don't know about England 'nd the medal, 'Beauty, '" chirrups a Sydneygunner, "but I know what they'll give us in Australia if we go back withouta fight. "

"P'raps it'll be a mansion, or a sheep station, or a stud of racehorses, "meekly suggests a tired-looking South Australian, with a derisive twist ofhis under lip. 

"No, they won't present us with a racing stud, " lisps the gunner, "but, byG----, they'll shy chaff enough at us to keep all the bloomin' horsesbetween 'ere and 'ell, and the girls will send us a kid's feedin' bottle, as a mark of feelin' and esteem, every Valentine's Day for ten years tocome, because of the glorious name we made for Australia on the bloodyfields of war in Africa. "

"Fields o' war--fields o' whisky 'nd watermelons! Oh, d---- it! I'm goingter stop writing ter my girl before she writes ter tell me that a whitefeather don't suit a girl's complexion in Australia. "

He lifts his bugle, and sounds "Feed up" so savagely that the horses strainon their leg ropes and kick themselves into a lather as hot as theirriders' tempers, the long, loose-limbed troopers move off, cursingartistically in their beards at the very thought of the roasting they willget from the witty-tongued, red-lipped girls of Australia, when--

 They cross the rolling ocean, Back from the fields of war, To show the British medal They got for guarding a store. 

 To show the British medal On stations, towns, and farms, They got for guarding the marmalade, Far away from war's alarms. 

 To show the British medal, With a blush of angry shame, For which they went to risk their lives In young Australia's name. 

 To show the British medal, With a sneer that's half a sob, Ere they pawn it to their uncle, And go and drink the "bob. "

When we received notice to move away from Enslin down the line throughGraspan, Belmont, Orange River, to De Aar, our fellows were naturally verywrathful; they had done splendid work for many weeks up that way; they haddug trenches, sunk wells, drilled unceasingly; they had watched the kopjesand scoured the veldt, and all that they were told to do they did likesoldiers--readily and uncomplainingly. The cold nights and the scorchingdays, the monotonous drudgery, found them always ready and willing, becausethey believed that when the order came for a great battle at Magersfontein, or an onward march to Kimberley, they would be in the thick of it. But forsome reason, known only to those who gave the order, they were sent awayfrom the front, and they felt it keenly. From De Aar they were sent on toNaauwpoort, and from this latter place they were forwarded on to Rensburg. 

At Naauwpoort nearly all the Australians were mounted, and now acted asmounted infantry. The horses supplied are Indian ponies, formerly used bythe Madras Cavalry. They are a first-class lot of cattle, well suited tothe work that lies before them, and have evidently been selected by someonewho knows his business a good deal better than a great number of hiscolleagues. General French inspected the men at Rensburg during the firstday or two, and seemed fairly well satisfied with them, though, of course, they did not make a first-class show in their initial efforts on horseback. A great number of them rode well, but very few of them had ever gonethrough a course of mounted drill, and it will take a week or two to knockthem into shape for this work; though, when once out of the saddle, theyare not in any way inferior to the best British regiments I have seen. Butthey are keen to learn, and very willing, so that I expect to see them makewonderfully rapid strides towards efficiency as mounted men. They seem tofeel that their only chance to get a fight is to become high gradesoldiers, and to that end they will stand all the work that can be crowdedinto them. I have no idea what their future movements will be, nor do Ithink anyone else connected with the regiment has; but one thing seemscertain, that sooner or later they will fall foul of the enemy in smallskirmishing parties, as the kopjes for a length of twenty miles areinfested by little bands of Boers, who have a knack of disappearing as soonas a British force draws near them, only, however, to crop up again in afresh place, a short distance away. 

For the Boer is a past master in this kind of warfare, and knows how toplay his own game to perfection. What the Goorkha is in Indian warfare, sothe Boer is in Africa. He does not fight in our style, but that does notsay that he cannot fight, neither does it argue that he is devoid ofcourage. As a matter of fact, the more I have seen of this country, andnote what the Boers have done in opposition to all the might of GreatBritain, the more I am impressed with the idea that our allegedIntelligence Department wants cutting down and burning root and branch, forit must have been absolutely rotten, or unquestionably corrupt. We were ledby members of this Department to believe that the Boer was a cowardly kindof veldt pariah, a degenerate offshoot of a fine old parent stock. Well, the Boer is nothing of the kind. He is not in any way degenerate. He is agood fighting man, according to his lights. He does not wear a stand-upcollar, nor an eyeglass, nor spats to his veldtschoon. He does not talkwith a silly lisp or an inane drawl. Therefore, the useless fellows whomBritain trusted with the important task of watching him and sizing him upcounted him as a boor as well as a Boer--a mere country clod. But now, fromthe rocky hills, these clods, these sons of semi-white savages, laugh at usderisively, and answer our jeers with rifles that know how to speak in alanguage that even the bravest of our troops have learnt to understand--andrespect. 

I have a keen recollection of the last Franco-Prussian War. I remember howthe English newspapers ridiculed the French military authorities because, whilst the Germans had accurate maps of every province within the Frenchborders, the French themselves were grossly ignorant of their ownterritory. Now we can eat our own sarcasms and enjoy the bitter fruit ofour own irony, for, thanks to the Intelligence Department connected withthe War Office in Great Britain, we to-day stand precisely in the sameposition towards our African enemy as France did towards Prussia. A glanceat the country through which I have recently passed shows only too clearlythat, whilst Paul Kruger and his advisers knew our full strength to a man, we, on our part, knew nothing about him or the men, money, or ordnance athis command. We knew nothing of the country which had been patientlyfortified by the best skilled military engineers in Europe. We know nothingof his rocky, well-fortified country, which lies behind that which we havealready attacked. Our generals, instead of being supplied with mapscovering every inch of country within the enemy's borders, have to gatherinformation at the bayonet's point at a loss to the Empire in men, money, and in prestige. If our commanders blunder, who is to blame but thecriminally negligent officials who have supplied them with false or foolishdata to work upon? The Empire has been betrayed, either wilfully or throughcrass idleness upon the part of men who have dipped deeply into theEmpire's coffers, and the nation should demand their impeachment, apartfrom their position, place, or power, and punishment of the most drastickind should follow speedily in the footsteps of impeachment. 

The failure of General Buller to relieve Ladysmith was not due to any wantof sagacity on the part of that General. It was not due to any want ofbravery on the part of his troops. The General is worthy of his rank, andworthy of the confidence of the nation, and his troops are as good as themen who, under the same flag, taught the Russians to respect the power ofBritain. The cause of the failure lay mainly in the want of knowledge onour part concerning the strength of the country the Boers held, and thestrength of the country they had to fall back upon when hard pressed. 

That information the "Intelligence" Department ought to have been able toplace in the hands of General Buller before he moved forward to the reliefof the beleaguered garrison in Ladysmith. But they could not give what theyhad never possessed. 

Right up to the present moment, when the Boers have been forced to meet ourtroops at close quarters, they have been found to possess no other armsthan the rifle. This has given truth to the belief that the enemy as anattacking force is next door to useless, as no men, no matter how brave anddetermined, could do very much damage to first-class troops armed with thebayonet. 

However, there is a whisper in the air that the Boers are not deficient inside-arms; it is rumoured that the President of the Boer Republic hasimmense supplies of offensive as well as defensive weapons safely placedaway until they may be required Right up to date his war policy has been toremain passive, excepting in a few isolated positions, allowing the Britishto attack his generals in almost impregnable positions, and by so doing putheart into the burghers, and dishearten our forces. But should the tide ofwar continue to roll onward in his favour he may attempt to put in forcethe oft-told Boer threat, and try to sweep the British into the sea. Shouldthat day dawn, it is rumoured that the enemy will be found well suppliedwith side-arms and with mercenaries trained to their use in one of the bestschools that modern times have known. Where do these rumours come from?Well, a Boer prisoner, taunted perhaps by a guard, loses his temper anddrops a hint, or a Boer farmer, exultant over the latest news of hiscountrymen's success, lifts the veil a little, and a jealously-guardedsecret drops out; or, again, a Boer's wife or daughter, flinging a taunt ata cursed "Rooinek, " allows her temper to run away with her discretion. There are a hundred ways in which such things get about; only straws, perhaps, but a straw can point the way windward. A talkative Kaffir who hasbeen reared on a Dutch farm will at times give things away that would costhim his life if the length of his tongue was known to his master;especially will the nigger talk if his mouth be judiciously moistened withCape smoke brandy. 

Information that comes to a war correspondent's hand is of many colours, shapes, and sizes, but if he is born to the business he pieces the wholetogether and picks out what seemeth good to his own soul at the finish. Sometimes, at the end of a week's hard work, he finds himself possessed ofa patchwork of information like unto Joseph's coat of many colours, but itis hard fortune indeed if he cannot find something in the lot to repay himfor his earnest endeavours. 

 SLINGERSFONTEIN. 

 RENSBURG. 

Scarcely had I returned from posting my last letter when the camp was in acommotion, caused by the news that the West Australians were in action atSlingersfontein, distant about twelve miles from Rensburg. To saddle up andget out as fast as horseflesh would carry a man was but the work of a veryshort period of time, for the gallop across the open veldt was not a verylaborious undertaking. I soon found that the stalwart sons of the greatgold colony were in it, and enjoying it. 

Slingersfontein is an important position on the right flank of French'scolumn. It is not only an important but a very hard position to hold onaccount of the nature of the country. Here there is but very little openveldt; mile after mile is covered by small kopjes that rise in countlessnumbers, until the whole country looks as if it were covered with averitable forest of hills. Once inside that labyrinth of rockyexcrescences, an army might easily be lost, unless every individual man andofficer knew the place thoroughly. The Boers know the lay of the land, and, consequently, shift from post to post by paths that are unknown to anyoneelse with marvellous dexterity and incredible swiftness. Our forces hold asmall plain, which is like the palm of a giant's hand, with the surroundingkopjes representing the digits. We hold those kopjes also. The shape of thecamp is in the form of a horseshoe, all around the little basin great hillsrise, and from those hills England's watch-dogs keep a sharp look-out onthe movements of the foe; and well they need to, for, in ground which suitshim, the African farmer is as 'cute and cunning as a Red Indian. Behind ourposition, or, rather, outside of it, there is another small tract of opencountry, but beyond that, lapping around our stronghold like a crescent, isrough, hilly ground. None of those hills is worth dignifying with the titleof mountain, but all of them are big enough to shelter a hundred or two ofthe enemy, and it is there that they play their game of hide and seek, which is so trying to the nerves of young troops. The Boers hold that roughcountry entirely, and the outer edge of their semi-circle is not, at anygiven point, more than four miles from our centre at Slingersfontein. 

The outer line of kopjes which skirt their stalking ground are bigger thanthe hills on the inner side, so that they have an excellent opportunity toconceal their movements from the observation of our most astute pickets, and the only way in which our commanding officer can locate the enemy withany degree of certainty is by making a reconnaissance in force, and, ifpossible, drawing their fire. If the Boers fall into this trap theyinvariably pay dearly for the slight advantage they gain over theinvestigating force, for our guns soon make any known position untenable. The Boer leaders know this, however, and are very loth to allow temptationto overcome discretion; but at times, either through the impetuosity oftheir troops or through errors in generalship, they give themselves awayentirely, and that is precisely what they did upon this occasion. 

By means only known to those high up in authority, our people had becomeacquainted with the fact that the enemy intended to try to extend theirline on our right flank, and so threaten us not only upon the left flank, the direct front, and right flank, but also in the rear. Could they succeedin doing this they would have us in a peculiarly tight place, as, onceposted in force well down on our right flank, they would then at least beable to harass us badly in our communications with Rensburg, which is ourmain base of operations. It is there that the General has his headquarters;it is from there that we keep in touch, per medium of the railway andtelegraph lines, with the rest of the British Army in South Africa. It isfrom there that we draw all our supplies of fodder and ammunition. It isfrom there we should draw all our additional force if we neededreinforcements in case of a general assault by the enemy upon our positionat Slingersfontein, and it is from there that we should be strengthenedshould we decide to make a forward move on the Boers' position. Thereforeit behoved us to keep that line of communication intact, no matter what thecost. All these things were as well known to the Boer leader as to us, andthat is why they were as keen to get the position as we were, and why weare keen to stop them from accomplishing their object. 

It was for the purpose of ascertaining just what the enemy intended to do, and how many men they had to do it with, that Major Ethoran ordered out theWest Australian Mounted Infantry, consisting of about 75 men, under CaptainMoor, an Imperial soldier in the pay of the West Australian Government, anda small body of Inniskilling Dragoons and Lancers, with a section of theRoyal Horse Artillery and two guns. The men moved out of Slingersfontein onTuesday about midday, and at once proceeded towards a farmhouse locatedright under the very jowl of an ugly-looking kopje. 

This farm was known as Pottsberg, and was well known as a regular haunt ofthe most daring and dangerous rebels in the whole district. The farmconsisted of the usual white stone farmhouse of five or six rooms, a smallorchard, surrounded by rough stone walls from three feet six to four feetin height, and about two feet thick, a small cluster of native huts, and akraal for cattle, made of rough, heavy stones, topped by cakes of sun-bakedmanure, stored by the farmers for fuel. Some little distance from the backof the farmhouse a stout stone wall ran down from the kopjes on to theplain. This wall was between four and five feet in height and half a yardacross in its weakest place--an ugly barricade in itself--behind which afew resolute men with quick-firing rifles, which they know how to use, could make a good stand against vastly superior numbers advancing upon themfrom the open veldt. 

When our fellows trotted out from camp, Captain Moor received orders todistribute his men in small bodies all along the edge of the kopjes betweenPottsberg farmhouse and Kruger's Hill, a small kopje lying almost in a linewith our camp, on the right. The men were ordered to go as close aspossible to the enemy's position, to see as much as they could possibly seein regard to the numbers of troops in the hills held by the enemy. If theysucceeded in discovering the rebels in large bodies they were to draw theirfire and immediately retreat at full speed. In the meantime the two gunsbelonging to the Royal Horse Artillery were beautifully placed in a dip inthe veldt, where they could play upon the Boers should they attempt to rushthe West Australians at any given point. The Lancers and Dragoons wereplaced in charge of some kopjes behind the guns, in order to protect themshould a concerted onslaught be made upon them by the mounted Boers, whowere shrewdly suspected to be in hiding in strong force behind the firstrow of hills, which screened the enemy's position. 

The Australians rode out steadily, and took up their positions with anamount of coolness that startled older soldiers. This was absolutely theirfirst trial on real fighting service, and everybody connected with them wasanxious to see how they would comport themselves in the face of the enemy. Not only was it their first fighting effort, but it was their début in thesaddle, as until a week previous they had been simply infantrymen, and nota dozen of them had ever been in the hands of a mounted drill instructor. It was a big task to set such green men, but they proved before the day wasout that they were worthy of the confidence reposed in them. Captain Moor, Lieutenant Darling, and Lieutenant Parker each took a small section intoaction; the others were under the immediate control of their sergeants. They split up into small parties, and swept the very edge of the kopjes, peering into gullies, climbing the outer hills, working along the ravineswith a courage and thoroughness that would have done credit to the oldestscouts in all the Empire. Yet nothing came of their investigations forquite a long time. The enemy did not mean to be drawn, and remainedpassive, so that the West Australians at last became a little bit reckless, and were consequently not so guarded as they might have been. All at once abody of scouts ran upon a large body of the enemy near Pottsberg Farm, in adeep and shady ravine. The enemy were trying to evade notice, but that wasnow impossible. In a moment rifles were ringing on the air, and after thatfirst volley the little band of Australians wheeled and galloped for theopen country. To have remained there would have meant certain death toevery one of the half-dozen who comprised the picket, so they did theirduty--they fired and rode for the veldt. In a few seconds Boers weredashing out of the kopjes on all sides, trying to cut the small band ofAustralians off or shoot them down. But the Australians knew their game;they opened out, so that each man was practically riding alone. 

The Boers could do little with them. Those who stood by the guns noticedthat very large numbers of men in the Boer ranks were either niggers orhalf-castes, and it was also very noticeable that they knew but littleabout the use of the rifle. They fired high and wide, and notwithstandingthe fact that they poured their ammunition away in wholesale fashion, theydid little harm worth mentioning, although many of them fired at littlemore than pistol range. They were simply crazed with excitement, and didnot succeed in cutting off a single member of that adventurous band. Whenever an Australian found himself in a tight place he simply dug hisspurs into his horse's flanks, lifted his rifle, and blazed into the ranksof the foe. If his horse was shot dead under him he coo-eed to his mates, and kept his rifle busy, and every time the coo-ee rang out over thewhispering veldt the Australians turned in their saddles, and riding as themen from the South-land can ride, they dashed to the rescue, and did notleave a single man in the hands of the enemy. Many a gallant deed was donethat day by officers and men. Captain Moor gave one fellow his horse, andmade a dash for liberty on foot, but he would have failed in his effort hadnot Lieutenant Darling, a West Australian boy, ridden to his aid, andtogether the two officers on the one horse got back to the shelter of theguns. The enemy still blazed away in the wildest and most farcical fashion. Had they been Boer hunters or marksmen very few of the West Australianswould ever have got across that strip of veldt alive. As it was, only twoof them got wounded, none were killed, one or two horses were shot dead, and then the big guns got to work in grim earnest. 

A party of Boers, however, got round one of the kopjes, where some of theLancers were posted, and now half a dozen of those brave fellows aremissing, and I fear they are to be counted amongst those who will neverreturn again. Sergeant Watson, of the R. H. , was killed, and several of hismen and a few of the Lancers were wounded, but the R. H. Guns soon swept theplain clear of the enemy, and they retired, carrying their dead and woundedwith them. The work for the day was done, and well done, for the enemy hadshown his hand. We knew his position and his strength, and next day we wentout in force to have a word with him, but the wily Boers kept strictlyunder cover, and refused on any terms to be drawn again. 

 THE WEST AUSTRALIANS. 

 BETHANY. 

I was feeling miserable as I sat in the hospital garden, and I rather fancyI looked pretty much as I felt, for a cheery-faced Boer nurse, with herblack hair, blacker eyes, and rose-blossom lips, came up to where I sat, bringing with her two or three slightly wounded Boers. "I have brought someBoers who know something of your countrymen, Mr. Australian, " she said. "Ithought you would be glad to hear all about them. " "By Jove! yes, nurse. IfI were not a married man, I should try to thank you gracefully. " "Oh, yees;oh, yees, " she answered, tossing back her head; "that is all right. You saythose pretty things; then, when you go away from here, you tell your wife, and you write in your papers we Boer girls are fat old things, who neveruse soap and water. All the Rooibaatjes do that. " And off she went, laughing merrily, whilst my friends the enemy grinned and enjoyed thelittle comedy. So we fell to talking, and-half a dozen wounded "Tommies"gathered round and chipped into the conversation, which by degrees workedround to a deed which the West Australians did; and as I listened to thetale so simply told by those rough farmer men, I felt my face flush withpride, and my shoulders fell back square and solid once more, whilst everydrop of blood in my veins seemed to run warm and strong, like the red winethey grow on the hillside in my own sunny land; for the story concerned menwhom I knew well, men who were bred with the scent of the wattle in thefirst breath they drew, men who grew from childhood to manhood where thesilver sentinel stars form the cross in the rich blue midnight sky. Mycountrymen--Australians--men with whom I had hunted for silver in thedesolate backblocks of New South Wales; men with whom I had scoured theinterior of West Australia seeking for gold; men who had been with me onthe tin fields and opal fields. I had never doubted that they would keeptheir country's name unsullied when they met the foe on the field of war, yet when I heard the tale the enemy told I felt my eyes fill as they haveseldom filled since childhood, for I was proud of the western diggers, proud of my blood; and at that moment, with British "Tommies" sprawling onthe grass at my feet, and the Boer farmers grouped amongst them, I wouldsooner have called myself an Australian commoner than the son of any peerin any other land under high heaven. 

I will take the story from the Boer's mouth and tell it to you, as I hopeto tell it round a hundred camp fires when the war is over, and I go backto the Australian bush once more. "It happened round Colesberg way, " hesaid; "we thought we had the British beaten, and our commandant gave us theword to press on and cut them to pieces. Our big guns had been grandlyhandled, and our rifle fire had told its tale. We saw the British fallingback from the kopjes they had held, and we thought that there was nothingbetween us and victory; but there was, and we found it out before we weremany minutes older. There was one big kopje that was the very key of theposition. Our spies had told us that this was held by an Australian force. We looked at it very anxiously, for it was a hard position to take, buteven as we watched we saw that nearly all the Australians were leaving it. They, too, were falling back with the British troops. If we once got thatkopje there was nothing on earth could stop us. We could pass on and sweeparound the retiring foe, and wipe them off the earth, as a child wipes dirtfrom its hands, and we laughed when we saw that only about twentyAustralians had been left to guard the kopje. 

"There were about four hundred of us, all picked men, and when thecommandant called to us to go and take the kopje, we sprang up eagerly, anddashed down over some hills, meaning to cross the gully and charge up thekopje where those twenty men were waiting for us. But we did not know theAustralians--then. We know them now. Scarcely had we risen to our feet whenthey loosed their rifles on us, and not a shot was wasted. They did notfire, as regular soldiers nearly always do, volley after volley, straightin front of them, but every one picked his man, and shot to kill. Theyfired like lightning, too, never dwelling on the trigger, yet never wildlywasting lead, and all around us our best and boldest dropped, until wedared not face them. We dropped to cover, and tried to pick them off, butthey were cool and watchful, throwing no chance away. We tried to crawlfrom rock to rock to hem them in, but they, holding their fire until ourburghers moved, plugged us with lead, until we dared not stir a step ahead;and all the time the British troops, with all their convoy, were slowly, but safely, falling back through the kopjes, where we had hoped to hem themin. We gnawed our beards and cursed those fellows who played our game as wehad thought no living men could play it Then, once again, we tried to rushthe hill, and once again they drove us back, though our guns were playingon the heights they held. We could not face their fire. To move upright tocross a dozen yards meant certain death, and many a Boer wife was widowedand many a child left fatherless by those silent men who held the heightsabove us. They did not cheer as we came onward. They did not play wildmusic, they only clung close as climbing weeds to the rocks, and shot as wenever saw men shoot before, and never hope to see men shoot again. 

"Then we got ready to sweep the hill with guns, but our commandant, admiring those brave few who would not budge before us in spite of ournumbers, sent an officer to them to ask them to surrender, promising themall the honours of war. But they sent us word to come and take them if wecould. And then our officer asked them three times if they would hold uptheir hands, and at the third time a grim sergeant rose and answered him:'Aye, we will hold up our hands, but when we do, by God, you'll find abayonet in 'em. Go back and tell your commandant that Australia's here tostay. ' And there they stayed, and fought us hour by hour, holding us back, when but for them victory would have been with us. We shelled them allalong their scattered line, and tried to rush them under cover of theartillery fire; but they only held their posts with stouter hearts, andshot the straighter when the fire was hottest, and we could do nothing butlie there and swear at them, though we admired them for their stubbornpluck. They held the hill till all their men were safe, and then, dashingdown the other side, they jumped into their saddles and made off, carryingtheir wounded with them. They were but twenty men, and we four hundred"

A "Tommy" sitting at the speaker's feet looked up and said: "What are yermakin' sich a song abart it far? Lumme, them Horstraliars are as Hinglishhas hi ham!"

 IN A BOER TOWN. 

 BETHANY. 

A Boer town is not laid out on systematic lines, as one sees towns inAmerica, or Canada, or Australia. The streets seem to run much as theyplease, or as the exigencies of traffic have caused them to run. I doubt ifthe plan of a town is ever drawn in this country. People arrive and settledown in a happy-go-lucky manner, and straightway build themselves a home. Their homes are places to live in; not to look at. There is an almost utterabsence of architectural adornment everywhere. My eyes range over a largenumber of dwellings. They are nearly all alike--plain, square structures, plastered snow white. There is a double door in the centre of the front, and a window at each side of the door. A stoep, about six feet wide, risesa foot from the pathway, and there is nothing else to be seen from theoutside front. These houses look bare and bald, and are as expressionlessas a blind baby. To me most houses have an expression of their own. In anEnglish town a quiet walk in the dawning, making a survey of thedwelling-places, always leaves the impression that I have gleaned aninsight into the character of the dwellers therein. The cheeky-lookingvilla, with its superabundance of ornament, is a monument in masonry to thesuccessful mining jobber on a small scale. The solemn-looking, soliddwelling, standing in its own grounds, where every flower bush has itsindividual prop, where the lawn is trimmed with mathematical exactitude, and not one vagrant leaf is allowed to stray, speaks with a kind ofbrick-and-mortar eloquence of virtue that has never grasped the sublimefulness of the Scriptural text which saith: "The way of transgressors ishard!" That is the home of the middle-aged Churchman, whose feet frominfancy have fallen amidst roses. He has never erred, because he has neverknown enough of human sympathy and human toil and struggle to feeltemptation. The coy little cottage further on, surrounded by climbing rosesand sweet-smelling herbs, where the gate is left just a little bit open, asif inviting a welcome, seems to advertise itself as the home of two maidensisters, who, though past the giddy girlhood stage, still have hopes ofbeing somebody's darling by-and-by. 

But in a Boer town most of the piety is knocked out of a man. You stare atthe houses, and they stare back at you dumbly. There is nothing pretentiousor rakish about any of them; no matter how riotous a man's imaginationmight be, he could never conjure up a "wink" from a Boer house, though Ihave seen houses in other parts of the world that seemed to "cock an eye"at a passing traveller and invite him to try the door. 

They have only two styles of roofing their dwellings--either theold-fashioned gable roof, or the still older kind of "lean-to, " the latterbeing nothing but a flat top, high at the front and running lower towardsthe back, in order that the rain water may carry off rapidly. They painttheir doors and windows a sober reddish brown, for your true Boer has anutter contempt for anything gaudy or gay. He leaves that sort of thing tohis nigger servants, who make up for their master's lack of appreciation inthe matter of colour by rigging themselves out in anything that isstartling in the way of contrasts, for if the white master is a Puritan insuch things, the nigger servant, male and female, is a perfect sybarite. 

Right opposite where I am sitting a family group, or all that is left ofthe family, is sitting, as the custom is at evening, out on the stoep. Onthe side nearest me is a young widow. I have made inquiries concerning her. Her husband was killed fighting against our troops at Graspan. She, poorthing, is dressed in deepest mourning. Her dress is made of some heavyblack material, and has no touch of white or any colour anywhere to relieveits sombre shades. On her head she wears a jet black cap, which rises highand wide, and falls around her neck and shoulders. The cap is fashionedmuch after the style of the sun bonnets worn by the peasant women ofNormandy, but hers is black, black as the grave. She has rather a niceface, a good woman's face, pale and refined by suffering. No one looking ather can doubt that she has suffered, and suffered as only such women can, through this brutal, bloody war. I thought of the widows away in our ownland as I looked at her sitting there, so silently and sadly, with her thinwhite hands clasped on the black folds of her lap. On one hand I plainlysaw the gold circle shining, which a few months ago had meant so much toher; now, alas! only the outward and visible sign of all she had been andof all that she had lost. Behind her the snow-white wall of the house, sparkling in the red rays of the setting sun; at her feet only the whiteslate of the stoep. And well enough I knew that under the proud Empire flagmany a widow as young and as heart-broken as this Dutch girl would watchthe sun go down as hopelessly as she, and I could not help the thoughtwhich sprang to my soul--God's bitter curse rest on the head of the man, behe Boer or Briton, who brought about this cruel war. 

On the street in front of the house where the widow sat I noticed a groupof niggers. Some of them were merely local "boys, " who worked for thetownspeople. They were dressed in the usual nigger fashion, in old storeclothing, patched or ventilated according to the wearer's taste. One fellowhad on a pair of pants that had at some former stage belonged to a manabout four times his size. The portion of those pants which is usuallyhidden when a man is sitting in the saddle had been worn into a huge hole, which the nigger had picturesquely filled by tacking on a scarlet shawl. Asthe pants were made of navy blue serge the effect was unquestionablyartistic, especially as the amateur tailor had done his sewing with string, most of the stitches running from an inch to an inch and a half in length. Still, he was only one of many in similar case, so that he did not feel inthe least degree lonely. There were other niggers there--"boys" belongingto the mule-drivers of the army. These "boys" nearly all sported a militaryjacket and some sort of field service cap, which they had picked up somehowin camp. The "side" these niggers put on when they get inside odds and endsof military wearing apparel is something appalling. They swagger aroundamongst the civilian niggers, and treat them as beings of a very inferiormould, whilst the lies they tell concerning their individual acts ofheroism would set the author of "Deadwood Dick" blushing out of simpleenvy. 

The nigger girls cluster round these black veterans like flies around awestern water hole in midsummer, and their shrill laughter makes the airfairly vibrate as they bandy jests with the cheeky herds. The girls arerather pleasing in appearance, though far from being pretty. As a rule, they wear clean print dresses and white aprons; they never wear hats of anykind, but coil a showy kerchief around their heads in coquettish fashion. They are not particular as to colour, red, blue, yellow, or pink, anythingwill do as long as it is brilliant. The skins of the girls are almost asvaried as the headgear. The Kaffir girl is very dark, almost black. Thebushman's daughter is dirty yellow, like river water in flood time. Some ofthe other tribes are as black as the record of a first-class burglar, butthey have bright black eyes, which they roll about as a kitten rolls a ballof wool in playtime. 

But whether they are black, brown, or coffee-coloured, they are all alikein one respect--every daughter of them has a mouth that is as boundless asa mother's blessing, and as limitless as the imagination of a spring poetin love. When they are vexed they purse that mouth up into a bunch until itlooks like a crumpled saddle-flap hanging on a hedge. When they are pleasedthe mouth opens and expands like an indiarubber portmanteau ready forpacking; that is when they smile, but when they laugh their ears have toshift to give the mouth a chance to get comfortably to its destination. They have beautiful teeth, the white ivory showing against the blackforeground like fresh tombstones in an old cemetery on a dark night. It isamusing to watch them flirting with the soldier niggers. They try to lookcoy, but soon fall victims to the skilful blandishments of thevain-glorious warriors, and after a little manoeuvring they put out theirlips to be kissed, a sight which might well make even a Scotch Covenantergrin. They suck their lips in with a sharp hissing breath; then push themout suddenly, ready for the osculatory seance, the lips moving as if theywere pushed from the inside by a pole. The "boys" enjoy the picnicimmensely. As a matter of fact, these "boys" always seem to me to be doingone of four things. They are either eating, smoking, sleeping, or makinglove; and they do enough love-making in twenty-four hours to last anordinary everyday sort of white man four months, even if he puts in alittle overtime. One of the most charming things noticeable about a Boertown is the plenitude of trees in the streets. They are often ornamental, always useful for purposes of shade. There is no regularity about theirdistribution; they seem to have been planted spasmodically at odd times andat odd positions. There is little about them to lead one to the belief thatthey receive over much care after they have been put into the soil. I havefound a very creditable library in pretty nearly every Boer town that Ihave visited, and it is a noteworthy fact that all of our most cherishedauthors find a place on their book-shelves. One other thing I have alsonoticed, which, though a small thing in itself, is yet very significant. Innearly every hotel, and in many of the public places, portraits of ourQueen and members of the Royal Family have been hanging side by side withportraits of notable men, such as Mr. Gladstone, Lord Salisbury, Mr. Chamberlain, and Mr. Rhodes. During the course of the war all kinds andconditions of Boers have had free access to the rooms where those portraitswere to be seen, but now I find that no damage has been done to any ofthose pictures, excepting those of Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Chamberlain. This hasnot been an oversight on the part of the Boers, for I defy any person tofind a solitary picture of the two last-named gentlemen that has not beenhacked with knives. But the Queen and Royal Family photos have in everycase been treated with respect. 

 BEHIND THE SCENES. 

 STORMBERG. 

I am writing this from Stormberg, a tremendously important militaryposition, which was taken on Monday, the 5th, by General Gatacre, without ablow, the enemy falling back cowed by the British general's tactics. Hadthey remained here another twenty-four hours Gatacre would have had them ina ring of iron, but the Boer general is no fool. He saw his danger, and, like a wise man, he dodged it. Gatacre's generalship was simply superb. Letthe idiotic band of critics who sit in safety in England howl to theirheart's content; Gatacre deserves well of his country. Had he dashedrecklessly into this hornet's nest he would have sacrificed four-fifths ofhis gallant officers and a host of his men. Had I to write his militaryepitaph to-day I should say that "he won with brains what most generalswould have won with blood. "

Strangely enough, I was a prisoner in the very room where I am penning thisepistle only last Saturday night. I left here in the centre of a Boercommando, with a bandage over my eyes, on Sunday morning, and returned tothe spot surrounded by British "Tommies" a few days later. 

All the glory of this bloodless victory does not rest with the general whocommands the column. To Captain Tennant no small meed of praise is due. This officer was here on secret service before hostilities commenced, andhe did his work so thoroughly that the country is as familiar to him aspaint to a barmaid. He is one of those men, unfortunately so rare in theBritish Army, combining dash and dauntless pluck with a cool, level head. If he gets his opportunity, England will hear more of this officer. I havebeen intensely struck by the class of officers by whom General Gatacre issurrounded. They all look like soldiers. I have not seen a single dude, notone of those wretched fops of whom I have seen only too many in SouthAfrica. They speak like soldiers too. No idiotic drawl, no effeminate lisp, no bullying, ill-bred, coarseness of tongue; they are neither drawing-roomdandies nor camp swashbucklers, but officers and gentlemen--and, I canassure you, the terms are not always synonymous, even under the Queen'scloth. I have seen mere lads in this country leading men into action who inpoint of brains were not fit to lead a mule to water, and others who, inregard to manners, were scarcely fit to follow the mule. But, thank God, the Boers have taught our nation this, if they have taught us noughtelse--that it needs something more than an eye-glass, a lisp, a pair of kidgloves, and an insolent, overbearing manner to make a successful soldier. 

But let me get amongst the Boers. I was only a prisoner in their hands forabout a month, yet every moment of that time was so fraught with interestthat I fancy I picked up more of the real nature of the Boers than I shouldhave done under ordinary circumstances in a couple of years. I was movedfrom laager to laager along their fighting line, saw them at work withtheir rifles, saw them come in from more than one tough skirmish, bringingtheir dead and wounded with them, saw them when they had triumphed, and sawthem when they had been whipped; saw them going to their farms, to bewelcomed by wife and children; saw them leaving home with a wife's sobs intheir ears, and children's loving kisses on their lips. I saw some of theseold greyheads shattered by our shells, dying grimly, with knitted brows andfiercely clenched jaws; saw some of their beardless boys sobbing theirsouls out as the life blood dyed the African heath. I saw some passing overthe border line which divides life and death, with a ring of stern-browedcomrades round them, leaning upon their rifles, whilst a brother or afather knelt and pressed the hand of him whose feet were on the verythreshold of the land beyond the shadows. I saw others smiling up into thefaces of women--the poor, pain-drawn faces of the dying looking lesshaggard and worn than the anguish-stricken features of their womanhood whoknelt to comfort them in that last awful hour--in the hour which dividestime from eternity, the sunlight of lusty life from the shadows ofunsearchable death. Those things I have seen, and in the ears of Englishmen and English women, let me say, as one who knows, and fain would speakthe plain, ungilded truth concerning friend and foe, that, not alonebeneath the British flag are heroes found. Not alone at the breasts ofBritish matrons are brave men suckled; for, as my soul liveth--whethertheir cause be just or unjust, whether the right or the wrong of this warbe with them, whether the blood of the hundreds who have fallen since thefirst rifle spoke defiance shall speak for or against them at the day ofjudgment--they at least know how to die; and when a man has given his lifefor the cause he believes in he is proven worthy even of his worst enemy'srespect. And it seems to me that the British nation, with its long roll ofheroic deeds, wrought the whole world over, from Africa to Iceland, canwell afford to honour the splendid bravery and self-sacrifice of theserude, untutored tillers of the soil. I have seen them die. 

Once, as I lay a prisoner in a rocky ravine all through the hot afternoon, I heard the rifles snapping like hounds around a cornered beast. I watchedthe Boers as they moved from cover to cover, one here, one there, a littlefarther on a couple in a place of vantage, again, in a natural fortress, agroup of eight; so they were placed as far as my eye could reach. TheBritish force I could not see at all; they were out on the veldt, and thekopjes hid them from me; but I could hear the regular roll and ripple oftheir disciplined volleys, and in course of time, by watching the actionsof the Boers, I could anticipate the sound. They watched our officers, andwhen the signal to fire was given they dropped behind cover with such speedand certainty that seldom a man was hit. Then, when the leaden hail hadceased to fall upon the rocks, they sprang out again, and gave our fellowslead for lead. After a while our gunners seemed to locate them, and theshells came through the air, snarling savagely, as leopards snarl beforethey spring, and the flying shrapnel reached many of the Boers, wounding, maiming, or killing them; yet they held their position with indomitablepluck, those who were not hit leaping out, regardless of personal danger, to pick up those who were wounded. They were a strange, motley-lookingcrowd, dressed in all kinds of common farming apparel, just such a crowd asone is apt to see in a far inland shearing shed in Australia, but no manwith a man's heart in his body could help admiring their devotion to oneanother or their loyalty to the cause they were risking their lives for. 

One sight I saw which will stay with me whilst memory lasts. They hadplaced me under a waggon under a mass of overhanging rock for safety, andthere they brought two wounded men. One was a man of fifty, a hard oldveteran, with a complexion as dark as a New Zealand Maori; the beard thatframed the rugged face was three-fourths grey, his hands were as rough andknotted by open air toil as the hoofs of a working steer. 

He looked what he was--a Boer of mixed Dutch and French lineage. Later on Igot into conversation with him, and he told me a good deal of his life. Hisfather was descended from one of the old Dutch families who had emigratedto South Africa in search of religious liberty in the old days, when thecountry was a wilderness. His mother had come in an unbroken line from oneof the noble families of France who fled from home in the days of theterrible persecution of the Huguenots. He himself had been manythings--hunter, trader, farmer, fighting man. He had fought against thenatives, and he had fought against our people. The younger man was his son, a tall, fair fellow, scarcely more than a stripling, and I had no need tobe a prophet or a prophet's son to tell that his very hours were numbered. Both the father and the lad had been wounded by one of our shells, and itwas pitiful to watch them as they lay side by side, the elder man holdingthe hand of the younger in a loving clasp, whilst with his other hand hestroked the boyish face with gestures that were infinitely pathetic. Justas the stars were coming out that night between the clouds that floatedover us the Boer boy sobbed his young life out, and all through the longwatches of that mournful darkness the father lay with his dead laddie'shand in his. The pain of his own wounds must have been dreadful, but Iheard no moan of anguish from his lips. When, at the dawning, they came totake the dead boy from the living man, the stern old warrior simply pressedhis grizzled lips to the cold face, and then turned his grey beard to thehard earth and made no further sign; but I knew well that, had thesacrifice been possible, he would gladly have given his life to save theyoung one's. 

 A BOER FIGHTING LAAGER. 

 BURGHERSDORP. 

Many and wonderful are the stories written and published concerning theBoer and his habits when on the war-path. Most of these stories are writtenby men who take good care never to get within a hundred miles of thefighting line, but content themselves with an easy chair, a cigar, a bottleof whisky, and carpet slippers on the stoep of some good hotel in a prettylittle Boer town. To scribes of this calibre flock a certain class ofBritish resident, who is always full to the very ears of his own dauntlesscourage, his deathless loyalty to the Queen and Empire, his love for thesoldier, and his hatred of the Boer. This gallant class of British residenthas half a million excuses ready to his hand to explain why he did not takea rifle and fight when the war summons rang clarion-like through the land. Then he grits his teeth, knits his eyebrows, clenches his hands inspasmodic wrath, throws out his chest, and tells his auditors, in a voicehusky with concentrated wrath and whisky, what he intends to do the nexttime the damnable Boer rises to fight. The old British pioneer may havewhelped a few million good fighting stock in his time, but this class ofanimal is no lion's whelp; it is a thing all mouth and no manners, ashallow-brained, cowardly creature, always howling about the Boer, but toodiscreet to go out and fight him, though ready at all times to malign him, to ridicule him as a farmer or a fighter, and it is a perfect bear's feastto this hybrid animal to get hold of a gullible newspaper correspondent totell him gruesome tales relative to Boer fighting laagers. 

I had one of this peculiar species at me the other day in Burghersdorp, andhe painted a Boer laager so vividly, between nips at my flask, that if Ihad not seen a few laagers myself I should have felt bad over the matter. He pictured the smell of that laager in language so intense, with gesturesso graphic, that some of his auditors had to hold their nostrils withhandkerchiefs, whilst they stirred the circumambient atmosphere withcardboard fans, and I could not help wondering, if the portrait of thesmell was so awful, what the thing itself must be like. Flushed withsuccess, the narrator pursued his subject to the bitter extremity. Heconjured up scenes of half-buried men lying amongst the rocks surroundingthe laager: here a leg, there an arm, further on a ghastly human headprotruding from amidst the scattered boulders, until I had only to close myeyes to fancy I was in a charnel-house, where Goths and Huns were holdingdevilish revelry. The B. R. Paused, and dropped his voice two octaves lower, and the crowd on the balcony craned their heads further forward, so thatthey might not miss a single word. He told of the women in the laagers, thewild, unholy mirth of women, who moved from camp fire to camp fire, withdishevelled hair streaming down their backs, with tossing arms, bare to theshoulders, and blood besmeared, not the blood of goats or kine, but theblood of soldiers--our soldiers. Thomas Atkins defunct, and done for by theshe-furies. 

He waded in again when the shudder which shook the crowd had died away, andhinted, as that class of shallow-souled creature loves to hint, of orgiesunder the dim light of the stars, or between the flickering light ofsmoking camp fires, until the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah seemed to becrowding all around us in a peculiarly beastly and uncomfortable fashion. Then he lay back in his chair and sighed; but anon he sprang upright, and, with flashing eyes and extended arms, wanted to know what the ---- Robertsmeant by offering peace with honour to such a people. "Mow them down!" heyelled. "Shoot them on sight--no quarter for such devils! Kill 'em off!kill 'em off! kill 'em off!" and he half sobbed, half sighed himself intosilence, whilst the audience gazed on him as on one who knew what war, wild, red, carmine war, was. I broke in on his stillness, as newspaper menwho know the game are apt to do, for I wanted data, I wanted facts, and Ihad not swallowed his yarn as freely as he had swallowed my whisky. 

"Born in this country?" I asked. 

"Yorkshire, " he answered laconically. 

"Been in Africa long?"

"'Bout five years. "

"Where did you put in most of your time beforethe war?"

"Johannesburg. "

"Mines?"

"No. "

"Merchant?"

"No. "

"Hotel-keeper, perhaps?"

"No. "

"Shopkeeper?"

"No. "

"What was your calling, or profession, or business, or means oflivelihood?"

"General agent, sharebroker, correspondent for some local papers. "

H'm; I knew the class of animal well--general jackal; do the dirty work ofany trade, and master of none. 

"Where were you when the war broke out?"

He scowled savagely: "Johannesburg. "

"Have the same hatred for the Boers before the war as you have now?"

"Yes. "

"Why didn't you pick up a rifle and have a hand in the fighting?"

"I'm not a blessed 'Tommy, ' sir! Do you take me for a d---- 'Tommy, ' sir?"

"No; oh, no, I assure you I did nothing of the kind. But--er, have you beenin the hands of the Boers since the war started?"

"Yes, until our troops marched in here a day or two ago. "

"H'm. Did they rob you?"

"No. "

"Did they ill-treat you--knock you about, and that sort of thing?"

"No. "

"Why do you hate them so bitterly, then?"

"Oh, I can't stand a cursed Boer at any price. Thinks he's as good as aBritisher all the time, and puts on side; and he's a cursed tyrant in hisheart, and would rub us out if he could. "

"Yes, the Boer thought himself as good a man as the Britishers he met outthis way, " I replied, "and he backed his opinion with his life and hisrifle. Why didn't you do the same if you reckoned yourself a better man?"

"Why should I; don't we pay 'Tommy' to do that for us?"

"Perhaps we do; but, concerning those Boer laagers you have been telling usabout: where, when, and how did you see them; what was the name of theplace; who was the Boer general in command, or the field cornet, orlanddrost? I did not know the Boers gave British refugees the free run oftheir war laagers, and I'm interested in the matter, being a scribe myselfand a man of peace. Just give me a few names and dates and facts, willyou?"

"No, I won't, " he snarled. "You seem to doubt my word, you do, and I'm asgood a Britisher as you are any day, and you think you can come along andpump information out of me for nothing; but I'm too fly for that--theydon't breed fools in Yorkshire. "

"Well, sir, as it seems to suit your temper, " I said as sweetly as I could, "I'll make it a business proposition. I'll bet you fifty pounds to five youhave never put your head inside a Boer laager in war time in your life. Ifyou have, just name it and give me a few facts. "

The B. R. Rose wrathfully and muttered something about it being a d---- goodjob for me that I was a wounded man and had one arm in a sling, or he'dshow me a heap of things in the fistic line which I should remember for therest of my life; but as I only laughed he slouched off, and now, when wemeet in the street, we pass without speaking. But I got his history, allthe same, from one of the Cape Police, who told me the beggar had refusedto join a volunteer regiment when the war broke out, and had remained thewhole time in a quiet little Boer village as a British refugee, and had notseen the outside, let alone the inside, of a Boer fighting laager in allhis lying life. Yet such cravens at times help to make history--of a kind. 

Possibly it may interest Englishmen--and women, too, for that matter--toknow what a fighting laager is like, and as I have seen half a dozen ofthem from the enemies' side of the wall, a rough pen and ink sketch may notbe amiss. In war time the Boer never, under any circumstances, makes hislaager in the open country if there are any kopjes about. No matter howsecure he may fancy himself from attack, no matter if there is not a foewithin fifty miles of him, the Boer commander always pitches his laager ina place of safety between two parallel lines of hills, so that no attackcan be made upon him, either front or rear, without giving him an immenseadvantage over the attacking force, even if the enemy is ten times asstrong in numbers. By this means the Boers make their laagers almostimpregnable. If they have a choice of ground, they pick a narrow ravine, orgully, with a line of hills front and rear, covered with small rockyboulders and bushes. They drive their waggons along the ravine, and make asort of rude breastwork across the gully with the waggons. In between thesewaggons the women are placed for safety, for it is a noticeable fact thatvery large numbers of women have followed their husbands and fathers to thewar, not to act as viragoes, not to play the wanton, not to unsexthemselves, not to handle the rifle, but to nurse the wounded, to comfortthe dying, and to lay out the dead. I have heard them singing round thecamp fires in the starlight, but it was hymns that they sang, not ribaldsongs. I have seen them kneeling by the side of men in the moonlight, notin wantonness, but in mercy, and many a man who wears the British uniformto-day can bear me witness that I speak the truth. 

The Boer never, if he can help it, allows himself to be separated from hishorse; and these hardy little animals, mostly about fifteen hands high, andvery lightly framed, are picketed close to the spot where the riderdeposits his rifle and blankets. If they allow them to graze on thehillsides during the day, they run a rope through the halter near thehorse's muzzle, and tie it close above the knee-joint of the near fore-leg. By this means the horse can graze in comfort, but cannot move away at anypace beyond a slow walk, and so are easily caught and saddled if requiredin a hurry. The oxen and sheep to be used for slaughtering purposes aredriven up close to the camp; a waggon or two is drawn across the ravineabove and below them, and they cannot then stampede if frightened byanything, unless they climb the rocky heights on either side of them, whichthey have small chance of doing, as the Kaffir herdsmen sleep on the hillsabove them. Having pitched his laager, the commander sends out his scouts;some amble off on horseback at a pace they call a "tripple"--a gait whichall the Boers educate their nags to adopt. It is not exactly an amble, buta cousin to it, marvellously easy to the rider, whilst it enables the nagto get over a wonderful lot of ground without knocking up. It also allowsthe horse to pick his way amongst rocky ground, and so save his legs, wherean English, Indian, or Australian horse would be apt to cripple himself invery short order. As soon as the mounted scouts set off on their journey, holding the reins carelessly in the left hand, their handy little Mauserrifles in their right, swaying carelessly in the saddle after the fashionof all bush-riders the world over, the foot scouts take up their positionsamongst the rocks and shrubs on the hills in front and rear of the laager. Each scout has his rifle in his hand, his pipe in his teeth, his bandolierfull of cartridges over his shoulder, and his scanty blanket under his leftarm. No fear of his sleeping at his post. He is fighting for honour, notfor pay; for home, not for glory; and he knows that on his acuteness thelives of all may depend. He knows that his comrades and the women trusthim, and he values the trust as dearly as British soldier ever did. Nomatter how tired he may be, no matter how famished, the Boer sentinel isnever faithless to his orders. 

When the scouts are out the laager is fixed for the night--not a veryexhaustive proceeding, as the Boers do not go in for luxuries of any kind. Here a tarpaulin is stretched over a kind of temporary ridge pole, blanketsare tossed down on the hard earth, saddles are used for pillows, and thecouch is complete. A little way farther down the line a rude canvas screenis thrown over the wheels of a waggon, and a family, or rather husband andwife, make themselves at home under the waggon; whilst the single mensimply throw themselves at full length on the ground, wrap their one thin, small blanket round them, and smoke and jest merrily enough, whilst theKaffirs light the fires and make the coffee. There is scarcely any timberin this part of Africa, and the fuel used is the dried manure of cattlepressed into slabs about fifteen inches long, eight inches wide, and threeinches thick. The smoke from the fires is very dense, and soon fills theair with a pungent odour, which is not unpleasant in the open, but would besimply intolerable in a building. The coffee is soon made, and the simplemeal begins; it consists of "rusks, " a kind of bread baked until it becomescrisp and hard, and plenty of steaming hot coffee. I never saw any peopleso fond of this beverage as the Boers are. The Australian bushman anddigger loves tea, and can almost exist upon it; but these Boers cling tocoffee. They live, when out in laager, like Spartans, they dress anyhow, sleep anyhow, and eat just rusks and precious little else. Talk about"Tommy" and his hard times, why a private soldier at the front sleepsbetter, dresses better, and eats better than a Boer general; yet never oncedid I hear a Boer complain of hardships. After tea the Boers sit about andclean their rifles; the women move from one little group to another, chatting cheerfully, but I saw nothing in their conduct, or in the conductof any man towards one of them, that would cause the most chaste matron inGreat Britain to blush or droop her eyes. There is in the laager an utterabsence of what we term soldierly discipline; men moved about, went andcame in a free and easy fashion, just as I have seen them do a thousandtimes in diggers' camps. There was no saluting of officers, no stiffness, no starch anywhere. The general lounges about with hands in pockets andpipe in mouth; no one pays him any special deference. He talks to the men, the striplings, and the women, and they talk back to him in a manner whichseems strange to a Britisher familiar to the ways of military camps. Afterthe chatting, the pridikant, or parson, if there is one in the laager, raises his hands, and all listen with reverent faces whilst the man of Godutters a few words in a solemn, earnest tone; then all kneel, and a prayerfloats up towards the skies, and a few moments later the whole camp iswrapped in sleep, nothing is heard but the neighing of horses, the lowingof cattle, the bleating of sheep, and the occasional barking of a dog. There is no clatter of arms, no ringing of bugles, no deep-toned challengeof sentries, no footfall of changing pickets. 

At regular intervals men rise silently from the ranks of the sleepers, pickup their rifles noiselessly, and silently, like ghosts, slip out into thedeep shadows of the kopjes, and other men, equally silent, glide in fromposts they have been guarding, and stretch themselves out to snatch slumberwhilst they may. At dawn the men toss their blankets aside, and spring upready dressed, and move amongst their horses; the Kaffirs attend to themorning meal, the everlasting rusks and coffee are served up, horses aresaddled, cattle are yoked to waggons, and in the twinkling of an eye thecamp is broken up, and the irregular army is on the march again, withscouts guarding every pass in front, scouts watching (themselves unseen) onevery height. They travel fast, because they travel light; they use verylittle water, because they find it impossible to move it from place toplace. Many critics charge them with habits of personal uncleanliness. Itis true that in their laagers one does not see as much soap and water usedas in our camps, but this is possibly due to want of opportunity as much asto want of inclination. In sanitary matters they are neglectful. I did notsee a single latrine in any of their laagers, nor do I think they are inthe habit of making them, and to this cause and to no other I attribute thelarge amount of fever in their ranks. They do not seem to understand thefirst principles of the laws of sanitation, and had this season been a wet, instead of a peculiarly dry one, I venture to assert that typhoid feverwould have wrought far more havoc amongst them than our rifles. 

I saw no literature in laager except Bibles. I witnessed no sports of anykind, and the only sport I heard them talk about was horse-racing. I saw nogambling, heard no blasphemy, noticed no quarrelling or bickering, and canonly say, from my slight acquaintance with life in Boer laager in war time, that it may be rough, it may be irksome, it may not be so fastidiouslyclean as a feather-bed soldier might like it, but I have been in manytougher, rougher places, and never heard anyone cry about it. 

 THROUGH BOER GLASSES. 

 BURGHERSDORP. 

I had a good many opportunities of chatting with Boers during the timewhich elapsed between my capture and liberation, and had a long talk withthe President of the Orange Free State, Mr. Steyn; also with several of hisministerial colleagues. Their ministers of religion, whom they callpridikants, also chatted to me freely, as occasion offered. I had more thanone interview with their fighting generals. Medical men in their service Ifound very much akin to medical men the world over. They patched up thewounded and asked no questions concerning nationality, just as our ownmedicos do. Personally, I must say that I found the Boers first-classsubjects for Press interviews. They did not know much about journalists andthe ways of journalism. Possibly had they had more experience in regard to"interviews, " I should not have found them quite so easy to manage, but itnever seemed to enter their heads that a man might make good "copy" out ofa quiet chat over pipes and tobacco. One of their stock subjects ofconversation was their great General, the man of Magersfontein--GeneralCronje. 

"What do you Britishers and Australians think of Cronje?" was a stockquestion with them. "Do you think him a good fighter?"

"Well, yes, unquestionably he is a good fighting man. "

"Do you think him as good as Lord Roberts?"

"No. We men of British blood don't think there are many men on earth asgood as the hero of Candahar. "

"Do you think him as good a man as Lord Kitchener?"

"No. Very many of us consider the conqueror of the Soudan to be one who, ifhe lives, will make as great a mark in history as Wellington. "

At this a joyous smile would illuminate the face of the Boer. He wouldreply, "Yes, yes; Roberts is a great man, a very great man indeed. So isKitchener, so is General French, so is General Macdonald, so is GeneralMethuen. Yet all those five men are attempting to get Cronje into a cornerwhere they can capture him. They have ten times as many soldiers as Cronjehas, ten times as many guns; therefore, what a really great man Cronje mustbe on your own showing. "

That was before the fatal 27th of February on which Cronje surrendered. 

I often asked them how they, representing a couple of small States, came toget hold of the idea that they could whip a colossal Power like GreatBritain in a life or death struggle; and almost invariably they informed methat they had expected that one of the great European Powers would take anactive part in the struggle on their behalf, and, furthermore, they hadbeen taught to think that Britain's Empire was rotten to the core, so muchso that as soon as war commenced in earnest all her colonies would fallaway from her and hoist the flag of independence, and that India would leaponce again into open and bloody mutiny. They expressed themselves as beingdumbfounded when they heard that Australian troops were rallying under theUnion Jack, and seemed to feel most bitterly that the men from the land ofthe Southern Cross were in arms against them. "We fell out with England, and we thought we had to fight England. Instead we find we have to fightpeople from all parts of the world, Colonials like ourselves. SurelyAustralia and Canada might have kept out of this fight, and allowed us tobattle it out with the country we had a quarrel with. "

"The Canadians and Australians are of British blood. "

"Well, what if they are? Ain't plenty of the Cape Volunteers who arefighting under President Kruger's banner born of Dutch parents? Yet, because they fight against Englishmen, you call them all rebels, and talkof punishing them when the war is over, if you win, just because they livedon your side of the border and not on ours. Would you ask one Boer to fightagainst another Boer simply because he lived on one side of a river and hisblood relation lived on the other? You Britishers brag of your pride ofblood, and draw your fighting stock from all parts of the world in wartime, but you have no generosity; you won't allow other people to be proudof their blood too. "

I tried to persuade them that I did not for one moment think that Britainwould be vindictive towards so-called rebels in the hour of victory, andpointed out that, in my small opinion, such a course would be foreign tothe traditions of the Motherland; and was often met with the retort that ifEngland did so the shame would be hers, not theirs. Many a time I was toldto remember the Jameson raid and the manner in which the Boers treated notonly the leaders of that band of adventurers, but the men also. "Lookhere, " said one old fighting man to me, as he leant with negligent grace onhis rifle, "I was one of those who helped to corner Jameson and his men, and I can tell you that we Boers knew very well that we would have beenacting within our rights if we had shot Jameson and every man he had withhim, because his was not an act of war--it was an act of piracy; and had wedone so, and England had attempted to avenge the deed, half the civilisedworld would have ranged themselves on our side; but we did not seek thosemen's blood; we gave them quarter as soon as they asked for it, and afterthat, though we knew very well they had done all that men could do toinvolve us in a war of extermination with a great nation, we sent theirleader home to his own country to be tried by his own countrymen, and therank and file we forgave freely. We may be a nation of white savages, butour past does not prove it, and if Britain wins in the war now going on shewill have to be very generous indeed before we will need to blush for ourconduct. "

"Why should not the white population of South Africa be ready to live underthe protection of Britain? The yoke cannot be so heavy when men of allcreeds, colours, and nationalities who have lived under that rule for yearsare now ready to volunteer to fight for her, even against you, who haveadmittedly done them no direct wrong?"

"Why should we live under any flag but our own?" replied the old fightingman passionately. "We came here and found the country a wilderness in thehands of savages; we fought our way into the land step by step, holding ourown with our rifles; we had to live lives of fearful hardships, facing wildbeasts and wilder men; we won with the strong hand the land we live in. Whyshould we bow our necks to Britain's yoke, even if it be a yoke of silk?"And as he spoke a murmur of deep and earnest sympathy ran through the ranksof the Boers who were standing around him. 

"You, of course, blame all the Colonials, Australians and others, forcoming to fight against you?" I asked. "I don't know that I do, or that mypeople do, in a sense, " the veteran replied. "It all depends upon thespirit which animated them. If your Australians, who are of British blood, came here to fight for your Motherland, believing that her cause was a justand a holy one, and that she needed your aid, you did right, for a son willhelp his mother, if he be a son worth having; but if the Australians camehere merely for the sake of adventure, merely for sport, as men come intime of peace to shoot buck on the veldt, then woe to that land, for thoughGod may make no sign to-day nor to-morrow, yet, in His own time, He willsurely wring from Australia a full recompense in sweat and blood and tears;for whether we be right or wrong, our God knows that we are giving ourlives freely for what we in our hearts believe to be a holy cause. "

"What do you fellows think of Australians as fighters?"

I asked the question carelessly, but the answer that I got brought me to mybearings quickly, for then I learnt that more than one gallant Australianofficer dear to me had fallen, never to rise again, since I had been takenprisoner. The man who spoke was little more than a lad, a pale-faced, slenderly built son of the veldt. He had tangled curly hair, and big, pathetic blue eyes, soft as a girl's, and limbs that lacked the ruggedstrength of the old Boer stock; but there was that nameless "something, "that indefinable expression in his face which warranted him a brave man. Hecarried one arm in a sling, and the bandage round his neck hid a bulletwound. "The Australians can fight, " he said simply. "They wounded me, and--they killed my father. " Perhaps it was the wind sighing through thehospital trees that made the Boer lad's voice grow strangely husky;possibly the same cause filled the blue eyes with unshed tears. 

"It was in fair fight, lad, " I said gently; "it was the fortune of war. "

"Yes, " he murmured, "it was in fair fight, an awful fight--I hope I'llnever look upon another like it. Damn the fighting, " he broke out fiercely. "Damn the fighting. I didn't hate your Australians. I didn't want to killany of them. My father had no ill-will to them, nor they to him, yet he isout there--out there between two great kopjes--where the wind always blowscold and dreary at night-time. " The laddie shuddered. "It makes a man doubtthe love of the Christ, " he said. "My father was a good man, a kind man, who never turned the stranger empty-handed from his door, even the Kaffirson the farm loved him; and now he is lying where no one can weep over hisgrave. We piled great rocks on his grave. My cousin and I buried him. Wehad no shovels; we scooped a hole in the hard earth as well as we could, along, shallow hole, and we laid him in it. I took his head and CousinGustave carried his feet. We folded his hands on his breast, laid his oldrifle by his side, because he had always loved that gun, and never used anyother when out hunting. Then we pushed the earth in on him gently with ourhands, breaking the hard lumps up and crumbling them in our palms, so thatthey should not bruise his poor flesh. He had always been so kind, we couldnot hurt him, even though we knew he was dead, for he had been gentle toall of us in life; even the cows and the oxen at home loved him--and nowwho will go back and tell mother and little Yacoba that he is dead, that hewill come to them no more? Oh, damn the war, " the lad called again in hispain. "I don't know--only God knows--which side is right or wrong, but I doknow that the curse of the Christ will rest on the heads of those who havemade this war for ambition's sake or the greed of gold, and the good Godwill not let the widow and the orphan child go unavenged; blood will yetspeak for blood, and it must rest either on the heads of Kruger and Steyn, or Chamberlain and Rhodes. "

"Tell me, comrade, of the Australians who fell. They were my countrymen. "

"It was a cruel fight, " he said. "We had ambushed a lot of the Britishtroops--the Worcesters, I think, they called them. They could neitheradvance nor retire; we had penned them in like sheep, and our field cornet, Van Leyden, was beseeching them to throw down their rifles to save beingslaughtered, for they had no chance. Just then we saw about a hundredAustralians come bounding over the rocks in the gully behind us. There weretwo great big men in front cheering them on. We turned and gave them avolley, but it did not stop them. They rushed over everything, firing asthey came, not wildly, but as men who know the use of a rifle, with thequick, sharp, upward jerk to the shoulder, the rapid sight, and then theshot. They knocked over a lot of our men, but we had a splendid position. They had to expose themselves to get to us, and we shot them as they cameat us. They were rushing to the rescue of the English. It was splendid, butit was madness. On they came, and we lay behind the boulders, and ourrifles snapped and snapped again at pistol range, but we did not stop thosewild men until they charged right into a little basin which was fringedaround all its edges by rocks covered with bushes. Our men lay there asthick as locusts, and the Australians were fairly trapped. They were farworse off than the Worcesters, up high in the ravine. 

"Our field cornet gave the order to cease firing, and called on them tothrow down their rifles or die. Then one of the big officers--a, great, rough-looking man, with a voice like a bull--roared out, 'ForwardAustralia!--no surrender!' Those were the last words he ever uttered, for aman on my right put a bullet clean between his eyes, and he fell forwarddead. We found later that his name was Major Eddy, of the Victorian Rifles. He was as brave as a lion, but a Mauser bullet will stop the bravest. Hismen dashed at the rocks like wolves; it was awful to see them. They smashedat our heads with clubbed rifles, or thrust their rifles up against usthrough the rocks and fired. One after another their leaders fell. Thesecond big man went down early, but he was not killed. He was shot throughthe groin, but not dangerously. His name was Captain McInnerny. There wasanother one, a little man named Lieutenant Roberts; he was shot through theheart. Some of the others I forget. The men would not throw down theirrifles; they fought like furies. One man I saw climb right on to the rockyledge where Big Jan Albrecht was stationed. Just as he got there a bullettook him, and he staggered and dropped his rifle. Big Jan jumped forward tocatch him before he toppled over the ledge, but the Australian struck Janin the mouth with his clenched fist, and fell over into the ravine belowand was killed. 

"We killed and wounded an awful lot of them, but some got away; they foughttheir way out. I saw a long row of their dead and wounded laid out on theslope of a farmhouse that evening--they were all young men, fine bigfellows. I could have cried to look at them lying so cold and still. Theyhad been so brave in the morning, so strong; but in the evening, a fewlittle hours, they were dead, and we had not hated them, nor they us. Yes, I could have cried as I thought of the women who would wait for them inAustralia. Yes, I could have shed tears, though they had wounded me, butthen I thought of my father, and of the mother, and little Yacoba on thefarm, who would wait in vain for _him_, and then I could feel sorryfor those, the wives and children of the dead men, no longer. "

 LIFE IN THE BOER CAMPS. 

 HEADQUARTERS, ORANGE RIVER COLONY. 

It is an article of faith with many people that a Boer commando is a meremob, that its leaders exercise no control over men in laager or on thefield, and that punishment for crimes is a thing unknown. But this is farfrom being the case. It is quite true that a Boer soldier does not know howto click his heels together, turn his toes to an acute angle, stiffen hisback, and salute every time an officer runs against him. He could notproperly perform any of the very simplest military evolutions common to allEuropean soldiers if his immortal welfare depended upon it. That is why heis such a failure as an attacking agent. Still, in spite of these things, the Boer on commando has to submit to very rigid laws. The penalty foroutrage, or attempted outrage, on a woman is instant death on conviction, no matter what the woman's nationality may be. For sleeping on sentry dutythe punishment is unique; it is a punishment born of long dwelling in thewilderness. It is of such a nature that no man who has once undergone it iscalculated ever to forget. When a clear case is made out against a burgherby trial before his commandant the whole commando in laager is summoned towitness the criminal's reward. He is taken out beyond the lines to a spotwhere the sun shines in all its unprotected fierceness. He is led to anant-hill full of busy, wicked, little crawlers; the top of the ant-hill iscut off with a spade, leaving a honeycombed surface for the sleepy one tostand upon (not much fear of him sleeping whilst he is there). He isordered to mount the hill and stand with feet close together. His rifle isplaced in his hands, the butt resting between his toes, the muzzle claspedin both hands. Two men are then told off to watch him. They are picked men, noted for their stern, unyielding sense of duty and love for the cause theyfight for. 

These guards lie down in the veldt twenty-five yards away from the victim. They have their loaded Mausers with them, and their orders are, if theprisoner lifts a leg, to put a bullet into it; if he lifts an arm, a bulletgoes into that defaulting member; if he jumps down from his perchaltogether, the leaden messengers sent from both rifles will cancel all hisearthly obligations. The sun shines down in savage mockery; it strikes uponthe bare neck of the quivering wretch, who dare not lift a hand to shifthis hat to cover the blistering skin. It strikes in his eyes and burns hislips until they swell and feel like bursting. The barrel of his rifle growshotter and hotter, until his fingers feel as if glued to a gridiron. Thevery clothes upon his body burn the skin beneath. He feels desperate; hemust shift one arm, for the anguish is intolerable. He makes an almostimperceptible movement of his shoulder, and glances towards his guards. Theman on his right front lays his pipe quickly in the grass, and swiftlylifts his Mauser to his shoulder. The wretch on the ant-heap closes hiseyes with a groan, and stands as still as a Japanese god carved out ofjute-wood. The guard lays down his rifle and picks up his pipe. 

The sun climbs higher and higher, until it gleams down straight into theant-heap; the scorching heat penetrates into the unprotected cells, andenrages the dwellers inside. They swarm out full of fight, like an armylusting for battle. Their home has been ravished of the protection they hadraised with half a lifetime of labour, and in their puny way they wantvengeance. They find a foe on top, a man ready to their wrath. They crawlinto his scorched boots, over his baked feet, guiltless of stockings; theycharge up the legs, on which the trousers hang loosely, and as they chargethey bite, because they are out for business, not for a picnic. The verystillness of their victim seems to enrage them. The first legion retires atfull speed down into the ant-heap again. They have gone for recruits. In afew seconds up they come again, until the very top of the heap is alivewith them. They climb one over another in their eagerness to get in theirindividual moiety of revenge. Down into the veldtschoon, up the bare, hairylegs, over the hips, round the waist, over the lean ribs, along the spine, under the arms, round the neck, over the whole man they go, as theMongolian hordes will some day go over the Western world. And each one digshis tiny prongs into the smarting, burning, itching poor devil on top oftheir homestead. He shifts a leg the hundredth part of an inch. The guardon the left gives his bandolier a warning twist, and glances along the longbrown barrel that nestles in the hollow of his left hand. 

The commandant comes out of the circle of burghers, looks at the victim, sees that the eyes are bloodshot and protruding far beyond the normalposition. He is not a hard man, but he knows that the culprit hasendangered the lives and liberties of all. "You will remember this, " hesays sternly; "you will not again sleep when it is your turn to watch. ""Never, so help me God!" gasps the prisoner. "Stand down, then; you arefree. " Quicker than a swallow's flight is the movement of the liberatedman. He drops his rifle with a gasp of relief, tears every stitch ofclothing from his body, throws the garments from him, and pelts hisveldtschoon after them. Some sympathetic veteran, who has possibly, inearlier wars, been through the ordeal himself, runs up with a drink ofblessed water. He does not drink it; he pours it down his burning throat, then sits on the grass, drawing his breath in long, sobbing sighs, all themore terrible because they are tearless. From head to heel he is coveredwith tiny red marks, just like a schoolboy who has had the measles; inthree days there will not be a mark on him, but he won't forget them, allthe same, not in thirty-three years, or three hundred and thirty-three, ifhe happens to have a memory of any kind at that period. 

This mode of punishing recalcitrant persons was picked up, I am told, fromone of the savage tribes. I do not know if this is so or not, but there isno doubt that the niggers know all about it, because one day, when I foundthat one of my niggers had been helping himself lavishly to my tobacco, Ipromised to stand him on an ant-heap as soon as I had finished shaving. Five minutes later my other nigger, Lazarus, came into my tent and informedme that Johnnie had bolted. I went out, and by the aid of my glasses Icould just espy a black dot away out on the veldt, making a rapid anddirect line for the land of the Basutos; and that was the last I ever sawor heard of tobacco-loving, work-dodging, truth-twisting Johnnie. 

There is a distinctly humorous side to the Boer character, which crops outsometimes in his methods of dealing out justice to those who have done thething that seems evil in his sight. If there is a fellow in laager who isnot amenable to orders, one of those malcontents who desires to haveeverything his own way--and there generally is one of these cherubs inevery large gathering of men all the world over--the commandant first callshim up and warns him that he is making himself a pest to the wholecommando, and exhorts him to mend his manners. As a general thing thecommandant throws a few slabs of Scripture appropriate to the occasion atthe disturber's ears, and mixes it judiciously with a good deal of worldlywisdom, all of which tending to teach the fellow that he is about asdesirable as a comrade as a sore eye in a sand-storm. Should theexhortation not have the desired effect, and the offender continue to stirup strife in laager, as a lame mule stirs up mud in midstream, then thecommandant sends a guard of young men to gather in the unruly one. He iscaptured with as little ceremony as a nigger captures a hog in the midst ofhis mealy patch. They strip him bare to the waist, and put a bridle on hishead; the bit is jammed into his mouth, and firmly buckled there, and thenthe circus begins. One of the guards takes the reins, usually a couple oflong lengths of raw hide; another flicks the human steed on the bare ribswith a sjambok, and he is ordered to show his paces. He has to walk, trot, canter, gallop, and "tripple" all around the laager several times, amidstthe badinage and laughter of the burghers, and he gets enough "chaff"during the journey to last the biggest horse in England a lifetime. 

It is bad enough when there are only men there, but when there are, as isoften the case, a dozen or two of women and girls present his woe is servedup to him full measure and brimming over. The men roar with laughter, andpelt him with crusts of rusks, but the women and girls make his life anagony for the time being. They smile at him sweetly, and ask him if hefeels lonely without a cart, or they pull up a handful of grass and offerit to him on the end of a stick, making a lot of "stage aside" remarksconcerning the length of his ears the while, until the fellow's facecrimsons with shame. 

They are wonderfully patriotic, these Boer girls and women, and aremerciless in their contempt for a man who will not do his share offighting, marching, and watching cheerfully and uncomplainingly. Thehardships and privations they themselves undergo without murmuring, inorder to assist their husbands, brothers, and lovers, is worthy of beingchronicled in the pages of history, for they are the Spartans of thenineteenth century. They are swift to help those who need help, butunsparing with their scorn for those who are unworthy. The treatment metedout to the grumbler and mischief-maker usually presents more of theelements of comedy than anything else, and it is his own fault if he doesnot get off lightly. But if he cuts up rough, tries to strike or kick hisdrivers or tormentors, or if he goes in for a course of sulks, and flopshimself down, refusing to be driven, then the comic element disappears fromthe scene. Out come the sjamboks, and he is treated precisely as a viciousor sulky horse would be treated under similar circumstances. As a rule, itdoes not take long to bring a man of that kind to his proper senses. Shouldhe talk of deserting or of avenging himself later on, he is watched, and adeserter soon learns that a rifle bullet can travel faster than he can. Asfor revenge, the sooner he forgets desires or designs of that kind thebetter for his own health. 

For minor offences, such as laziness, neglecting to keep the rifle cleanand in good shooting order, attempting to strike up a flirtation with amarried woman, to the annoyance of the lady, or any other little matter ofthe kind, the wayward one is "tossed. " Tossing is not the sort of pastimeany fellow would choose for fun, not if he were the party to be tossed, though it is a beanfeast for the onlookers. They manage it this way. Ahide, freshly stripped from a bullock, smoking, bloody, and limber as abowstring, is requisitioned; the hairy side is turned downwards, two strongmen get hold of each corner, cutting holes in the green hide for theirhands to have a good grip; they allow the hide to sag until it forms a sortof cradle, into which the unlucky one is dumped neck and crop. Then thesignal is given, the hide sways to and fro for a few seconds, and then, with a skilful jerk, it is drawn as taut as eight pairs of strong arms candraw it. If the executioners are skilful at the business the victim shootsupwards from the blood-smeared surface like a dude's hat in a gale of wind. Sometimes he comes down on his feet, sometimes on his head, or he maysprawl face downwards, clutching at the slimy surface as eagerly as apolitician clutches at a place in power. But his efforts are vain; a couplemore swings and another jerk, and up he goes, turning and twisting like asoiled shirt on a wire fence. This time he comes down on his hands andknees, and promptly commences to plead for pity, but before he can open hisheart a neat little jerk sends him out on his back, where he claws andkicks like a jackal in a gin case, whilst the more ribald amongst theonlookers sing songs appropriate to the occasion, but the more devout chantsome such hymn as this:

 Lord, let me linger here, For this is bliss. 

A man is very seldom hurt at this game, though how he escapes without abroken neck is one of the wonders of gravitation to me. One second you seethe poor beggar in mid air, going like a circular saw through soft pine. Just when you are beginning to wonder if he has converted himself into acatherine-wheel or a corkscrew, he straightens himself out horizontally, remains poised for the millionth part of a second like a he-angel that hasmoulted his wings; then down he dives perpendicularly like a tornado introusers, skinning forehead, nose, and chin as he kisses the drum-likesurface of the hide. No, on the whole, I do not consider it healthy to tryto fool with a married woman in a Boer fighting laager, apart altogetherfrom the moral aspect of the affair. If some of the amorous dandies I wotof, who claim kindred with us, got the same sort of treatment in OldEngland, many a merry matron would be saved much annoyance. 

For rank disobedience of orders, brutality of conduct, cowardice in theface of the enemy, flagrant neglect of the wounded, or any other veryserious military crime, the punishment is sjamboking, which is simplyflogging, as it existed in our Army and Navy not so many years ago. Onboard ship they used to use the "cat, " a genteel instrument with a handleattached. The Boer sjambok is a different article altogether; it has notnine tails, but it gets there just the same. The sjambok dear to the Boersoul is that made out of rhinoceros hide. It is a plain piece of hide, nottwisted in any way; just clean cut out and trimmed round all the way down. It is about three feet long, and at the end which the flogger holds it isabout two and a half inches in circumference, tapering down gradually to arat-tail point. It is a terrible weapon when the person who wields it isbent on business, and is not manufacturing poetry or mingling thoughts ofhome and mother with the flogging. Truth to tell, I don't think they domuch flogging--not half as much as they are credited with--but when they doflog, the party who gets it wants a soft shirt for a month after, and it'squite a while before he will lie on his back for the mere pleasure ofseeing the moon rise. 

 BATTLE OF CONSTANTIA FARM. 

 THABA NCHU. 

The Battle of Constantia Farm will not rank as one of the big events ofthis war, but it is worthy of a full description, because in this battlethe Briton for the first time laid himself out from start to finish tofight the Boer pretty much on his own lines, instead of followingtime-honoured British rules of war. Before attempting to portray the actualfighting, I think a brief sketch of our movements from the time we left therailway line to cross the country will be of interest to those readers of_The Daily News_ who desire to follow the progress of the war with duecare. 

The Third Division, which had been at Stormberg, and had done suchexcellent, though almost bloodless, work by sweeping the country betweenthe last-named place and Bethany, rested at the latter place, and built upits full strength by incorporating a large number of men and guns. GeneralGatacre, who had retrieved his reverse at Stormberg by forcing CommandantOlivier to vacate his almost impregnable position without striking a blow, and later by his masterly move in swooping down on Bethulie Bridge andpreventing the Boers from wrecking the line of communication between LordRoberts and his supplies from Capetown, only remained long enough with hisold command to see them equipped in a manner fit to take the field, andthen retired in favour of General Chermside. It was under this officer thatwe marched away from the railway line across country known to be hostile tous. Almost due east we moved to Reddersburg, about twelve and a half miles. We had to move slowly and cautiously, because no living man can tell when, where, or how a Boer force will attack. They follow rules of their own, andlaugh at all accepted theories of war, ancient or modern, and no generalcan afford to hold them cheap. A day and a half was spent at Reddersburg, and then the Third Division continued its eastward course in wretchedweather, until Rosendal was arrived at. This is the spot where the RoyalIrish Rifles and Northumberland Fusiliers had to surrender to the Boers. Wehad to camp there for the best part of three days on account of thecontinuous downpour of rain, which rendered the veldt tracks impassable forour transport. To push onward meant the absolute destruction of mules andoxen, and the consequent loss of food supplies, without which we werehelpless, for in that country every man's hand was against us, not only inregard to actual warfare, but in regard to forage for man and beast. 

Here we were joined by General Rundle with the Eighth Division, whichbrought our force up to about thirteen thousand men, thirty big guns, and anumber of Maxims. When the weather cleared slightly we moved onward slowly, the ground simply clinging to the wheels of the heavily laden waggons, until it seemed as if the very earth, as well as all that was on top of it, was opposed to our march. Our scouts constantly saw the enemy hovering onour front and flanks, and more than once exchanged shots with them. GeneralRundle, who was in supreme command, thus knew that he could not hope tosurprise the wily foe, for it was evident to the merest tyro that the Boerleader was keeping a sharp eye upon our movements, and would not be takenat a disadvantage. We expected to measure the enemy's fighting force at anyhour, but it was not until about half-past ten on the morning of Friday, the 20th of April, that we were certain that he meant to measure his armswith ours, though early on that morning our scouts had brought in news thata commando, believed to be about two thousand five hundred strong, withhalf a dozen guns, commanded by General De Wet, was strongly posted righton our line of march. Slowly we crept across the open veldt, our menstretching from east to west for fully six miles. There was no moving ofsolid masses of men, no solid grouping of troops; no two men marchedshoulder to shoulder, a gap showed plainly between each of the khaki-cladfigures as we moved on to the rugged, broken line of kopjes. There was nohurry, no bustle, the men behaved admirably, each individual soldierseeming to have his wits about him, and proving it by taking advantage ofevery bit of cover that came in his way. If they halted near an ant-hill, they at once put it between themselves and the enemy. 

Slowly but steadily they rolled onward, like a great sluggish, butirresistible, yellow wave, until we saw the scouts slipping from rock torock up the stony heights of the first line of hills. Breathlessly wewatched the intrepid "eyes of the army" advance until they stoodsilhouetted against the sky-line on the top of the black bulwarks of theveldt. Then we strained our ears to catch the rattle of the enemy's rifles, but we listened in vain; and we were completely staggered. What did itmean? Was it a trap? Was there some devilish craft behind that apparentpeacefulness? Trap or no trap, we had not long to wait. The long, yellowwave curled inwards from both flanks, the men going forward with quick, lithesome steps. The mounted infantry shot forward as if moved by magic, and, before the eye could scarcely grasp the details, our fellows held theheights, and men marvelled and wondered whether the Boers had bolted forgood. But they soon undeceived us, for the hills shook with thefar-reaching roar of their guns, and shells began to make melody whichdevils love; but they did no harm. Not a man was touched. Then came theshort, sharp word of command from our lines. Officers bit their wordsacross the centre, and threw them at the men. The Horse Artillery movedinto position, some going at a steady trot, others sweeping along thevalleys as if they were the children of the storm. The left flank swungforward and encircled the base of an imposing kopje. The men swarmed upwith tiger-like activity, quickly, and in broken and irregular lines; butthere was no confusion, no wretched tangle, no helpless muddle. They didnot rush madly to the top and stand on the sky-line to be a mark for theirfoes. When they almost touched the summit they paused, formed their brokenlines, and carefully and wisely topped the black brow; and as they did sothe Boer rifles spoke from a line of kopjes that lay behind the first. Thenour fellows dropped to cover, and sent an answer back that a duller foethan the Boers would not have failed to understand. The Mauser bulletssplashed on the rocks, and spat little fragments of lead in all directions;but few of them found a resting-place under those thin yellow jackets. By-and-by the shells began to follow the Mauser's spiteful pellets, but theshells were less harmful even than the little hostile messengers; for, though well directed, the shells never burst--they simply shrieked, yelled, and buried themselves. Our gunners got the ground they wanted, and soon gunspoke to gun in their deep-throated tones of defiance. The Boers were nothurting us; whether we were injuring them we could not tell. 

In the meantime our whole transport came safely inside a littlesemi-circular valley, and arranged itself with almost ludicrous precision. The nigger drivers chaffed one another as the shells made melody abovetheir heads, and made the air fairly dance with the picturesque terms ofendearment they bestowed upon their mules, between the welts they bestowedwith their long two-handed whips. When two of their leaders jibbed andrefused to budge, they howled and called them Mr. Steyn and Ole Oom Paul;but when they got down solid to their work they laughed until even theirback teeth were showing beyond the dusky horizon of their lips, and endowedthem with the names of Cecil Rhodes and Mistah Chamberlain, which may ormay not appear complimentary to the owners of those titles--anyway, themules did not seem to be offended. One thing was made manifest to me then, and confirmed later on, viz. , the nigger is a game fellow; give him alittle excitement, and he is full of "devil"--it's the doing of deeds incold blood that finds him out. After seeing the way the transport washandled, I moved along to look at the ambulance arrangements, and foundthem practically perfect. The medical staff was cool and collected, thehelpers were alert and attentive to business; the waggons, with theirconspicuous red crosses, were all well and carefully placed--though in sucha fight it was a sheer impossibility to dispose them so as to render themabsolutely immune from danger, for shells have a knack of falling whereleast expected, and when they burst he is a wise man who falls flat on hisface and leaves the rest to his Creator and the fortune of war. My nextmove was to secure a position on the top of a kopje, to try to gather someidea concerning the actual strength of the Boer position. It needed nosoldier's training to tell a man who knew the rugged Australian rangesthoroughly that the enemy had chosen his ground with consummate skill. Toget at the Boers our men had either to go down the sides of the kopjes infull view of the clever enemy, or else make their way between narrowgullies, where shells would work havoc in their packed ranks. After theyhad reached the open, level ground, they had to cross open spaces of veldtcommanded by the Boer guns and rifles, whilst the Boers themselves sattight in a row of ranges that ran from east to west, mile after mile, inalmost unbroken ruggedness. If we turned either flank, they could promptlyfall back upon another line of kopjes as strong as those they held. Awaybehind their position the grim heights of Thaba Nchu rose towards the bluesky, solemn and stately. Far away to the eastward, a little south of eastperhaps, I could see the hills that hid Wepener, distant about eighteenmiles from the Boer centre. There we knew, and the enemy knew, that theBoers held a British force pinned in. They knew, and we knew, thatCommandant Olivier, with eight or nine thousand men and a lot of guns, heldthe reins in his hands; and the men our force were engaging knew thatunless they could keep us in check Olivier would soon be the hunted insteadof the hunter. 

By-and-by the rifle fire on our left flank grew weaker and weaker--our gunswere searching the kopjes with merciless accuracy--and before sundown itdied away altogether, and we had time to collect our wounded and ascertainour losses, though we could not even guess how the Boers had fared Ourwounded amounted to eight men all told, none of them dangerously hurt; ofdead we had none, not one. When their fire slackened the enemy doubtlessexpected to see an onward dash of troops from our position, but it was notto be. General Rundle had decided to play "patience" and save his men;there was no necessity for him to rush on and force the Boer position, andhe chose the better part. Steadily our fellows were worked into position, until every bit of ground that could bear upon the foe was lined withBritish troops. Every available point, front or flank, where a gun could beplaced to harass the foe was taken advantage of; nothing was left tochance, nothing was rashly hurried. Carefully, methodically the work wasdone. There was to be no carnival of death on our side, no trusting to the"luck of the British Army, " no headlong rush into the arms of destruction, no waving line of bayonets. The Boer was to play a hand with the cards heloves to deal. He was to be shelled and sniped. If he wanted straight-outfighting, he had to come out into the open and get it. He was to have nochance to sit in safety and slaughter the British soldiers like shambleddeer, as he had so often done before. As the sun went down our menbivouacked where they stood, and nothing was heard through the long, coldnight except at intervals the grim growling of a gun, the sentinels' swift, curt challenge, or the neighing of horses as steed spoke to steed acrossthe grass-grown veldt. 

At the breaking of the dawn I was aroused from sleep by the simultaneouscrashing of several of our batteries. It was Britain's morning salutationto the Boer. I hurried up to a spot on the kopje where a regiment ofWorcesters lay amongst the broken ground, and saw that the battle was justabout to commence in deadly earnest. It was a huge, flat-topped kopje whereI located myself. The outer edges of the hill rose higher than the centre, a little rivulet ran across tiny indentations on the crown of that rampart, and there was ample space for an army to lie concealed from the eyes ofenemies. If the Boers were strongly posted, so were the British. Away pastour right flank Wepener range was plainly visible in the clear morninglight, and just behind Wepener lay the Basuto border, with its fringe ofmountains. About two thousand yards away, directly facing our centre, awhite farmhouse stood in a cluster of trees. This farmhouse gave thebattlefield its name, Constantia Farm. The enemy could be seen by the aidof glasses slipping from the kopjes down towards this farm and back againat intervals. Cattle, horses, goats, and sheep went on grazing calmly, theroaring of the guns doubtless seeming to them but as the tumult of a storm. 

Turning my eyes towards the valley behind our position, I saw that weintended to try to turn the enemy's left flank. Little squads of mountedmen, 95 in each group, swept along the valley at a gallop. They were theYeomanry and mounted infantry, and numbered about 600. A more workmanlikebody of fellows it would be hard to find anywhere. They sat their horseswith easy confidence, and looked full of fight. Some of them carried theirrifles in their hands, muzzle upwards, the butt resting on the right thigh;others had their guns slung across their shoulders. Group after group wenteastward, and the Boers knew nothing of the movement, because we were foronce employing their own tactics. I watched them out of sight, and thenturned my attention to the guns. There was very little time wasted by ourpeople. The gunners on our left flank poured in a heavy fire, the centretook up the chorus, and the guns on the right repeated it. For miles alongtheir front the Boers must have been in deadly peril. We seldom saw them. Now and again a group of roughly clad horsemen would flash into view anddisappear again as if by magic, with shells hurtling in their wake. Ourartillery could not locate their main force with any degree of certainty, nor could they place us properly. They were not idle; their guns, of whichthey had a decent number, sought for our position with dauntlessperseverance. Their shells soon began to drop amongst us, but they did noharm at all. They fell close enough to our troops in many instances, butthey were so badly made that they would not explode, or if they did theysimply fizzed, and were almost as harmless as seidlitz powders. 

The spiteful little pom-poms cracked away and kept us on the alert, untilone grew weary of the everlasting noise of cannon. At mid-day, tired of themonotony of the game, I turned my horse's head towards camp, and, incompany with three other correspondents, soon sat down to a lunch ofmealies and boiled fowl; but we were destined not to enjoy that meal, forbefore the first mouthful had left my plate there came a wailing howlthrough the air, then a strange jarring noise, and a shell plunged into theearth forty yards away from the tent. A few minutes later another visitorfrom the same direction crashed on top of one of the transport waggonswithin a stone's throw of our tent. That decided me; in a few seconds I hadscrambled up the side of a kopje, with the leg of a fowl in one hand and asoldier's biscuit in the other. The shells had not burst, but no man couldsay when one would, and I had no particular interest in regard to theinside of any shell myself. I was not the only one who made a hasty exitfrom the camp; in ten seconds the side of the kopje was alive with men. Theshells continued to fall right amongst the waggons every few minutes forover two hours; yet only one man was killed, a negro driver being thevictim, a shell dropping right against his thigh. The range of the Boer gunwas absolutely perfect, but the shells were mere rubbish. Had they been asgood as ours, half our transport would have been in ruins. The Britishgunners manoeuvred in all directions in order to locate that particularlydangerous piece of ordnance. They blazed at it in batteries; they tried tofind it by means of cross-firing; they lined men up on the sky-line ofkopjes to draw the fire; they limbered up and galloped far out on theveldt, until the enemy's rifle fire drove them in again; but all in vain. The Boer leader had placed his gun with such skill that the British couldnot locate it, and it kept up its devilish jubilee until the night set in. 

That day our scouts captured one Free State flag from the enemy; theYeomanry and mounted infantry did not succeed in their efforts to turn theBoers' left flank, but they checked the enemy from advancing in thatdirection, which was an important item in the day's work. We did not wantthe Boer left to overlap our right; had they done so they could then getbehind us and harass our convoys coming from the direction of Bethanyrailway station. We had very little dread of them turning our left flank, because we knew that General French was moving towards us on that side fromBloemfontein, with the object of getting the Boers on the inside of twoforces, and so giving them no chance of escape. We had only a few menwounded, one petty officer of the Scouts killed, and a negro driver killed, which was simply marvellous when one considers the terrible amount ofammunition used during the day. That night all the correspondents had tosleep, or try to sleep, with the transport. It was a wretched night; weknew the Boers had the range, and we fully expected to get a hot shellingbetween darkness and dawn, but, curiously enough, the foe kept their gunsstill all the night But the suspense made the night a weary one. 

The following day was Sunday, and at a very early hour our scouts informedus that the Boers had made a wide detour towards Wepener, and hadoverlapped our right flank. They slipped up into a kopje, which would haveenabled them to enfilade our position in a most masterly manner; but beforethey could get their guns there our artillery was at them, and the kopjewas literally ploughed up with shells. It was too warm a corner for any manon earth to attempt to hold, and they soon took their departure, fallingback in good order, and leaving no dead or wounded behind them. TheYeomanry had advanced on the kopje, under the protection of the shellfiring, and when close to the position they fixed bayonets and dashed upthe hill; but when they topped it they found that the Boers had retired. Itwas a quick bit of work, neatly and expeditiously done. Had the Boers heldthe hill long enough to get their guns in position they would have playedhavoc with us, for they could then have swept our whole line. From morninguntil night-fall we kept at them with our big guns; whenever a cloud ofdust arose from behind a range of kopjes we dropped shells in the middle ofit; wherever a cluster of Boers showed themselves for a second a shellsought them out. No matter how well they were placed, they must have had alively time of it. During the Sabbath they scarcely used their guns at all, but they opened on our troops with rifle fire as soon as they made aforward move at any part of the line, showing clearly that they werewatching as well as praying. The day closed without incident of anyparticular character; we had a few wounded, but no deaths, and could formno idea how the Boers were faring. Now and again during the night one oranother of our guns would bark like sullen watchdogs on the chain, but theBoer guns were still. 

Monday morning broke crisp and clear, and once more the big-gun duel began, only on this occasion the Boers made great use of a pom-pom gun Thisspiteful little demon tossed its diminutive shells into camp with painfulfreeness. They knocked three of the Worcesters over early in the day, killing two and badly damaging the other. As on all other occasions in thispeculiar engagement, the Boer gunnery was simply superb; but their shellswere worthless. Shells grew so common that the "Tommies" scarcely duckedwhen they heard the report of a gun they knew was trying to reach them, butsmoked their pipes and made irreverent remarks concerning things made inGermany. About midday a party of Boers, who had somehow dodged round to ourrear, made a dashing attempt to raid some cattle that were grazing closeunder our eyes; but they had to vanish in a hurry, and were particularlylucky in being able to escape with their lives, for a party of scoutsdarted out after them at full gallop on one side, whilst another party ofmounted infantry rode as hard as hoofs could carry them on the other sideof the bold raiders. They unslung their rifles as they dashed across theveldt, and the Boers soon knew that the fellows behind them were as much athome as they were themselves at that kind of business. 

Late on Monday evening the Boers located a little to the left of our centremoved forward a bit. Though with infinite caution, and commenced snipingwith the rifle. It was an evidence that they were growing weary of ourtactics, and would greatly have liked us to attempt to rush their positionwith the bayonet, so that they could have mowed our fellows down inhundreds. But this General Rundle wisely declined to do; it was victory, not glory, he was seeking, and he was wise enough to know that a victorycan be bought at far too high a price in country of this kind against a foelike the wily Boer. On Sunday night our strength was augmented by thearrival of three regiments of the Guards, and on Monday night we, knew fora certainty that General French was close at hand. The Boer was between twofires, and he would need all his "slimness" to pull him out of trouble. During a greater part of the night our guns continued to rob sleep of itssweetness, and the enemy's pom-pom mingled with our dreams. On Tuesdaymorning news came to us that Wepener had been relieved by Brabant and Hart, and that the Boers who had invested that place were drawing off in ourdirection, so that our right flank needed strengthening. The Boersdisplayed no sign of quitting their position, though they must have knownthat Brabant and Hart would be on their track from the south-east, andGeneral French from the north-west. They held their ground with a grimstubbornness against overwhelming odds of men and guns, and dropped shellsamongst us in a way that made one feel that no spot could be labelled"absolutely safe. "

At about 7 p. M. We sent a force out south, consisting of about 4, 000 men, under General Boyes. Amongst that force were the West Kents, Staffords, Worcesters, Manchesters, all infantry. The Imperial Yeomanry and mountedinfantry also accompanied the expedition. But there was little for them todo except hold the enemy in check, which they did. There were somephenomenally close shaves during the day. On one occasion the enemy got therange of one of our guns with their pom-pom, and the way they dropped thedevilish little one-pound shells amongst those gunners was a sight to makea man's blood run chill. The little iron imps fell between the men, grazedthe wheels, the carriage, and the truck of the gun; but

 He, watching over Israel, slumbers not nor sleeps. 

Nothing short of angel-wings could have kept our fellows safe. The men knewtheir deadly peril, knew that the tip of the wand in the Death Angel's handwas brushing their cheeks. One could see that they knew their peril. Thehard, firm grip of the jaw, the steady light in the hard-set eyes, themanly pallor on the cheeks, all told of knowledge; yet not once did theylose their heads. Each fellow stood there as bravely as human flesh andblood could stand, and faced the iron hail with unblenching courage andintrepid coolness. Had those khaki-clothed warriors been carved out ofbronze and moved by machinery, they could not have shown less fear or moreperfect discipline. The pom-pom is a gun which I have been told the BritishWar Office refused as a toy some two years back. I have had the doubtfulpleasure of being under its fire to-day, and all I can say is that I wouldgladly have given my place to any gentleman in the War Office who happensto hold the notion that the pom-pom is a toy. 

Somehow the enemy got hold of the position where General Rundle and staffwere located, and all the afternoon they swept the plain in front of thetents, the hills above, and the hill opposite with shells; but they couldnot quite drop one in the little ravine itself. Half an hour before sundownI had to ride with two other correspondents to headquarters to get adispatch away. We got across safely, but had not been there five minutesbefore a grandly directed shell sent the General and his staff off the browof the hill in double quick time. We delivered our dispatches, and weregetting ready for a gallop over the quarter mile of veldt, when, _pom, pom, pom, pom_, came a dozen one-pounders a few yards away right acrossour track. It made our hearts sit very close to our ribs, but there wasnothing for it but to take our horses by the head, drive the spurs home, and ride as if we were rounding up wild cattle. I want it to stand onrecord that I was not the last man across that strip of veldt. There wasnot much incident in the day's fighting; there seldom is in an artilleryduel, carried on by men who know the game, in hilly country. Once duringthe afternoon the big gun belonging to the Boers became so troublesome thathalf a dozen of ours were trained upon it, and for best part of an hour itsounded as if a section of Sheol had visited the earth, so deadly was thefire, so fierce the bursting missiles, that not a rock wallaby, crouchingin its hole, could have lived twenty minutes in the location. We heard nomore from that gun. 

As I rode from position to position our fellows greeted me with the cry:"Any news, sir? Heard if we are going to have a go at 'em with the spoons(bayonets)?" One midget, a bugler kiddie, so small that an ordinarymaid-of-all-work could comfortably lay him across her knee and spank him, yawned as he knelt in the grass, and desired to know when "we was goin' ter'ave some real bloomin' fightin'. 'E was tired of them bloomin' guns, 'ewas; they made his carmine 'ead ache with their blanky noise. 'E didn'tcall that fightin'; 'e called it an adjective waste of good hammunition. 'Eliked gettin' up to 'is man, fair 'nd square, 'nd knockin' 'ell out of'im. " He meant it, too, the little beggar, and I could not help laughing athim when I considered that lots of the old fighting Boers I had seen couldhave dropped the midget into their lunch bags, and not have noticed hisweight. 

The Yeomanry did a lot of useful work, and are as eager for fight as a bullant on a hot plate. They are as good as any men I have seen in Africa, fullof ginger, good horsemen, wear-and-tear, cut-and-come-again sort of men. They adapt themselves to circumstances readily, are jolly and good-humouredunder trying circumstances. Their officers are, as a rule, first-classsoldiers, equal to any emergency. On Tuesday the Boers kept their gunsgoing at a great rate, and we really thought that they had made up theirminds to see the thing right out at all costs. Personally I did not for amoment think that they were ignorant of General French's rapid advance. Ido not believe it possible for any large body of hostile troops to move inSouth Africa without the Boers being thoroughly cognisant of every detailconnected with the move, partly because they are the most perfect scouts inthe world, and partly because the scattered population on every hand ispositively favourable to them. Our artillery dropped a storm of shellsduring the day, and that night it was whispered in camp that there was tobe a general attack next morning. On Tuesday evening General Frenchadvanced right on to the Boer rear, and some smart fighting took place, theenemy suffering considerably, though our losses were small. 

At dawn on Wednesday we moved forward rapidly, and in a few hours' time ourinfantry were standing in the trenches and upon the hills that the Boershad occupied the day before. Our mounted men rode at a gallop through thegullies, but nothing was to be seen of the foe except a few newly duggraves. The Boers had vanished like a dream, taking all their guns withthem. Louis Botha, the commander-in-chief, had come in person to them, andthe retreat was carried out under his eyes. We followed to Dewetsdorp, andfrom there on to Thaba Nchu (pronounced Tabancha). 

On Friday night the enemy exchanged a few shots with us from the heightsbeyond, but no harm was done on either side. The Third Division, to which Ihad attached myself, under General Chermside, has been ordered towardsBloemfontein. French is in command, and, judging by his past performances, I fully expect we shall have some busy times, though French may go away andleave the Eighth Division under General Rundle. 

 WITH RUNDLE IN THE FREE STATE. 

 ORANGE FREE STATE. 

Since the Boers bolted from Constantia Farm we have done but little beyondfollowing them from spot to spot through the Free State, in the conqueredterritory along the Basuto border. At Constantia Farm they gave us agunnery duel, which, though incessant and continuous, did little realdamage to either side. After that, when General French joined issue withus, the Boers shifted their ground with consummate skill. We moved on toDewetsdorp, and there the Third Division, under Chermside, parted companywith us. We moved onward to Thaba Nchu, Brabant keeping well away towardsthe Basuto border with his flying column. At Thaba Nchu it looked day byday as if we were in for something hot and hard, the Boers having, asusual, taken up a position of vast natural strength. But Hamilton was theonly one to get to close quarters with the veldt warriors, when executing aflanking movement. I have since learned that the enemy suffered veryseverely on that occasion. 

They can give some of the British journalists a wholesome lesson in regardto manliness of spirit, these same rough fellows, bred in the Africanwilds. Speaking to me of the charge the Gordons made, when led by CaptainTowse, they were unstinted in their praises. "It was grand, it wasterrible, " they said, "to see that little handful of men rush on fearlessof death, fearless of everything. " It was bravery of the highest kind, andthey admired it, as only brave men do admire courage in a foeman. Thepeople of Britain who read extracts taken from Boer newspapers, extractswhich ridicule British pluck and all things British, must not blame theBoers for those statements. In nearly every case the papers publishedinside Burgher territory are edited by renegade Britons, and it is theserenegades, not the fighting Boers, who defame our nation, and take everypossible opportunity of hitting below the belt. 

When we left Thaba Nchu, General French left us, as did also Hamilton andSmith-Dorien. Brabant hugged the Basuto border, and swept the land clean ofeverything hostile. General Rundle (the flower of courtesy and chivalry)kept the centre; General Boyes looked after our left wing; General Campbellpicked up the intermediate spaces as occasion demanded; and so we moved on, trying, but trying in vain, to draw a cordon round the ever-shifting foe. There was no chance for a dashing forward move; the country through whichwe passed was lined by kopjes, which were simply appalling in their nativestrength. What prompted the Boer leaders to fall back from them, step bystep, will for ever remain a mystery to me. It was not want of provisions, for we knew that they had huge supplies of beef and mutton, whilst therewere in their possession almost inexhaustible stores of grain. It was notwant of fodder for their horses, for the valleys and veldt were coveredwith beautiful grass, almost knee-deep. Water was plentiful in alldirections, and they apparently possessed plenty of ammunition. Prisonersassert that Commandant Olivier was absolutely furious when compelled tofall back, by order of his superiors. It is also asserted that he is now indire disgrace on account of his refusal to obey promptly some of hissuperior's commands. It is further stated that he is to be deposed from hiscommand, and will cease to be a factor of any importance in the war. It ishard to fathom Boer tactics. It does not follow because a line of kopjesare abandoned to-day that the burghers have retreated; they fall backbefore scouting parties; their pickets watch our scouts return to camp, knowing that they will convey the news to headquarters that the kopjes areempty of armed men. Then, with almost incredible swiftness, the light-armedBoers swarm back by passes known only to themselves, and secretly andsilently take up positions where they can butcher an advancing army. IfGeneral Rundle had been a rash, impetuous, or a headstrong man, he couldcomfortably have lost his whole force on half a dozen occasions; but he isnot. He is essentially a cautious leader, and pits his brain against thatof the Boer leaders as a good chess player pits his against an opponent. Hemay believe in the luck of the British Army, but he trusts mighty little toit. Better lose a couple of days than a couple of regiments is his motto, and a wise motto it is. Had he flung his men haphazard at any of thepositions where the Boers have made a stand, he would have been cut topieces. 

Rundle plays a wise game. When the enemy looks like sitting tight, Rundleat once commences a series of manoeuvres directed from his centre. Thiskeeps the enemy busy, and gives them a lot of solid thinking to do, andwhilst they are thinking he moves his flanks forward, overlapping them inthe hope of surrounding them. The Boer hates to have his rear threatened, and invariably falls away. His method of falling back is unique. As soon ashe smells danger, all the live stock is sent off and all the waggons. Capecarts are kept handy for baggage that cannot be sent with the heavy convoy. Most of the big guns go with the first flight; one or two, which can easilybe shifted, are kept to hold back our advance, and the deadly littlepom-poms are dodged about from kopje to kopje. The pom-pom is not much tolook at, but it is a weapon to be reckoned with in mountain warfare. Itthrows only a one-pound shell, and throws it from the most impossibleplaces imaginable. The beauty of the pom-pom is that it drops its work infrom spots from which no sane man ever expects a shell to come. 

When the Boer finds that his position is untenable on account of a flankingmove, the horses are hitched up to the light Cape carts, the loading ispacked, and off they fly at a gallop, and the guns follow suit; whilst therifles hold the heights. That is why we so seldom get hold of anythingworth having when we do take a position. Our losses have been paltry, because the Boer is a defensive, not an offensive, fighter. He waits to beattacked, he does not often attack; and our general is a man who does notthrow men's lives away. He believes in brains before bayonets, and Englandmay be thankful for the possession of General Rundle. Had he been a madcapgeneral, there would have been a few thousand more widows in the oldcountry to-day than there are. At the same time, he is a man of immensepersonality. Should he ever get a chance to engage the enemy in a pitchedbattle, he will prove to the world that he is capable of great things. There will be no half-hearted work in such an hour. If he has to sacrificemen on the altar of war, he will surely sacrifice them, but not until he iscompelled to do so. Brabant is a wild daredevil, who rushes on like amountain torrent Boyes is brainy; careful, and yet dashing. 

I want to state here that I have never lost a single opportunity, whilsttravelling through the enemy's country, of looking at the "home" life ofthe people--and I may say that I have been in a few back-country homes inAmerica, in Australia, and in other parts of the world--and I want to placeit on record that in my opinion the Boer farmer is as clean in his homelife, as loving in his domestic arrangements, as pure in his morals, as anyclass of people I have ever met. Filth may abound, but I have seen nothingof it. Immorality may be the common everyday occurrence I have seen itdepicted in some British journals, but I have failed to find trace of it. Ignorance as black as the inside of a dog may be the prevailing state ofaffairs; if so, I have been one of the lucky few who have found just thereverse in whichsoever direction I have turned. After six months', ornearly six months', close and careful observation of their habits, I havearrived at the conclusion that the Boer farmer, and his son and daughter, will compare very favourably with the farming folk of Australia, America, and Great Britain. What he may be in the Transvaal I know not, because Ihave not yet been there; but in Cape Colony and in the Free State he ismuch as I have depicted him, no better, no worse, than Americans andAustralians, and as good a fighting man as either--which is tantamount tosaying that he is as good as anything on God's green earth, if he only hadmilitary training. 

Ask "Tommy" privately, when he comes home, if this is not so--not "Thomas, "who has been on lines of communication all the time--but "Tommy, " who hasfought him, and measured heart and hand with him. I think he will tell youmuch as I have told you. For "Tommy" is no fool; he is not half such abraggart, either, as some of the Jingoes, who shout and yell, but nevertake a hand in the real fighting; those wastrels of England, who are athome with a pewter of beer in their hands--hands that never did, and neverwill, grip a rifle. 

Whilst at Trummel I took advantage of a couple of days' camping to go outthree miles from camp to have a look at a diamond mine. I found ared-whiskered Dutchman in charge, who knew less English than I knew Dutch, and as my Dutch consists of about twelve words we did not do much in theconversational line; but I made him understand by pantomimic telegraphythat I wanted to have a look round, to size up things. He took me to a"dump, " where the ore at grass was stored, and converted himself into ahuman stone-cracking machine for my benefit, until I had seen all that Iwanted to see in regard to the "ore at grass. " He was very much like minemanagers the world over--very ready to play tricks on anyone he considered"green" at the business. It was not his fault that he did not know that Ihad been a reporter on gold, silver, copper, lead, tin, and coal mines forabout twenty years. 

Thinking, doubtless, that I was like unto the ordinary city fellow whocomes at rare intervals to look at a mine, he made me a present of a pieceof rock with some worthless garnets in it, also a sample of country rockpregnant with mundic; the garnets and the mundic glittered in the sunshine. I rose to the bait, as I was expected to do, and intimated that I wouldlike a lot of it. This delighted the Dutchman, and he beamed all over hisexpansive face, all the time cursing me for the second son of an idiot, asis the way with mine managers. But he stopped grinning before the afternoonwore out, for I set him climbing and clambering for little pieces of mundicand tiny patches of garnets in all the toughest places I could find in thatmine, and went into ecstasies over each individual piece, until I had quitea load of the rubbish. Then I intimated gently that I would be back thatway when the war was over, and would surely send my Cape cart for them ifhe would be good enough to mind them for me. I fancy an inkling of thetruth dawned in that Dutchman's soul at last, for he made no furtherreference to either garnets or mundic. I satisfied myself with a sample ofthe matrix in which diamonds are found, and also with a specimen of thecountry rock for geological reference, but the garnets are on the heapstill. 

The mine, which is named the "Monastery, " is very crudely worked;everything connected with it is primitive. A huge quarry, about 600 feet incircumference, and about 40 feet deep, had been opened up. There wasnothing in it in the shape of lode or reef, but a large number ofdisconnected "stringers, " or leaders of rocky matter, in which diamonds areoften found. At the bottom of the quarry the water lay fully eight feetdeep, owing to the fact that the mine had lain unworked during the war. Avertical shaft had been sunk a little distance from the quarry to a depthof 150 feet, but there was a hundred feet of water in it, so that I amunable to say anything concerning the Monastery diamond mine at its lowerlevels. One or two tunnels had been drawn from the quarry into theadjoining country on small leaders, and from what I could gather from myguide diamonds had been discovered. Whilst I went below, I left my Kaffirboy on top to pick up what he could in the shape of rumour or gossip fromthe natives, and he informed me that the niggers had been the cause of theopening of the mine, they having found diamonds near the surface in some ofthe leaders, which consisted of a rock known in Australian mining circlesas illegitimate granite. The white folk, fearing that the poor heathenmight become debauched if they possessed too much wealth, had gatheredthose diamonds in--when they could--and later had started mining for theprecious gems, with what success the heathen did not know. I tried theDutchman on the same point, but I might as well have interviewed an oysterin regard to the science of gastronomy. He dodged around my question like afox terrier round a fence, until I gave him up in despair. But, for allthat, I rather fancy they have found diamonds round that way, only theydon't want the British to know anything about it. 

 RED WAR WITH RUNDLE. 

 NEAR SENEKAL. 

In our rear lies the little village of Senekal, a shy little place, seemingly too modest to lift itself out of the miniature basin caused bythe circumambient hills. Khaki-clad figures, gaunt, hungry, and dirty, patrol the streets; the few stores are almost denuded of things saleable, for friend and foe have swept through the place again and again, and bothBoer and Briton have paid the shops a visit. At the hotel I managed to geta dinner of bread and dripping, washed down with a cup of coffee, guiltlessof both milk and sugar. But, if the bill of fare was meagre, the bill ofcosts made up for it in its wealth of luxuriousness. If I rose from thetable almost as hollow as when I sat down, I only had to look at thelandlord's charges to fancy I had dined like one of the blood royal. Opposite the hotel stands the church, a dainty piece of architecture, fitfor a more pretentious town than Senekal. It is fashioned out of whitestone, and stands in its own grounds, looking calm and peaceful amidst allthe bustle and blaze of war. Someone has turned all the seats out of thesacred edifice, preparatory to converting it into a hospital. The seats arenot destroyed; they are not damaged; they are stacked away under aneighbouring verandah. 

I do not think it wrong so to utilise a church. It is the only place fit toput the wounded men in in all the town. The great Nazarene in whose namethe church was erected would not have allowed the sick to wither by thewayside in the days when the Judean hills rang to the echo of His magneticvoice, nor do I think it wrongful to His memory to convert His shrine intoan abiding place for the sick and suffering. 

Far away on our left flank the enemy hold the heights, and watch us movingoutward, whilst between them and us, stretching mile after mile in a linewith our column, ripples a line of scarlet flame, for the foe has fired theveldt to starve the transit mules, horses, and oxen. Like a swordunsheathed in the sunlight, the flames sparkle amidst the grass, whichgrows knee-deep right to the kopje's very lips. Birds rise on the wing withharsh, resonant cries, flutter awhile above their ravished homes, thenwheel in mid-air and seek more peaceful pastures. Hares spring up beforethe crackling flames quite reach their forms, and, like grey streaks in asailor's beard on a stormy day, flash suddenly into view, and as suddenlydisappear again. Here and there a graceful springbok dashes through thesmoke, with head thrown back and graceful limbs extended, his glossy, mottled hide looking doubly beautiful backed by that red streak of fire. The wind catches the quivering crimson streak, and for awhile the flamesrace, as I have seen wild horses, neck to neck, rush through the saltbushplains at the sound of the stockman's whip. Then, as the wind drops, theflames curl caressingly around the wealth of growing fodder, biting thegrass low down, and wrapping it in a mantle of black and red, as flame andsmoke commingle. 

Here and there a pool of water, hidden from view until the fire fiendstripped the veldt land bare, leaps to life like a silver shield in thegrim setting of the bare and blackened plain. Small mobs of cattle standstupidly snuffing the smoke-laden air, until the breath of the blazeawakens them to a sense of peril; then, with horns lowered like bayonets atthe charge, with tails stiff and straight behind them as levelled lances, they leap onward, over or through everything in front of them, bellowingfrantically their brute beast protest against the red ruin of war. Theflames roll on; they reach the stone walls of a cattle pen, and leap it asa hunter takes a brush fence in his stride; onward still, until a Kaffirkraal is reached. The soft-lipped billows kiss the uncouth mud wall, andfor a moment transfigure them with a nameless beauty, the beauty thatprecedes ruin. Only a moment or two, and then the resistless destroyerflaunts its pennons amidst the reed-thatched roofs; the sparks leap up, theblack smoke curls towards the sky, whilst on the neighbouring hills thenegro women, with their babes in their arms, wail woefully, for those rudehuts, with all their barbarous trappings, meant home--aye, home andhappiness--to them. The flames roll onward now in two long lines, for theKaffir encampment had sundered them, and now they look, with theirbeautifully rounded curves sweeping so gracefully out into the unknown, like the rich, ripe lips of a wanton woman in the pride of her shamelessbeauty. All that they leave behind is desolation, darkness, despair, ruinunutterable, only blackened walls, simmering carcases, weeping women, andwailing children. 

Away on our right flank we can just make out the skeletons of what a fewhours before had been a cluster of smiling farmhouses. They do not smilenow; they grin horribly in the sunlight, grin as the fleshless skulls ofdead men grin on a battlefield after those sextons of the veldt thegrey-hooded, curved-beaked vultures have screamed their final farewell tothe charnel-houses of war--noble war, splendid war, pastime of potentatesand princes, invented in hell and patented in all the temples of sorrow. 

As we look on those grim relics of this dreary time we catch the maddeningsound of distant guns. The chargers prick their ears, and quiver frommuzzle to coronet. The khaki-clad figures on the plain throw up their headsand turn their eyes towards the sound; the tired shoulders squarethemselves, each foot seems to tread the blackened plain with firmer, prouder tread. The sound of guns is like the rush of wine through sluggishveins, and men forget that they are faint with hunger, weary to the vergeof wretchedness with ceaseless marching. The sound of guns bespeaks thepresence of the foe, and those gaunt soldiers of the Queen are galvanisedto life and lust of battle by the very breath of war. A ripple runs alongthe line, the farthest flanks catch the gleam of the sun on distant riflebarrels. An order rings out sharp and crisp; the column stands as if eachman and horse were carved in rock. 

The infantry lean lightly on their guns, the cavalry crane forward in theirsaddles. We pause and wait until we see the green badge of O'Driscoll'sscouts on the hats of the advancing riders. O'Driscoll rides towards thestaff with loosened rein, and every spur in all his gallant little troopshows how the scouts had ridden. We strain our ears to catch the news theIrish scout has brought. It comes at last Clements has met the foe, anddeath is busy in those distant hills. 

Rundle sits silently, hard pressed in his saddle--a gallant figure, withsoldier and leader written all over him. We wait his verdict anxiously, foron his word our fate may hinge. We have not long to wait--Clements can holdhis own; Brabant will outflank the Boers. Forward, march! The men droop aswheat fields droop in the sultry air of a seething day. They are tired, deadly tired; not too tired to fight, but weary of the endless marchingfrom point to point to keep the enemy from breaking through their lines andstriking southward. 

Away in front of us we note the snow-crowned hills which girdle Basutoland, snow crowned and sun kissed; every hilltop sparkling like a giant gem, andover all a pale blue sky, curtained by flimsy clouds of gauzy whiteness, through which the sun laughs rosily, the handiwork of the Eternal. Andunderfoot only the deep dead blackness of the blistered veldt, ravished ofits wondrous wealth of living green, the rude, rough footprint of the godof war--sweet war; kind, Christian war!

Now, overhead, betwixt the smoking earth and smiling sky, flocks ofvultures come and go, fluttering their great pinions noiselessly. To themthe sound of guns is merriest music; it is their summons to the banquetboard. Foul things they look as the float over us, silent as souls thathave slipped from some ash heap in Hades, grey with the greyness that growson the wolf's hide; their feathers hang upon them in ridges, unkempt, unlovely, soiled with blood and offal. They float above our heads, theywheel upon our flanks. 

A horse drops wearily upon its knees, looks round dumbly on the wildernessof blackness, then turns its piteous eyes upward towards the skies thatseem so full of laughing loveliness; then, with a sob which is almost humanin the intensity of its pathos, the tired head falls downwards, the limbscontract with spasmodic pain, then stiffen into rigidity; and one wonders, if the Eternal mocked that silent appeal from those great sad eyes, eyesthat had neither part nor lot in the sin and sorrow of war, how shall a mandare look upwards for help when the bitterness of death draws nigh untohim? The grey lines above, on flank, and front, and rear, were with greedyspeed converging to one point, until they flock in a horrid, struggling, fighting, revolting mass of beaks and feathers above the fallen steed, asdevils flock around the deathbed of a defaulting deacon. A soldier on theouter edge of the extended line swings his rifle with swift, backhandedmotion over his shoulder, and brings the butt amidst the crowd of carrion. The vultures hop with grotesque, ungainly motions from their prey, andstand with wings extended and clawed feet apart, their necks outstretchedand curved heads dripping slime and blood, a fitting setting amidst theblack ruin of war. The charger now looks upward from eyeless sockets; hisgutted carcass, flattened into a shapeless streak, shrinks towards theearth, as if asking to be veiled from the laughter of the skies. But thereis neither pity from above nor shelter from below as the red wave of war, like the curse of the white Christ, sweeps over the land. God grant thatmerry England may never witness, on her own green meadow lands, thesesights and sounds which meet the eye and ear on African soil. 

Oh, England, England, if I had a voice whose clarion tones could reach yourears and stir your hearts in every city and town, village and hamlet, wayside cot and stately castle, in all your sea-encircled isle, I would cryto you to guard your coasts! Better, it seems to me, writing here, with allthe evidences of war beneath my eyes, that every man born of woman's loveon British soil should die between the decks, or find a grave in founderingships of war, than that the foot of a foreign foe should touch theMotherland. Better that your ships be shambles, where men could die likemen, sending Nelson's royal message all along the armoured line; betterthat our best and bravest found a grave where grey waves curl towards ourcoastline, than that our womanhood should look with woe-encircled eyes intothe wolfish mouth of war. Better that our strong men perished, with thebrine and ocean breezes playing freshly on the gaping wounds through whichtheir souls passed outward, than that our little maids and tiny, tenderbabes should face the unutterable shame, the anguish, and the suffering ofa war within our borders. 

Do not laugh the very thought to scorn and brand the thing impossible, forfools have laughed before to-day whilst kingdoms tottered to their fall Youwho stay at home miss much that others know--and, knowing, dread. IfEngland at this hour could only realise what manner of men control herdestinies, then all the lion in the breed would spring to life again. I donot know if lack-brains of a similar strain control the supplies forEngland's Navy; but if, in time of war, it proves to be the case, then Godhelp us, God help the old flag and the stout hearts who fight for it. 

Lend me your ears, and let me tell you how our army in Africa is treated bythe incompetent people in the good city of London. I pledge my word, as aman and a journalist, that every written word is true. I will add nothing, nor detract from, nor set down aught in malice. If my statements are provenfalse, then let me be scourged with the tongue and pen of scorn from everydecent Briton's home and hearth for ever after, for he who lies about hiscountry at such an hour as this is of all traitors the vilest. I will dealnow particularly with the men who are acting under the command ofLieutenant-General Sir Leslie Rundle. This good soldier and courteousgentleman has to hold a frontage line from Winburg, _viâ_ Senekal, almost to the borders of Basutoland. His whole front, extending nearly ahundred miles, is constantly threatened by an active, dashing, determinedenemy, an enemy who knows the country far better than an Englishfox-hunting squire knows the ground he hunts over season after season. Tohold this vast line intact General Rundle has to march from point to pointas his scouts warn him of the movements of the tireless foe. He hasstationed portions of his forces at given points along this line, and hispersonal work is to march rapidly with small bodies of infantry, yeomanry, scouts, and artillery towards places immediately threatened. He has to keepthe Boers from penetrating that long and flexible line, for if once theyforced a passage in large numbers they would sweep like a torrentsouthwards, envelop his rear, cut the railway and telegraph to pieces, stopall convoys, paralyse the movements of all troops up beyond Kroonstad, andonce more raise the whole of the Free State, and very possibly a greatportion of the Cape Colony as well. 

General Rundle's task is a colossal one, and any sane man would think thatgigantic efforts would be made to keep him amply supplied with food for hissoldiers. But such is not the case. The men are absolutely starving. Manyof the infantrymen are so weak that they can barely stagger along under theweight of their soldierly equipment. They are worn to shadows, and movewith weary, listless footsteps on the march. People high up in authoritymay deny this, but he who denies it sullies the truth. This is what thesoldiers get to eat, what they have been getting to eat for a long timepast, and what they are likely to get for a long time to come, unlessEngland rouses herself, and bites to the bone in regard to the people whoare responsible for it. 

One pound of raw flour, which the soldiers have to cook after a hard day'smarch, is served out to each man every alternate day. The following day hegets one pound of biscuits. In this country there is no fuel excepting alittle ox-dung, dried by the sun. If a soldier is lucky enough to pick up alittle, he can go to the nearest water, of which there is plenty, mix hiscake without yeast or baking-powder, and make some sort of a wretchedmouthful. He gets one pound of raw fresh meat daily, which nine times outof ten he cannot cook, and there his supplies end. 

What has become of the rations of rum, of sugar, of tea, of cocoa, ofgroceries generally? Ask at the snug little railway sidings where the goodsare stacked--and forgotten. Ask in the big stores in Capetown and otherseaport towns. Ask in your own country, where countless thousands ofpounds' worth of foodstuffs lie rotting in the warehouses, bound up andtied down with red tape bandages. Ask--yes, ask; but don't stop atasking--damn somebody high up in power. Don't let some wretched underlingbe made the scapegoat of this criminal state of affairs, for the taint ofthis shameful thing rests upon you, upon every Briton whose homes, privileges, and prosperity are being safeguarded by these famishing men. The folk in authority will probably tell you that General Rundle and hissplendid fellows are so isolated that food cannot be obtained for them. Isay that is false, for recently I, in company with another correspondent, left General Rundle's camp without an escort. We made our way in thesaddle, taking our two Cape carts with us, to Winburg railway station;leaving our horseflesh there, we took train for East London. Then back tothe junction, and trained it down to Capetown, where we remained forforty-eight hours, and then made our way back to Winburg, and from Winburgwe came without escort to rejoin General Rundle at Hammonia. If twoinnocent, incompetent (?) war correspondents could traverse that countryand get through with winter supplies for themselves, why cannot thetransport people manage to do the same? These transport people affect tolook with contempt upon a war correspondent and his opinions on thingsmilitary; but if we could not manage transport business better than theydo, most of us would willingly stand up and allow ourselves to be shot. Weare no burden upon the Army; we carry for ourselves, we buy for ourselves, and we look for news for ourselves; and we take our fair share of risks inthe doing of our duty, as the long list of dead and disabled journalistswill amply prove. 

It is not, in my estimation, the whole duty of a war correspondent to goaround the earth making friends for himself, or looking after his personalcomfort, or booming himself for a seat in Parliament on a cheap patrioticticket. It is rather his duty to give praise where praise is due, censurewhere censure has been earned, regardless of consequences to himself. Suchwas the motto of England's two greatest correspondents--Forbes andSteevens--both of whom have passed into the shadowland, and I would to Godthat either of them were here to-day, for England knew them well, and theywould have roused your indignation as I, an unknown man, dare not hope todo. But though what I have written does not bear the magical name ofSteevens or of Forbes, it bears the hallmark of the eternal truth. Our menon the fields of war are famishing whilst millions worth of food liesrotting on our wharves and in our cities, food that ought with ordinarymanagement to be within easy reach of our fighting generals. Britain asksof Rundle the fulfilment of a task that would tax the energies andabilities of the first general in Europe; and with a stout heart he facesthe work in front of him, faces it with men whose knees knock under themwhen they march, with hands that shake when they shoulder theirrifles--shake, but not with fear; tremble, but not from wounds, but fromweakness, from poverty of blood and muscle, brought about by continualhunger. Are those men fit to storm a kopje? Are they fit to tramp the wholenight through to make a forced march to turn a position, and then fight astheir fathers fought next day?

I tell you no. And yours be the shame if the Empire's flag be lowered--nottheirs, but yours; for you--what do you do? You stand in your music-hallsand shout the chorus of songs full of pride for your soldier, full ofpraise for his patience, his pluck, and his devotion to duty; and you lethim go hungry, so hungry that I have often seen him quarrel with a niggerfor a handful of raw mealies on the march. It is so cheap to sing, especially when your bellies are full of good eating; it costs nothing toopen your mouths and bawl praises. It is pleasant to swagger and brag of"your fellows at the front;" but why don't you see that they are fed, ifyou want them to fight? Give "Tommy" a lot less music and flapdoodle, and alot more food of good quality, and he'll think a heap more of you. It isnice of you to stay in Britain and drink "Tommy's" health, but there wouldbe far more sense in the whole outfit if you would allow him to "eat hisown" out here. 

 THE FREE STATERS' LAST STAND. 

 SLAP KRANZ. 

At last the blow has fallen which has shattered the Boer cause in the FreeState. There will be skirmishes with scattered bands in the mountain gorgesbeyond Harrismith, but the backbone of the Republic has been broken beyondredemption. Sunday, the 30th of July, was big with fate, though we who satalmost within the shadow of the snow enshrouded hills of savage Basutolandat the dawning of that day knew it not. It was a joyful day for us, thoughpregnant with sorrow for the veldtsmen who had fought so long and well fortheir doomed cause, for on that day our generals reaped the harvest whichthey had sown with infinite patience and undaunted courage. General Hunter, to whom the chief command had just been given, was there, surrounded by hisstaff, a soldierly figure worthy of a nation's trust; Clements, keen faced, sharp voiced, with alertness written in each lineament; Paget, whose fieryspirit spoke from his mobile face, his blood, hot as an Afghan sun, flashing the workings of his mind into his face as sunlight flashes fromsteel; and Rundle, hawk-eyed and stern, no friend to Pressmen, but asoldier every inch, one of those men whose hands build empires. Had he beenstripped of modern gear that day, and placed in Roman trappings, one wouldhave looked behind him to see if Cæsar meant to grace the show; but Cæsarwas not there. 

One of the greatest soldiers since the world began was missing from ourranks, the hero Roberts, whose great intellect had planned the _coup_which his generals had carried to maturity. Yet, though Lord Robertsplanned each general move, an immense amount of actual work was left to thegenerals. The country they had to pass through was rugged and inhospitable. The foe they had to fight was brave, resourceful, and well supplied withall munitions of war; a single mistake on the part of any one of them wouldhave wrecked the magnificent plan of the Commander-in-Chief. But nomistakes were made; each general worked as if his soul's salvation dependedupon his individual efforts. Where all are good, as a rule it is hard tomake a distinction; but in this instance one man stands out above hisfellows, and that man is General Sir Leslie Rundle, the commander of theEighth Division. His task from the first was herculean. He had to hold aline fully one hundred miles in length; day after day, week after week, theenemy tried to break that line and pour their forces into the territory wehad conquered. Had they succeeded, they would have shaken the whole ofSouth Africa to its very centre. This task kept Sir Leslie Rundle busynight and day. Wherever he camped, spies dogged his footsteps; black menand white men constantly upon his track. His every move was rapidlyreported to our ever-watchful enemies. But, quick as the enemy undoubtedlywere in all their movements, General Rundle nullified their efforts by hisrapidity. So terribly hard did he work his men that they nicknamed him"Rundle, the Tramp. " How the men stood it I cannot understand. I know of noother men in all the world who would have gone on as they did, obeyingorders without a murmur or a whimper. They were savage at times over thefood they got, and small blame to them, but they never blamed theirgeneral. They knew that he gave them plenty of the class of food that hecould lay hands upon. Had the general's supplies been in this part of thecountry, instead of being tied up in red-tape packages on the railway line, General Rundle would have kept his Division fully supplied. The only foodwhich he could command, beef and mutton, he gave without stint. Had the WarOffice authorities attended to their end of the work with the samecommendable zeal, half the hardships of the campaign would have beenaverted. 

If ever war was reduced to an absolute science, it was upon this occasion. On the one hand, some six thousand Boers on the defensive, armed with thehandiest quick-firing rifle known to modern times, with from eight to tenguns, well supplied with food and ammunition, and backed by some of themost awful country the eye of man ever rested upon--a country which theyknew as a child knows its mother's face. On the other hand, an attackingforce of 30, 000 men and guns. To read the number of the opposing forces onewould think the Boer task the effort of madmen, bent upon nationalextinction; but one glance at the country would upset those calculationsentirely. Every kopje was a natural fortress, every sluit a perfect line oftrenches, and every donga a nursery for death. 

To attempt to go into every move made by our troops during the months ofMay, June, and the early parts of July would only prove wearisome to theaverage reader; suffice it to say that finally we got the burgher forcesinto the Caledon Valley. This valley is about twenty-eight miles in length, and from fourteen to fifteen miles across its widest part. Properlyspeaking, it was not a valley at all, but a series of valleys interspersedby great kopjes, nearly all of which presented an almost impregnableappearance. The valley had a number of outlets, which the Boers fondlybelieved our people to be unacquainted with. These outlets were known as"neks, " and were, without exception, terribly rough places for a hostileforce to attack. Commando Nek was upon the south-east, facing towardsBasutoland. This was merely a narrow pass, running up over a jagged kopje, with two greater kopjes on each side of it. The hills all round it were soplaced that a number of good marksmen, hidden in the rocks, could easilysweep off thousands of an enemy who attempted to take it by storm. But thatpass had to be taken before we could claim to hold the Free State in thehollow of our hand. Slabbert's Nek was merely a huge gash in the face of acliff. It was the Boers' causeway towards the north, their highway tosafety. Retief's Nek lay to the westward, and formed a grinning death trapfor any general who might try the foolish hazard of a single-handed attackNaauwpoort Nek, ugly and uninviting, faced south-east towards Harrismith. Golden Gate, named by a satirist--or a satyr--was merely a narrow chasmworn by wind and weather through the girdle of mountains. It looked towardsthe east, and was a mere pathway, which none but desperate soldiers, drivento their last extremity, would think of using. 

The Boers never dreamed that it was possible for our troops to move withsuch machine-like precision as to hold every nek at our mercy. But whilstRundle held the ground to the south, and kept the Boers for ever on themove by his restless activity, Clements and Paget moved on Slabbert's Nek, Hunter swept down on Retief's Nek, Naauwpoort Nek was invested by HectorMacdonald, Bruce Hamilton closed in upon Golden Gate, and the great net wasalmost perfect in its meshes. The enemy did not realise their danger untilit was too late for the great bulk of their force to escape. Commandant DeWet saw the impending peril at the eleventh hour, and tried hard to get hiscountrymen to follow him in a dash through Slabbert's Nek; but very few ofthe burghers would believe that the sword of fate was hanging by so slim athread over their heads. In vain this able soldier of the Republicharangued them. Vain all his threats and protestations. They could not andwould not believe him. Sullenly they sat in their strongholds and watchedRundle--they could see him, and that danger which was present to their eyeswas the only danger they would believe in; and day by day, hour by hour, the cordon of Britain's might drew closer and closer, until every link inthe vast chain was practically flawless. Then Commandant De Wet gatheredaround him about 1, 800 of his most devoted followers, and with Ex-PresidentSteyn in their ranks they passed like ghosts of a fallen people throughSlabbert's Nek on towards the Transvaal. How they managed to elude theincoming khaki wave some other pen must tell. It was a splendid piece ofwork on the Republican Commandant's part, and history will not begrudge himthe full measure of praise due to him. Had General Prinsloo and hisburghers been guided by him, these pages had never been written, for whereDe Wet took his 1, 800 burghers he could as easily have taken 6, 000. 

Scarcely had De Wet made his escape ere the truth was borne in upon theburghers with an iron hand that their doom was sealed. General Rundle'sforce, which all along had been essentially a blocking force, and not astriking force, made a move on the 23rd of July. All day the cannons spoketo the burghers from Willow Grange, all day long the rifles rippled theirleaden waves of death. We could see but little of the enemy; they layconcealed behind the loose rocks, and our men had little else to do butlift their rifles and pull the trigger, trusting to the powers that rulethe destinies of war to speed the bullets to some foeman's resting place. But we knew they were there if we could not see them, for the snap andsnarl of the Mauser rifles came readily to our ears, and the booming oftheir guns answered ours, as hound answers hound when the scent growshottest. We pounded them with shrapnel and pelted them with common shelluntil the air around them rained iron. Our guns were six to one, yet thosebrave veldtsmen held their own with a stubborn courage worthy of thenoblest traditions in all the red pages of war. They gave us a parting shotat sundown, and at night, when the thick mists from the snow-drapedmountains behind us came down upon the land and added to the darkness ofthe winter's night, they moved their gun and fell back with it to a placewhere they could renew the battle on the morrow. And at the dawning theytestified their vitality by dropping a couple of shells right into themidst of the Imperial Yeomanry camp. 

Whilst we were busy at Julies Kraal, drawing the Boers' attention fromother points, feinting as if we intended to push right on into CommandoNek, General Sir Archibald Hunter made a dash at Relief's Nek with hisforce, and our cannon were busy at almost every point around the valleywhere the Boers were stationed. General Prinsloo, who was in supremecommand of the enemy's forces, had no means of knowing where the Britishreally meant to strike. In vain he pushed men to anticipate Rundle'sthreatened move, vainly he turned like a trapped tiger towards Hunter'smarching men. Turn where he would, the khaki wave met him, rollingresistlessly inward and onward. Hunter broke through with small loss, forthe force which should have checked him at Retief's Nek was waiting atCommando Nek for Rundle and the Eighth Division. It was a master stroke, for when once Hunter was upon the inside of the valley he was in a positionto threaten the rear of the Boer forces at Commando Nek, and that was astate of affairs which the enemy could not stand upon any terms. A numberof them, under clever Commandant Olivier, slipped away through Golden Gate. They did not face the more open country even inside the big valley, butmade their way through a piece of ground known as Witzies Hoek, and thencethrough a ravine which almost beggars description. Later on I went withDriscoll's Scouts in search of the tracks of these men, and followed alongthe same road they had taken. The ravine was a long, narrow gap betweenmountain ranges of immense height. The sides of the mountains were coveredwith loose boulders, sufficient to protect the whole Boer army from ourartillery fire. The only track which a horseman could possibly follow woundin and out alongside the face of the cliffs, so narrow that even the horsesbred in the country found it difficult to keep their feet upon it, andcould only proceed, at funeral pace, in single file. A handful of men couldhave held that place against an army. With De Wet and Olivier gone, halfour task was over. The Boers made a blind rush, first to one nek, then tothe next, only to find that Britain's sons guarded them all. Small bodiesof men might escape, but the vast supplies of mealies, waggons, guns, andall the cumbrous appliances of war, without which an army is useless, werepenned in. The hand of the Field-Marshal was on them. The blocking forcesheld the neks, and now those forces which had to strike were ordered tomove. No sooner did General Rundle receive his orders to advance than herolled forward with the impetuosity of a storm breaking upon a southerncoast. They on the spot knew that all the enemy's hopes lay centred round atown in the middle of the valley. This town was Fouriesburg. The generalwho could strike that town first would deal the death blow to the Boerforces in the Free State. Rundle was furthest from the town; the pathwayhis troops would have to pursue was rougher and more rugged than that whichlay open to the rest of the forces. 

But Rundle knew his men; he knew their mettle; he had tried them with long, weary marching, and he knew that they were worthy of his trust. He gave hisorders. The Leinsters and the Scots Guards, tall, gaunt, hunger-strickenwarriors, whose ribs could be counted through their ragged khaki coats, swung out as cheerily as if they had never known the absence of a meal orthe fatigue of a dreary march. The Irishmen chaffed the Scots, and theScots yelled badinage back to the sons of Erin, and onward they went, onward and upward, over the rock-strewn ground, through the narrow passes, fixing their bayonets where the ground looked likely to hold a hidden foe, ready at a moment's notice to charge into the blackness that lay engulfedin those dreary passes. But the enemy did not wait for them. As the EighthDivision advanced, making the rocky headlands ring with the rhythm of theirmartial tread, the Boers fell back like driven deer, and the bugle spoke tothe Scottish bagpipe until the silent hills gave tongue, and echo answeredecho until the wearied ear sickened for silence. Onward we swept, untilCommando Nek lay like a grinning gash in the face of nature far in ourrear. When we did halt the men threw themselves down on the freezing earth, and wolfed a biscuit; then, stretching themselves face downwards on thegrass, they slept with their rifles ready to their hands, their greatcoatsaround them, and above only the stars, that seemed to freeze in theboundless billows of eternal blue. Onward again, before the silversentinels above us had faded before the blushing face of the dawning. Withfaces begrimed with dirt, with feet blistered by contact with flintyboulders, with tattered garments flapping around them like feathers onwounded waterfowl, officers and men faced the unknown, as their fathersfaced it before them. Meanwhile Hunter was pressing towards Fouriesburgfrom Relief's Nek, his scouts--the well-known "Tigers, " under MajorRemington--well in advance of his main column. 

Rundle gave an order to Driscoll, Captain of the Scouts, who had done suchgood service to the Eighth Division. What passed between the general andthe Irish captain no man knows, probably no man will ever know. But whenDriscoll rode up at the mad gallop so characteristic of the man there wasthat in his hard, ugly, wind-tanned face which spoke of stern deeds to bedone. He did not ride alone, this Irish-Indian Volunteer captain--Rundle'sown _aide_, Lord Kensington, of the 15th Hussars, was on his righthand, and on his left Lieutenant Roger Tempest, of the Scots Guards, for asquad of the Scots Guards who had been learning scouting under Driscollwere to accompany Driscoll's Scouts. That little group was characteristicof the future of the British Empire. Two aristocrats riding shoulder toshoulder with a wild dare-devil, whose rifle had cracked over half theearth. England, Ireland, and Scotland rode alone in front of theadventurous band that day. It was a reckless ride; the captain, on his greystallion, half a length in front. They darted through gullies, drew reinand unslung rifles up hill, now standing in the stirrups to ease theircattle, now sitting tight in the saddle to drive them over the open veldt, taking every chance that a dare-devil crew could take, pausing for nothing, staying for nothing. Right into the town of Fouriesburg they galloped, downfrom their saddles they leaped, up went the rifles; the foe poured in a fewshots, and, appalled by the devilish audacity of the deed, fled before ahandful. It was a proud moment then, when, in the last stronghold of thefoe in all the Free State, Kensington, the _aide_ of the General ofthe Eighth Division, with a little band of officers grouped around him, with the Scouts and Scots Guards lying behind cover, rifle in hand, pulleddown the Orange Free State flag in the very teeth of the foe. Only a littleband of officers--Kensington, Driscoll, Davies, and Tempest. May theirnames be remembered when the wine cups flow!

On the night of the 28th of July Colonel Harley, Chief Staff Officer EighthDivision, led two companies of the Leinsters and the full strength of theScots Guards in a night attack on De Villier's Drift, which was to clearthe way for the whole of the Eighth Division towards Fouriesburg. Themovement had been well and carefully planned, and was neatly andexpeditiously carried out. The following day we advanced in open order overthe rolling veldt; now and again a man paused, lurched a little to oneside, staggered and fell, as shot and shell dropped amongst us, but themarch forward never ceased, never paused Paget and Hunter were with us now, and the lyddite guns seemed to drive all the fight out of the foe. Theywould not stand. Paget's artillerymen dashed forward, unlimbered, andloosed on the enemy with a recklessness of personal safety that was almostwanton. 

Every branch of the Service was vying with its neighbour to see who couldtake the most chances in the game of war, and the very recklessness of themen was their safeguard, for their dash whipped the foe, who now seemed torealise that their evil hour had at last dawned. They sent in a flag oftruce, asking for the terms on which they might surrender. 

On the evening of the 29th July we knew that the enemy were negotiating forterms of peace, though things were kept as secret as possible until thefollowing day. Then we saw General Prinsloo ride in with his _aide_and surrender. He met General Rundle first, and a few minutes later GeneralHunter, and the three leaders rode through the lines together. They werecloseted closely for some hours before the final agreement could be arrivedat. Prinsloo wanted terms for his men which the British generals would notconcede, the final agreement being that the burghers were to ride in andthrow down their arms under our flag. They were to be allowed a riding hackto convey them to the railway station, and each man was to remain inpossession of his private effects. More than this General Hunter would notconcede upon any terms. At one period of the negotiations things became sostrained that hostilities were almost renewed, but the Hoof Commandant waswise enough to realise that destiny had decided against him and his burgherband. He came from the conclave at last, and gave an order in Dutch to his_aide_, and in a moment the horseman was flying towards the Boerlaager with the news that, so far as they were concerned, the great war of1899 and 1900 was at an end. 

Our troops had been drawn up in long parallel lines, up over the slopes, over the crest, and along the edge of "Victory Hill. " They formed a lane ofblood and steel, down which the conquered veldtsmen had to march. Theirguns were on their flanks, the generals grouped in the centre. Everythingwas hushed and still; there was no sign of braggart triumph, no unseemlymirth, no swagger in the demeanour of the troops. They had worked like men;they carried their laurels with conscious power and pride, but with nooffensive show. It was a sight which few men ever behold, and none everforget. The glory of the skies, where everything that met the eye wasbrightest blue, edged with stainless whiteness, was above us; and beneathour feet, and to right and left, were great valleys--not smiling like ourEnglish vales, where sunlight runs through shadows like laughter throughtears, but vast uncultivated gaps that grinned in sardonic silence atconqueror and conquered, as though to remind us that we were but puppets ina passing show. Kopjes and valleys may have looked upon many a grim page inwar's history. Savage chiefs, backed by savage hordes, have swept acrossthem many a time and oft. Possibly, if the rocks had tongues, they couldtell us much of ancient armies, for this land of Africa is old in blood andwarlike doings. But few more remarkable sights than this upon which my eyesrested upon the 30th July, 1900, have ever graced even this land of manywonders. 

I looked along our lines, and saw our soldiers standing patiently waitingfor the curtain to fall. I was proud of them, and of the men who led them, for they had won without one cruel stroke. No single human life hadwantonly been wasted, no dishonourable deed had smirched their arms, nosmoking ruins cried aloud to God for retribution, no outraged women sobbeddry-eyed behind us, no starving children fled before the khaki wave; and inthis last hour, an hour pregnant with humiliation and pain to our enemies, there was the steady manliness which spoke of the great dignity of a greatnation. Out from the stillness a bugle spoke from the lines of theLeinsters; the Scottish bagpipes, far away down the hillside, took up thenote with a shrill scream of triumph, like the challenge of an eagle in itseyrie. A rustle ran along the lines. We caught the hum of many voices, thenthe tramp of horses' hoofs. A soldier slipped towards the spot where ourcountry's flag was furled and ready; a moment later the Union Jack spreadout and hugged the breezes. Our foemen rode towards the flag between thelines of those whose hands had placed it there, and when they came abreastof it they dropped their rifles and their bandoliers, and with bent headspassed onwards. 

Some were boys, so young that rifles looked unholy things in hands sochildlike; others were old men, grey and grizzled, grim old tillers of thesoil, who looked as hard as the rocky boulders against which they leant, many were in the pride of manhood; but old or young, grey beard or nobeard, all of them seemed to realise that they were a beaten people. Allday, and for many days, they came to us and laid their arms aside, untilfully 4, 000 men had owned themselves our prisoners. We gathered in theflocks and herds which had been held by them as army stores, and then weset to work to give the Free State peace and peaceful laws. Our next stepwas to march upon Harrismith, which was merely an armed promenade, for thereal work of the campaign had been completed when, on Victory Hill, nearSlap Kranz, Commandant Prinsloo surrendered with all his forces, exceptingthe few who fled with De Wet and Olivier. Our flag is the symbol of victoryin every village and town. May it always be the symbol of even-handedjustice, for no power in all the world, unless backed by wise and purelaws, will hold Africa for twenty years. 

I have never before attempted to express an opinion upon the future ofAfrica, yet now, when I have been nine months at the front, when I havemarched through the Free State from border to border, noting carefully thedemeanour of the people we have conquered, and the conduct of our troopstowards those people, I may be allowed by the more tolerant of the Britishpublic to express an opinion. I do not see "white winged peace" broodingover this country. I see a people beaten, broken, out-generalled, andout-fought. I see a people who, even when whipped, maintain that the warhas been an unholy war, brewed and bred by a few adventurers for sordidmotives; and in my poor opinion there is little in front of us in SouthAfrica but trouble and storm, unless someone with a cleaner soul than theordinary politician remains in Africa to represent our nation. Only one manseems to me to stand out as fitted by God and nature with the highqualities which the ruler of Africa should possess. He is a man who has thegift of leadership as few men--ancient or modern--ever possessed it, a manwhose word is known to be unbreakable, whose hands are clean, whose recordis stainless--the Field-Marshal, Lord Roberts. The man who is to rule SouthAfrica must be a great soldier, not a tyrant, not a martinet, not a bundleof red tape tied up with a Downing Street bow and adorned with frills. Thenegro trouble is looming large on the African borders, and the negro chiefsknow that in Lord Roberts they have their master. We must not pander tothem to the injury of the Dutch, or how are we to weld Dutch and Britishinto a national whole? Our generals have so conducted this campaign, especially this latter part of it, that not only does the Dutchman knowthat we can fight, but he knows that we can be generous with the splendidgenerosity of a truly great people. Our generals, with few exceptions, haveleft that record behind them, for which a nation's thanks are due; and fewhave done more than the commander of the Eighth Division, Sir LeslieRundle, who can say that not only did he never lose an English gun, butthat never did the enemy of his country succeed in breaking through hislines. Few men, placed as he was, week after week, month after month, wouldhave been able to make so proud a boast. 

These are possibly the last lines I shall ever write in connection with theEighth Division. Their work is practically over here. My own is done, formy health is badly broken, and I shall follow this to England. But if Icannot march home with them, when they come back in triumph to receive froma grateful country the praise they have won, I can at least have thesatisfaction of knowing that for many months I shared their vicissitudes, if not their glory. 

 CHARACTER SKETCHES IN CAMP. 

 THE CAMP LIAR. 

In the days of my almost forgotten boyhood I remember reading in the Bookof all books that the Wise Man, in a fit of blank despair, declared thatthere were several things under heaven which he could neither gauge norunderstand, viz. , "The way of a serpent upon a rock, and the way of a manwith a maid, " and I beg leave to doubt if Solomon, in all his wisdom, couldunderstand the little ways of a camp liar in his frisky glory. Whence hecometh, whither he goeth, and why he was born, are conundrums which mighttax the ingenuity of all the prophets, from Daniel downwards, to solve. Ihave sought him with peace offerings in each hand, hoping to beguile himfrom his sinful ways, and have located him not. I have risen in the chillydawn, and laid wait for him with a gun, but have not feasted mine eyes uponhim. I have lain awake through the still watches of the night planningdivers surprises for him, but success has not come nigh unto me. I havecursed the camp liar with a fervour born of long suffering, and I havehired a Zulu mule-driver to curse him for me; but my efforts have come tonought, and now I am sore in my very bones when I think of him. All menwhose fate it is to dwell under canvas know of his work, but no man hathyet laid hand or eye upon him. A man goeth to his blankets at night timefeeling good towards all mankind, satisfied in his own soul that he hasgarnered in all the legitimate news that he is in any way entitled tohandle for the public benefit; and lo! when he ariseth in the dawning hefinds that the camp liar has neither slept nor slumbered, for the very airis full of stories concerning battles which have not been fought andvictories which have not been won. From mouth to mouth, all along thelines, the stories run as fire runs along fuse, and no man born of womancan tell whence they came or where they will stop. Each soldier questionedswears the tale is true, because "'twas told to him by one who never lied. "Yet, at evening, when the weary wretch who works for newspapers returns tohis tent, with his boots worn through with fruitless search for the authorof the "news, " he learns that once again he has been the dupe of the "campliar"; and he may well be forgiven if he then heaps a whole continent ofcurses on the invisible shape which, forming itself into a lie, is smallenough to enter a man's mouth, and yet big enough to permeate a whole camp. What is a camp liar? It is not a man, neither is it a maid, neither is itdog nor devil. It is a nameless shadow, which flits through the minds ofmen, fashioned by the Father of Evil to be a curse and a scourge to warcorrespondents. A mining liar is an awful liar, but he takes tangible form, and one can grapple with him when he appears upon a prospectus. A politicalliar is a pitiful liar, and vengeance finds him out upon the hustings, andeggs and the produce of the kitchen garden are his reward. A legal liar isa loquacious liar, but he is bounded by his brief and the extent of hisfees. But the camp liar has no bounds, and is equally at home in alllanguages, at one moment dealing with an army in full marching order, andthe next battening festively upon one man in a mudhole. There is no heightto which the camp liar dare not ascend, there is nothing too trivial for itto touch. It has neither sex nor shape; but, like a fallen angel oustedfrom Heaven, and not wanted in Hades, it flits through camp a mentalmicrobe, spawning falsehoods in the souls of soldiers. 

The camp liar concocts a story of a fearful fight, and fills the air withthe groans of the dying, and makes a weird picture out of the grisly, grinning silence of the ghastly dead. Kopjes are stained a rich ripe redwith the blood of heroes, and arms, and legs, and skulls, and shattered jawbones hurtle through the air midst the sound of bursting shells, likestraws in a stable-yard when the wind blows high. The very poetry of lyingis touched with a master hand when charging squadrons sweep across theveldt and the sunlight kisses the soldier's steel. Then comes the pathosdear to the liar's soul--the farewells of the dying, sobbed just sevenseconds before sunset into comrades' ears; the faltering voice, thetear-dimmed eyes, the death rattle in the throat, the last hand clasps, thelast deep-drawn breath, in which--mother--Mary--and Heaven are alwaysmingled; and then the moonlight and the moaning of the midnightwind!----The war correspondent leaps from the tent, springs into his saddlewith his note-book in his mouth and an indelible lead pencil in each hand, and rides over kopje and veldt ten dreary miles to gaze upon the scene ofthat awful battle, and finds--one dead mule, and a nigger driver, deaddrunk. Then, if he has had a religious education, he climbs out of thesaddle, sinks on his knees, and prays for the peace of the camp liar'simmortal soul. But if, as is often the case, he has had a secularupbringing, he spits on the dead mule, kicks the nigger, slinks back tocamp by a roundabout route, and swears to everyone that he has been fortymiles in another direction in a railway truck. 

Four or five days later, just at that hour in the morning when a man clingsmost fondly to his blankets, another rumour breaks the early morning'slimpid silence, a rumour of a battle of great import raging eighteen milesaway, just within easy riding distance for a smart correspondent. But theman of ink and hardships chuckles this time. He has been fooled so often bythe imp of camp rumours; so murmurs just loud enough to be heard in heaven, "That infernal camp liar again, " and rustles his blankets round his earsand drops cosily back into dreamland; but when, later on, he learns that animportant battle has been fought, and he has missed it all because he didnot want to be fooled by the camp liar, then what he mutters is mutteredloud enough to be heard in a different place, and the folk there don't needear trumpets to catch what he says either. 

 CHARACTER SKETCHES IN CAMP. 

 THE NIGGER SERVANT. 

It is raining outside my tent. It has rained for three days and nights, andlooks quite capable of raining for three days more; everything is simplysodden. You try to look around you at the men's camps. At every step yourboots go up to the ankle, squelch, in the black mud. You slip as you walk, and go down on your hands and knees in the slimy filth; that brings out allthe poetry in your nature. If you have had a Christian training in youryouth, you think of David dodging Saul, and your sympathies go out towardsthe stupid king. The mud is everywhere; the horses have trodden it to slimein many places, in others the feet of the soldiers have transformed it tobatter. Everything is cold, dreary, dismal; even the tobacco is damp, andleaves a taste in a man's mouth like the receipt of bad news from home. Ilook at the soldiers hanging around like sheep round a blocked-up shed in asnow-storm, and I feel sympathetic. Their puttees are wet, and there is asuggestion of future rheumatism in every fold that encircles their calves;I can't see much more of them except their weather-beaten faces. They weartheir helmets and their blue-black overcoats, but both are wet. They don'tlook happy, and the cause is not hard to find: they have slept out forthree nights without tents. Their blankets are like sponges that have beenleft in a tub. Each blanket seems to hold about three gallons of water. 

I arrived at this computation by watching the men wringing their bedding. Two men got hold of a blanket, one at each end; they twist it differentways, and the water runs out in a stream. The soldiers relapse intolanguage. Most of their adjectives have a decidedly pink tinge, and Ishouldn't wonder if they became scarlet if this sort of weather continued. 

My nigger slops along through the slush and tells me that my lunch isready. He is not a happy-looking nigger by any means. A white man looks badenough in the mud and cold, but a nigger presents a pitiful spectacle. Hisface goes whitish green, with an undercurrent of slatey grey runningthrough it. The brilliancy leaves the coal-black eyes, and they become aslifeless and limp as a professional politician at a prayer meeting. Themouth goes agape, the thick lips become flabby, and fall away from theteeth. The mouth does not seem to fit the face, but hangs on to it like asecond-hand suit on a backyard fence. My nigger is no better, and no worse, than the rest of them. He looks like a chapter in Lamentations, and isabout as much at home in the sodden camp as a bar of wet soap in a sandheap. Just now he is good for nothing except to sing doleful hymns in a keysad enough to frighten a transit mule away from a bag of mealies. When heis not singing sadly he is quoting Scripture and thinking about hisimmortal soul. When the sun comes out to-morrow and the day after, he willbe dancing a most unholy dance or be making love to "Dinah, " filling in theintervals by cursing in three different languages stray horses that stealour fodder. 

It is really astonishing what a difference the weather makes to the moralsof the South African nigger. Give him plenty of sunshine, and he forgets heever had a soul, and throws slabs of blasphemy, picked up from the Tommiesaround him, with painful liberality. When he gets tired of English oaths, he drops into Cape Dutch, and some of the curses contained in that languageare solid enough to hurt anything they hit. Later on he drifts into hisnative tongue, raises his voice a couple of octaves, and streaks theatmosphere with multi-coloured oaths, until you imagine you are listeningto a vocal rainbow. But take away the sunshine, give him a wet hide and awet floor to camp on, and he straightway becomes all penitence and prayer. His face, peering out dismally between the upturned collar of hisweather-stained coat and the down-drawn brim of his battered hat, lookslike a soiled sermon, and he is altogether woeful. 

When the weather is warm he decks himself out in any piece of gaudy fineryhe can lay hands upon. He loves to wear a glaring yellow roll of silk orcloth around his hat, a blue or green 'kerchief about his throat, and acrimson girdle encircled about his loins. Then he thinks he is a midsummersunset, and swaggers round like a peacock in full plumage, looking forsomething to "mash. " He has no sense of the eternal law of averages. Itdoes not trouble him if the whole seat of his most important garment isrepresented by a hole big enough to put a baby in, if he only has theartistic decorations I have mentioned above. Nor does he see anything outof the way in the fact that one of his feet is encased in an officer's topboot and the other in a remnant of a Boer farmer's cast-off veldtschoon. His soul yearns towards feathers. He will pluck a grand white plume fromthe tail of an ostrich if he gets a favourable opportunity, and place ittriumphantly in his torn and soiled slouch hat, or he will pick up adiscarded bonnet from a dust pile and rob it of feathers placed there byfeminine hands, in order that he may look a black Beau Brummell. 

His manners, like his morals, change with the weather. When the barometerregisters "fine and clear, " you may expect a saucy answer if you rate himfor a late breakast; when it registers "warm, and likely to be warmer, " youmay consider yourself lucky if you get a morning meal at all. But when itindicates "hot, " and the mercury still rising, you know that the time hasarrived for you to climb out of your coat and commence cooking foryourself, unless you feel equal to the task of spreading a saucy nigger insections around the adjacent allotments. It is not always healthy to adoptthe latter plan, especially if your "boy" happens to be a Basuto or a Zulu. Should he belong to either of those tribes, threaten him as much as youlike, but don't hurry to put your threats into practice; or the nigger maydo the scattering, and you may do the penitent part of the business. Youmay bully him as much as you like when the barometer is falling, for thenthe life is all out of him, and he has not sufficient spirit left in him toresent any sort of insult. 

Even "Tommy" knows this, and on a cold day will call a big Zulu servant bya name which implies that the Zulu's father and mother were never legallymarried. The Zulu will only smile dismally, and tell "Tommy" that he willpray for the salvation of his soul. Three days later, when the air isdancing in the heat-rays, if Mr. Atkins, emboldened by former success, repeats the speech, the Zulu will rise and confront him with blazing eyes, showing at the same time a wide range of beautiful white teeth, set in asavage snarl, and give Mr. Atkins a choice of titles which it would be hardto improve upon even in a Dublin dockyard, and he will not be slow to backhis mouth with his hands should the argument become pressing, as more thanone of her Majesty's lieges have found out to their deep and lastinghumiliation. 

When a combination of rain and religion has depressed him the niggerservant is one of the most abject-looking mortals that ever wore clothes, and makes as sad a spectacle as a farmyard fowl on a front fence in athunderstorm. But he must not be judged altogether by his appearance onsuch occasions. He can be loyal to his "boss, " and when fit and well hewill fight when roused as a devil might fight for the soul of a deacon. Heloves to ride or drive a horse, but he is not fond of horses, as Iunderstand the term. He has no idea of making a pet of his charge. A horseis to him merely something to get about upon, and he cannot understand ourfondness for our equine friends. I have noticed the same trait in the Boercharacter. To a Boer a horse is usually merely a means of transit from spotto spot; not a comrade, not a companion. I was not astonished to find thisfeeling amongst the niggers, because I have noticed it among the natives inevery colony in Australia, and even amongst such inveterate horsemen as theSioux Indians of America and the Maories of New Zealand; but I wassurprised to note how little sympathy existed between the Boer and hisequine helper. 

The nigger servant is a sporting sort of party, and never loses anopportunity to indulge his tastes in this direction. I had an excellentchance the other day to note how fond he is of a bit of hunting. We hadcamped before sundown in a rather picturesque position, and I was watchingthe effect of the declining sun on the gloomy kopjes, when I noticed acommotion in all the camps, in front, at the rear, and on both flanks. Inten seconds every nigger in the whole camp had deserted his work and wasfrantically dashing out on to the veldt. They uttered shrill cries as theyran, and every man had some sort of weapon in his hand, either a tomahawk, a billet of wood, or a rock. With marvellous celerity they formed a hugecircle, though what they were after was a puzzle to me. I fancied forawhile that one of their number must have run "amuck, " and the rest meantto send him to slumber. Quickly they narrowed the circle, the whole body ofthem moving as if linked together and propelled by unseen mechanism. Whenthe circle got about the third the size of an ordinary cricket ground I sawwhat they were after. A brace of hares had caught their eyes, and this wastheir method of capturing the fleet-footed, but stupid, "racers of theveldt. " First one nigger and then another detached himself from the circle, and, darting in, had a shy at the quarry with whatever missile he had withhim. If he missed--and a good many of them missed--the speedy little bit offur, he returned crestfallen to the circle again, amidst jeers and laughterfrom the rest. The hares darted hither and thither in that ever narrowingcircle of foes, until a couple of well-aimed shots, one with a rock as bigas a cricket ball, and one with a tomahawk, laid them out, and they becamethe prize of the successful marksmen. The nigger "boy" has to be paid onepound a week and his "scoff, " and, taking him all in all, in spite of hisfaults, which are many, I verily think he earns it. 

 CHARACTER SKETCHES IN CAMP. 

 THE SOLDIER PREACHER. 

 (Written at Enslin Battlefield. )

He was standing at eventide facing the rough and rugged heights of Enslin. The crimson-tinted clouds that emblazoned the sky cast a ruddy radianceround his head and face, making him appear like one of those ancientmartyrs one is apt to see on stained-glass windows in old-world churches inRome or Venice. His feet were firmly planted close to the graves of theBritish soldiers and sailors who had fallen when we beat the Boers anddrove them back upon Modder River. 

In one hand he held a little, well-worn Bible; his other hand was raisedhigh above his close-cropped head, whilst his voice rang out on the sultry, storm-laden air like the clang of steel on steel:

"Prepare ter meet yer God!"

No one who looked at the neat, strong figure arrayed in the plain khakiuniform of a private soldier, at the clean-shaven, square-jawed face, atthe fearless grey-blue eyes, could doubt either his honesty or earnestness. Courage was imprinted by Nature's never-erring hand on every lineament ofhis Saxon features. So might one of Cromwell's stern-browed warriors havestood on the eve of Marston Moor. 

"Prepare ter meet yer God!"

To the right of him the long lines of the tents spread upwards towards thekopje; to the left the veldt, with its wealth of grey-green grass, sown bythe bounteous hand of the Great Harvester; all around him, excepting wherethe graves raised their red-brown furrows, rows of soldiers lounged, listing to the old, old story of man's weakness and eternal shame, andChrist's love and everlasting pity. On the soldier preacher's breast a longrow of decorations gleamed, telling of honourable service to Queen andcountry. Before a man could wear those ribbons he must have faced death asbrave men face it on many a battlefield. He must have known the agonies ofthirst, the dull dead pain of sleepless nights and midnight marches, thetireless watching at the sentry's post, and the onward rush of armed men upheights almost unscalable. On Egypt's sun-scorched plains he must havefaced the mad onslaughts of the Dervish hosts, and rallied with the men whoheld the lines at Abu Klea Wells, where gallant Burnaby was slain. Thehills of Afghanistan must have re-echoed to his tread, else why the greenand crimson ribbon that mingled with the rest? His eyes had flashed alongthe advancing lines of charging impi, led by Zulu chiefs. Yet never hadthey flashed with braver light than now, when, facing that half-mocking, half-reckless crowd, he cried:

"Prepare ter meet yer God!"

Rough as the thrust of a broken bayonet was his speech, unskilled inrhetoric his tongue, his periods unrounded as flying fragments of shrapnelshell; yet all who listened knew that every word came from the speaker'ssoul, from the magazine of truth. Some London slum had been his cradle, thegutters of the great city the only University his feet had known, thecosters' dialect was native to his tongue; yet no smug Churchman crownedwith the laurels of the schools could so have stirred the blood of thosewild lads, fresh from the boundless bush and lawless mining camps beneathAustralian suns. 

"Prepare ter meet yer God!"

And even as he spoke we, who listened, plainly heard the rolling thunder ofour guns as they spoke in sterner tones to the nation's foes from ModderRiver. It was no new figure that the soldier preacher placed before us. Itwas the same indignant Christ that swept the rabble from the Temple; thesame great Christ who calmly faced the seething mob in Pilate's judgmenthall; the same sweet Christ who took the babes upon His knee; the sameDivine Christ who, with hyssop and gall, and mingled blood and tears, passed death's dread portals on the dark brow of Calvary. The same grandfigure, but quaintly dressed in words that savoured of the London slums andof the soldier's camp, and yet so hedged around with earnest love andchildlike faith that all its grossest trappings fell away and left usnothing but the ideal Christ. 

Once more we heard the distant batteries speak to those whose hands hadrudely grasped the Empire's flag, and every rock, and hill, and crag, andstony height took up the echo, like a lion's roar, until the whisperingwind was tremulous with sound. Then all was hushed except the preacher'svoice. 

"Prepare ter meet yer God! I've come ter tell yer all abart a General whosearmies hold ther City of Eternal Life. If you are wounded, throw yer riflesdown, 'nd 'e will send the ambulance of 'is love, with Red Cross angels, and 'is adjutant, whose name is Mercy, to dress yer wounds. Throw down yerrifles 'nd surrender. No rebels can enter the City of Eternal Life. Youcan't storm ther walls, Or take ther gates at ther point of ther baynit, for ther ramparts are guarded 'nd ther sentries never sleep. When therbugles sound ther larst reville you will ever 'ear, 'nd ther colonel, whosename is Death, gives the order ter march, you'll have nothink to fearabart, if yer bandoliers are full o' faith 'nd yer rifles are sighted withgood works. Yer uniforms may be ragged, and you may not even have acorporal's stripe to show; but if yer can pass ther sentries fearlessly, you'll find a general's commission waitin' for yer just inside ther gate. But yer earn't fool with my General. Remember this: ther password is, 'Repentance, ' 'nd nothink else will do. The sentry on duty will see youcomin' and will challenge you. 'Who goes there?' 'Friend!' 'Advance, friend, 'nd give ther counter-sign!' If you say, 'Good works, ' you'll find'is baynit up against yer chest. If yer say you forgot to get it, you'll bein ther clink in 'ell in ther twinklin' of an eye; but if yer say, loud 'ndclear, 'Repentance, ' 'e will lower 'is baynit 'nd say, 'Pass, friend. All'swell!'"

 PRESIDENT STEYN. 

Out on the veldt, far from the wife and home he loves so well, he stands, our country's bold, unyielding foe. And even as he stands he knows that thefinger of Fate has written his own and his country's doom in letters largeand deep on the walls of time. Yet, with unblenching brow, he waits thefalling of the thunderbolt, a calm, grand figure, fit to live in history'spages when every memory of meaner men has passed into oblivion, M. T. Steyn, President of the shattered Free State of South Africa. Around this man thehuman jackals howl to try with lying lips to foul his memory. Yet, as arock, age after age, throws back with contemptuous strength the waves thatbreak against its base, so every action of his manly life gives the lie totales which cowards tell. 

He is our foe, no stabber in the dark, moving with stealthy steps amidstprofessions of pretended peace, but in the open, where the gaze of God andman can rest upon him, he stands, defiant, though undone. He staked hiscountry's freedom, his earthly happiness, and his high position in thegreat game of war; staked all that mortal man holds dear; staked it forwhat? For love of gain! May he who spawned that lie to stir our people'shearts to boundless wrath against this falling man live to repent insackcloth and in tears the evil deed so done. . . . Staked it for what? Tofeed his own ambition! I tell you no; the undercurrent which brought forththe deed sprang from a nobler and a higher source. His country stoodpledged in time of peace to help in time of war a sister State, and whenthe bond fell due he honoured it, though none knew better than this nobleman that when he loosed the dogs of war he crossed a lion's path. 

Now he is tottering to his fall, amidst the ruins of a crumbling State, forsaken by the Powers that egged him on with covert promises of armedsupport, abandoned to the tender mercies of his foes by those on whosebehalf he drew the sword. Yet, even now, the dauntless spirit of the manrises above the wreckage of disaster. A little band of heroes ring himround. Though every man in all that fearless few is England's foe, yet we, who boast the Vikings' blood in every vein, can we not honour them? So didour forefathers stand round Harold when Norman William trod with armed heelon English soil. So stood our fathers when Blucher's laggard step hung backfrom Waterloo. Are we not great enough to look with pride upon a gallantfoe? Or has our nation fallen from its high estate, has chivalry departedfrom our blood, and left us nothing but the dregs which go to make a nationof hucksters? If so, then let us leave the battlefields to better men, andtrain our children solely for the market-place. But these are idle words, born of the spleen which such a thought engenders. Full well I know thetemper of our people, terrible in their wrath, but swift to see thenobleness in those who face them boldly. 

And these be noble men, my masters. They rally round their chief, as youand yours would rally round a British leader if foreign hordes swept withresistless might over England's historic soil. All that they loved they'velost, and nothing now remains to them but honour and a patriot's grave; andin the grim game of war it is our stern task to give them what they seek--asoldier's death beneath the doomed flag which, in their stubborn pride, they will never forsake. But even whilst we hem them round with bristlingbayonets, ready for the last dread act in this red drama, let us pay themthe tribute due to all brave men; for he who gives his life to guard acause he holds most dear is worthy of our admiration, though he be tenthousand times our foe. What should we think of men who, left to guard theKentish fields, threw down their arms and sued for peace to any leader ofan invading host because our cause seemed lost? Should we not curse them asa craven crowd, and teach our lisping babes to mock their memory? Would anyfair-faced girl in all the British Isles wed any man who would not fightuntil the sinews slackened with slaying in defence of the homeland? If so, they are not fashioned of the metal of which their granddames were made. 

And what we honour as the prince of virtues in a Briton shall we condemn asvice in this little band of Free State Boers and their leader, loyal to alost cause? No, England, no! It is not you that shriek anathemas to theweeping skies because the foe dies hard. The gutter gamin and the brutallout who never owned a soul fit to rise above the level of the kettlesinging on the hearth may brand the name of Steyn and his stout burgherswith infamy; but the clean-souled people of the Motherland, the people fromwhose ranks our greatest fighters and thinkers spring, will not endorsethat cry. No, not though every slanderous throat shall shriek until theycannot wail an octave higher. 

It is not from such great men as Roberts that we hear these pitiful talesconcerning those who give us battle. He who has been a man of war fromchildhood to old age would never stoop to soil his manly lips to woo thefleeting favours of a mob, and he has proved himself as wise in council asupon the death-strewn fields of war. So wise, so brave, so loyal to hisword, that even those whom he, at his country's call, has had to crush, lift their hats reverently at the mention of his name, because he wearsupon his hero soul the white flower of a blameless life. Would Kitchener, whose dread name strikes terror to the heart of every burgher, would hebefoul his foeman's fame? I tell you no, though whilst a foe remains inarms he strikes with all a giant's force and spares not; but when the blowhas fallen, he of all men would preserve his enemies' fair fame intact. Soit should be whilst those who stand in arms against our country and ourcountry's flag refuse the terms we offer. We should make war so terriblethat every enemy should dread the sound of British bugles as they woulddread the trump of doom. When once the country's voice has called for war, then war should sweep with resistless might over land and sea, until sweetpeace should seem a boon to be desired above all earthly things by thosewho stand in arms against us. If Steyn and those who with heroic heartshedge him round refuse to bow to destiny and the God of Battles, then heand they must fall before the bayonets of our soldiery as growing cornfalls before the sickle of the reaper. But even in their fall they canclaim as their heaven-born heritage our nation's deepest admiration fortheir dauntless devotion to their love of country, home, and kindred. Andwe will but add laurels to the renown our soldiers have won if we, withunsparing hand, mete out to them the praises due to manly foes. Ours be thetask to slay them where they stand; not ours the task to rob them of theglory they have won. 

 LOUIS BOTHA, COMMANDANT-GENERAL OF THE BOER ARMY. 

Louis Botha, who has cut so deep a mark in the pages of history, is only ayoung man yet, being about seven-and-thirty years of age. He is a "finefigure of a man, " standing in the neighbourhood of six feet in his boots. His face is handsome, intellectual, and determined; his expression kindlyand compassionate. The razor never touches his face, but his brown beard isalways neatly trimmed, for the young Commandant-General is particular inregard to his personal appearance in a manly way, though in no respectfoppish. He is now, and always has been, an excellent athlete, a good rifleshot, and a first-class horseman; not given at any time to indoor pastimesover much, though fond of a quiet game of whist. He was born in Natal, ofDutch parents, and married to Miss Emmett, a relative of Robert Emmett, theIrish Revolutionist. Young Botha was educated at Greytown, and though agood, sound commercial scholar, he gave no evidence in his schoolboy daysof what was in him. No one who knew him then would have dreamed that beforehe was forty years of age he would be the foremost soldier of his country. His folk were moderately well off, but the adventurous spirit of the futuregeneral sent him inland from Natal when a large number of Natal and FreeState Boers enlisted under the flag of General Lucas Meyer, who was bentupon making war upon a powerful negro tribe in the neighbourhood ofVryheid. During the fighting young Botha was his general's right-hand man, displaying even at that early age a cool, level head and a stout heart. When the Boers were firmly settled upon the land Vryheid was declared aRepublic, and Lucas Meyer was elected first President. But the new Republiclasted only about three years, and was then, by mutual consent, merged intoTransvaal territory, and both Lucas Meyer and Louis Botha were electedmembers of the Volksraad. Louis Botha retained his seat right up to thetime hostilities broke out between Great Britain and the Republics underMr. Kruger and Mr. Steyn. 

During the many stormy scenes which preceded the actual declaration of warLouis Botha proved that he possessed the coolest and most level head in theVolksraad. He opposed the war, and, with prophetic eye, foresaw the awfuldevastation of his country which would follow in the footsteps of theBritish army. But when the time came, and his country was irretrievablypledged to war, he was not the man to hang back. He was one of those whohad much to lose and little indeed to gain by taking up arms against us, for, by honest industry, he had become a wealthy farmer and stockbreeder. At the first call to arms he threw aside his senatorial duties, and took uphis rifle, rejoining his old commando at Vryheid as commandant underGeneral Lucas Meyer. It is said that at the battle of Dundee General Meyer, feeling convinced that the God of Battles had decided against him and hisforces, decided to surrender to the British, but Louis Botha fiercelycombated his general's decision, and point-blank refused to throw down hisarms or counsel his men to do so. What followed all the world knows, andBotha went up very high in the estimation of the better class of fightingburghers. At the Tugela, before the first big battle took place, GeneralMeyer was taken ill, and had to retire to Pretoria, and Louis Botha wasthen elected assistant-general, and the planning of the battle was leftentirely to him. 

It was a terribly responsible position to place so young a man in, for hewas face to face with the then Commander-in-Chief of the British army, SirRedvers Buller, a general of dauntless determination and undoubted ability. Experience, men, and all the munitions of war were in favour of the Britishgeneral; but the awful nature of the country was upon the side of the newlyfledged Boer leader, and he made terrible use of it. The day of Colenso, when Sir Redvers Buller received his first decisive check, will not soon beforgotten in the annals of our Army. A man of weaker fibre than the Britishleader would have been daunted by the disasters of that day, for there helost ten guns and a large number of men. But Buller carried in his bloodall the old grit of our race, and the heavier the check the more his soulwas set upon ultimate victory. I have been over that battle ground, andhave looked at the positions taken up by Louis Botha. They were chosen withconsummate skill, born of a thorough knowledge of the nature of the countryand inherent generalship. 

I have looked at the country Sir Redvers Buller had to pass through to getat his wise and skilful adversary. The man who dared make the attempt thatBuller made must have had nerves of steel, and a soul that would not blenchif ordered to storm the very gates of Hades. The worst fighting ground thatI saw in all the Free State was but a mockery of war compared to the groundaround Colenso, and I have seen some terrible places in the Free State. Buta man has to see the ground Buller fought in to realise the magnitude ofthe task the Empire set him at the beginning of the war. Great as LordRoberts is, I doubt if he would have done more than Buller did under thesame circumstances. 

That battle of Colenso made young Louis Botha famous, and from that hourthe eyes of the burghers were turned towards him as the one man fit to leadthem. At Spion Kop, when the Boer leader, Schalk Burger, vacated thesplendid position he had been ordered to take up, Louis Botha's geniusgrasped the mighty import of the situation, and he at once realised thatSchalk Burger had blundered terribly, and it was he who retook thosepositions with such disastrous consequences to our forces. His fame spreadfar and near, and his name became a thing to conjure with. When theCommandant-General of the Boer Army, General Joubert, lay dying, he wasasked who was the best man to fill his place. And he, the grey veteran, didnot hesitate for a second, but with his dying breath gasped out the name ofLouis Botha. The Boer Government promptly appointed him to the position, and from that day to this he has been the paramount military power in theBoer lines. He is not the only one of his line fighting under the Transvaalflag. There are four other brothers in the field, one of whom, ChristianBotha, is now a general, and a good fighter. As a soldier Louis Botha hasproved himself a foeman worthy the steel of any of our generals; as a manhis worst enemy can say nothing derogatory concerning him, for in all hisactions he has borne himself like a gentleman. He is generous and courteousin the hour of victory, stout-hearted and self-reliant in the time ofdisaster--just the type of soldier that a great nation like ours knows howto esteem, even though he is an enemy in arms against us. 

 WHITE FLAG TREACHERY. 

Few things have astonished me more during the progress of this war than thenumber of charges levelled against our foes in reference to the treacheroususe of the white flag. Almost every newspaper that came my way containedsome such account; yet, though constantly at the front for nine months, Icannot recall one solitary instance of such treachery which I could vouchfor. I have heard of dozens of cases, and have taken the trouble toinvestigate a good many, but never once managed to obtain sufficient proofto satisfy me that the charge was genuine. On one occasion I was followingclose on the heels of our advancing troops, and had for a comrade a ratherexcitable correspondent. When within about fourteen hundred yards of thekopjes we were advancing to attack, the Boers opened a heavy rifle fire;and, though we could not see a solitary enemy, our fellows began to drop. It was very evident that the enemy were secreted in the rocks not far froma substantial farmhouse, from the roof of which floated a large white flag(it turned out later to be a tablecloth braced to a broom handle). 

"There's another case of d---- white flag treachery, " shouted my companion. "I wonder the general don't turn the guns on that farm and blow it toHades. "

"What for?" I asked. 

"What for! Why, they are flying the white flag, and shooting from thefarmhouse. Isn't that enough?"

"Quite enough, if true, " I replied. "But how the devil do you know they areshooting from the farmhouse?"

"They must be shooting from the farmhouse, " he yelled. "Why, I've beenscouring all the rocks around with my glasses, and can't see a blessed Boerin any of 'em. No, sir, you can bet your soul they are skulking in thatfarm. They know we won't loose a shell on the white flag---the cowards!"

I did not think it worth while to argue with a man of that stamp, but keptmy glasses on that farm very closely during the fight that followed. Rightup to the time when our men rushed the kopjes and surrounded the farmhouseI did not see a man enter or leave the house, and when I rode up I foundthat two women and three children were in possession. Furthermore, onexamination, I soon discovered that, as the doors and windows faced thewrong way, it would have been impossible for a Boer to do much shooting atour men, unless the walls at the gable end were loopholed, which they werenot, I know, for I examined them minutely. Fortunately for the credit ofthe British Army, most of our generals are coolheaded men who do not allowthe irresponsible chatter of the army to influence them. Otherwise our gunswould have been trained upon many a homestead on charges quite as flimsyand groundless as the one quoted above. 

I suppose that cases of treachery have really occurred during the war. In amixed crowd like that which composes the burgher army, there are sure to besome mortals fit to do any mean trick, just as sure as there are men fit todo or say anything in the British Army, But I cannot, and I will not, believe that the great bulk of these men are such paltry cowards as to makethe "white flag" act a common one. It may be news to British readers toknow that the burghers complain of the behaviour of our troops as bitterlyas we complain of theirs; and I think, from personal observation, thattheir charges are as groundless as are some charges made by the same classof hysterical individuals, though of different nationality. Their pethatred, when I was a prisoner in their hands, was the Lancers. They used toswear that the Lancers never spared a wounded man, but ran him through asthey galloped past him. I was told this fifty times, and each time told myinformant flatly that I declined to believe the assertion, and shouldcontinue to disbelieve it until I had undeniable proof, for it would take agood deal to convince me that a British soldier would strike a fallen foeeven in the heat and stress of battle. One day they asked me to come andlook at the dead body of one of their field cornets, whom they alleged tohave been done to death whilst wounded by our Lancers. I went and saw theman, and at a glance saw that the wounds were not lance wounds at all, butripping bullet wounds. He had been sniped by some Australian riflemen froma high kopje whilst in a valley. I tried to explain this to the excitedburghers, but they only sneered at me for my trouble, until one of theirown doctors coming along had a look at the corpse, and promptly verified mystatements. That calmed them considerably, and they looked at the thing incooler blood, and soon saw that it was really absurd to put the blame ofthe man's death on the shoulders of the Lancers, though they stoutlymaintained that our cavalry were at times guilty of such monstrous conduct. I have often heard them solemnly swear never to give a Lancer a chance tosurrender if they once got him within rifle range. 

Personally, I could never see just what the Boers would gain by the whiteflag business. As a rule, our troops did not want coaxing into rifle range;they marched within hitting distance readily enough, and did not require awhite flag to lure them into a tight place, so that the object to be gainedby the enemy by such disgraceful tactics never seemed to me to be tooapparent. If they had ever by such means been able to entrap an army, or tobring about the wholesale slaughter of our men, I could understand things abit better; but they had little to gain and an awful lot to lose by suchtactics. There is no slight risk attached to the act of firing on anadvancing army treacherously under cover of the white flag. Such a deedrouses all the slumbering devil in the men, and the foe found guilty ofsuch a deed would get more bayonet than he would find conducive to hishealth when it came to his turn to be beaten. 

 THE BATTLE OF MAGERSFONTEIN. 

 MAGERSFONTEIN. 

The Australians, after relieving Belmont from the Boer commando, suddenlyreceived orders to march upon Enslin, as the Boers had attacked that place, which was held by two companies of the Northamptonshires under CaptainGodley; the latter had no artillery, whilst the enemy, who were over 1, 000strong, had one 12-pounder gun with them, but the sequel proved that theBoer is a poor fighter in the open country. He is hard to beat in hilly androcky ground when acting on the defensive, but he is not over dangerous asan attacking power. Let him choose his ground, and fight according to hisown traditions, and the best soldiers in the world will find it no sinecureto oust him. As soon as the Boers put in an appearance at Enslin, Lieutenant Brierly, of the Northumberland Fusiliers, who is attached to theNorthamptons, made his way to a kopje, which had formerly been held by Boerforces, and a mere handful of men fairly held the enemy in check at thatpoint for over seven hours. The enemy made frantic efforts to dislodge thisgallant little band, but failed dismally, and they had not the heart to tryto take the kopje by storm, though there were enough of them around thehill to have eaten the little band of Britishers. In the meantime CaptainGodley and his men held the township. Again and again the enemy threatenedto rush the place, but their valour melted before the determined front ofthe besieged, and they drew off, taking their gun with them, their scoutshaving warned them that the Australians, with a section of the Royal HorseArtillery and two guns, were coming upon them from the direction ofBelmont, whilst a body of the 12th Lancers and a battery of artillery weredashing down from Modder River. The Australians, who are now 720 strong, the New South Wales Company of 125 men having joined Colonel Head's forces, remained at Enslin, and entrenched there in order to keep open the line ofcommunication between General Methuen's army and Orange River; a section ofRoyal Horse Artillery and two guns is with them. On half a dozen occasionsthe Boers have threatened to sweep down upon them from the hilly countryadjacent, but up to the time of writing nothing serious has occurred. 

On Sunday last we heard the sound of heavy firing coming from the directionof Modder River; scouts coming in informed us that an engagement betweenGeneral Methuen's force and the enemy, under the astute General Cronje, hadcommenced. Seeing that Australia was liable to remain idle for the timebeing, I determined to push on with my assistant, Mr. E. Monger, ofCoolgardie, West Australia. When we arrived at Modder River we found thefight raging at a spot about four and a half miles beyond Modder Riverbridge. Our forces were in possession of the river and the plain beyond;but General Cronje had entrenched himself in a line of ranges stretchingfor several miles across the veldt. So well had the Boer general chosen hisground, and such good use had he made of the natural advantages of hisposition, that the British found themselves face to face with an AfricanGibraltar. The frowning rocks were bristling with rifles, which commandedthe plain below, trenches seamed the hillsides in all directions, and inthose trenches lay concealed the picked marksmen of the veldt--men who, though they know but little of soldiering from a European point of view, yet had been familiar with the rifle from earliest boyhood; rough anduncouth in appearance, dressed in farmers' garb, still under thoseconditions, fighting under a general they knew and trusted, amidstsurroundings familiar to them from infancy, they were foemen worthy of therespect of the veteran troops of any nation under heaven. 

At every post of vantage Cronje, with consummate generalship, had postedhis artillery so that it would be almost impossible for our guns to silencethem, whilst at the same time he could sweep the plains below should ourinfantry attempt to storm the heights at the point of the bayonet. At thebottom of the kopjes, right under the muzzle of his guns, he had excavatedtrenches deep enough to hide his riflemen, but he had thrown up noearthworks, so that our guns could not locate the exact spot where hisrifle trenches lay. All the earth from the trenches had been very carefullyremoved, and the low blue bush which covers these plains completelyscreened his trenches from view. In front of the trenches, and extendingsome considerable distance out in front of the veldt, the clever Boerleader had placed an immense amount of barbed wire entanglement, sofashioned that no cavalry could live amongst it, whilst even the veryflower of our infantry would find it hard work to charge over it, even indaylight. The Boer forces are variously estimated at from 12, 000 to 15, 000men. The number and nature of their guns can only be guessed at, but thatthe enemy's men are well supplied in that respect there can be no question. Our forces I estimate at about 11, 000 men of all arms, including thenever-to-be-forgotten section of the Naval Brigade, to whom England owes adebt of gratitude too deep for words to portray; for their steadiness, valour, and accuracy of shooting saved England from disaster on this theblackest day that Scotland has known since the Crimea. 

Our troops extended over many miles of country. Every move had to be madein full view of the enemy upon a level plain where a collie dog could nothave moved unperceived by those foemen hidden so securely behindimpregnable ramparts. During the whole of Sunday our gunners played havocwith the enemy, the shooting of the Naval Brigade being of such a naturethat even thus early in the fight the big gun of the bluejackets, with its42-pound lyddite shell, struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. But theBoers were not idle. Whenever our infantry, in manoeuvring, came withinrange'of their rifles, our ranks began to thin out, and the blood of ourgallant fellows dyed the sun-baked veldt in richest crimson. 

During the night that followed it was considered expedient that theHighland Brigade, about 4, 000 strong, under General Wauchope, should getclose enough to the lines of the foe to make it possible to charge theheights. At midnight the gallant, but ill-fated, general moved cautiouslythrough the darkness towards the kopje where the Boers were most stronglyentrenched. They were led by a guide, who was supposed to know every inchof the country, out into the darkness of an African night. The brigademarched in line of quarter-column, each man stepping cautiously and slowly, for they knew that any sound meant death. Every order was given in a hoarsewhisper, and in whispers it was passed along the ranks from man to man;nothing was heard as they moved towards the gloomy, steel-fronted heightsbut the brushing of their feet in the veldt grass and the deep-drawnbreaths of the marching men. 

So, onward, until three of the clock on the morning of Monday. Then out ofthe darkness a rifle rang, sharp and clear, a herald of disaster--a soldierhad tripped in the dark over the hidden wires laid down by the enemy. In asecond, in the twinkling of an eye, the searchlights of the Boers fellbroad and clear as the noonday sun on the ranks of the doomed Highlanders, though it left the enemy concealed in the shadows of the frowning mass ofhills behind them. For one brief moment the Scots seemed paralysed by thesuddenness of their discovery, for they knew that they were huddledtogether like sheep within fifty yards of the trenches of the foe. Then, clear above the confusion, rolled the voice of the general--"Steady, men, steady!"--and, like an echo to the veterans, out came the crash of nearlya thousand rifles not fifty paces from them. The Highlanders reeled beforethe shock like trees before the tempest. Their best, their bravest, fell inthat wild hail of lead. General Wauchope was down, riddled with bullets;yet, gasping, dying, bleeding from every vein, the Highland chieftainraised himself on his hands and knees, and cheered his men forward. Men andofficers fell in heaps together. 

The Black Watch charged, and the Gordons and the Seaforths, with a yellthat stirred the British camp below, rushed onward--onward to death ordisaster. The accursed wires caught them round the legs until theyfloundered, like trapped wolves, and all the time the rifles of the foesang the song of death in their ears. Then they fell back, broken andbeaten, leaving nearly 1, 300 dead and wounded just where the broad breastof the grassy veldt melts into the embrace of the rugged African hills, andan hour later the dawning came of the dreariest day that Scotland has knownfor a generation-past. Of her officers, the flower of her chivalry, thepride of her breeding, but few remained to tell the tale--a sad tale truly, but one untainted with dishonour or smirched with disgrace, for up thoseheights under similar circumstances even a brigade of devils could scarcehave hoped to pass. All that mortal men could do the Scots did; they tried, they failed, they fell. And there is nothing left us now but to mourn forthem, and avenge them; and I am no prophet if the day is distant when theHighland bayonet will write the name of Wauchope large and deep in the bestblood of the Boers. 

All that fateful day our wounded men lay close to the Boer lines under ablazing sun; over their heads the shots of friends and foes passed withoutceasing. Many a gallant deed was done by comrades helping comrades; men whowere shot through the body lay without water, enduring all the agony ofthirst engendered by their wounds and the blistering heat of the day; tothem crawled Scots with shattered limbs, sharing the last drop of water intheir bottles, and taking messages to be delivered to mourning women in thecottage home of far-off Scotland. Many a last farewell was whispered bypain-drawn lips in between the ringing of the rifles, many a rough soldierwith tenderest care closed the eyes of a brother in arms amidst the tempestand the stir of battle; and above it all, Cronje, the Boer general, musthave smiled grimly, for well he knew that where the Highland Brigade hadfailed all the world might falter. All day long the battle raged; scarcelycould we see the foe--all that met our eyes was the rocky heights thatspoke with tongues of flame whenever our troops drew near. We could notreach their lines; it was murder, grim and ghastly, to send the infantryforward to fight a foe they could not see and could not reach. Once ourGuards made a brilliant dash at the trenches, and, like a torrent, theirresistless valour bore all before them, and for a few brief moments theygot within hitting distance of the foe. Well did they avenge the slaughterof the Scots; the bayonets, like tongues of flame, passed above or belowthe rifles' guard, and swept through brisket and breastbone. Out of theirtrenches the Guardsmen tossed the Boers, as men in English harvest fieldstoss the hay when the reapers' scythes have whitened the cornfields; andthe human sheaves were plentiful where the British Guardsmen stood. Thenthey fell back, for the fire from the heights above them fell thick as thespume of the surf on an Australian rock-ribbed coast. But the Guards hadproved to the Boers that, man to man, the Briton was his master. 

In vain all that day Methuen tried by every rule he knew to draw the enemy;vainly, the Lancers rode recklessly to induce those human rock limpets tocome out and cut them off. Cronje knew the mettle of our men, and an ironiclaugh played round his iron mouth, and still he stayed within his nativefastness; but Death sat ever at his elbow, for our gunners dropped thelyddite shells and the howling shrapnel all along his lines, until thetrenches ran blood, and many of his guns were silenced. In the valleybehind his outer line of hills his dead lay piled in hundreds, and theslope of the hill was a charnel-house where the wounded all writhed amidstthe masses of the dead; a ghastly tribute to British gunnery. For hours Istood within speaking distance of the great naval gun as it spoke to theenemy, and such a sight as their shooting the world has possibly neverwitnessed. Not a shell was wasted; cool as if on the decks of a pleasureyacht our tars moved through the fight, obeying orders with smilingalacrity. Whenever the signal came from the balloon above us that the enemywere moving behind their lines, the sailors sent a message from Englandinto their midst, and the name of the messenger was Destruction; and when, at 1. 30 p. M. Of Tuesday, we drew off to Modder River to recuperate we lefta ghastly pile of dead and wounded of grim old Cronje's men as a token thatthe lion of England had bared his teeth in earnest. 

Three hundred yards to the rear of the little township of Modder River, just as the sun was sinking in a blaze of African splendour on the eveningof Tuesday, the 13th of December, a long, shallow grave lay exposed in thebreast of the veldt. To the westward, the broad river, fringed with trees, ran murmuringly, to the eastward, the heights still held by the enemyscowled menacingly, north and south, the veldt undulated peacefully; a fewpaces to the northward of that grave fifty dead Highlanders lay, dressed asthey had fallen on the field of battle; they had followed their chief tothe field, and they were to follow him to the grave. How grim and sternthose dead men looked as they lay face upward to the sky, with great handsclenched in the last death agony, and brows still knitted with the sternlust of the strife in which they had fallen. The plaids dear to everyHighland clan were represented there, and, as I looked, out of the distancecame the sound of the pipes; it was the General coming to join his men. There, right under the eyes of the enemy, moved with slow and solemn treadall that remained of the Highland Brigade. In front of them walked-thechaplain, with bared head, dressed in his robes of office, then came thepipers, with their pipes, sixteen in all, and behind them, with armsreversed, moved the Highlanders, dressed in all the regalia of theirregiments, and in the midst the dead General, borne by four of hiscomrades. Out swelled the pipes to the strains of "The Flowers of theForest, " now ringing proud and high until the soldier's head went back inhaughty defiance, and eyes flashed through tears like sunlight on steel;now sinking to a moaning wail, like a woman mourning for her first-born, until the proud heads dropped forward till they rested on heaving chests, and tears rolled down the wan and scarred faces, and the choking sobs brokethrough the solemn rhythm of the march of death. Right up to the grave theymarched, then broke away in companies, until the General lay in the shallowgrave with a Scottish square of armed men around him, only the dead man'sson and a small remnant of his officers stood with the chaplain and thepipers whilst the solemn service of the Church was spoken. 

Then once again the pipes pealed out, and "Lochaber No More" cut throughthe stillness like a cry of pain, until one could almost hear the widow inher Highland home moaning for the soldier she would welcome back no more. Then, as if touched by the magic of one thought, the soldiers turned theirtear-damp eyes from the still form in the shallow grave towards the heightswhere Cronje, the "lion of Africa, " and his soldiers stood. Then everycheek flushed crimson, and the strong jaws set like steel, and the veins onthe hands that clasped the rifle barrels swelled almost to bursting withthe fervour of the grip, and that look from those silent, armed men spokemore eloquently than ever spoke the tongues of orators. For on eachfrowning face the spirit of vengeance sat, and each sparkling eye askedsilently for blood. God help the Boers when next the Highland pibrochsounds! God rest the Boers' souls when the Highland bayonets charge, forneither death, nor hell, nor things above, nor things below, will hold theScots back from their blood feud. At the head of the grave, at the pointnearest the enemy, the General was laid to sleep, his officers groupedaround him, whilst in line behind him his soldiers were laid in a doublerow, wrapped in their blankets. No shots were fired over the dead menresting so peacefully, only the salute was given, and then the men marchedcampwards as the darkness of an African night rolled over thefar-stretching breadth of the veldt. To the gentlewoman who bears theirGeneral's name the Highland Brigade sends its deepest sympathy. To themothers and the wives, the sisters and the sweethearts, in cottage home byhillside and glen they send their love and good wishes--sad will theirChristmas be, sadder the new year. Yet, enshrined in every womanly heart, from Queen Empress to cottage girl, let their memory lie, the memory of themen of the Highland Brigade who died at Magersfontein. 

 SCOUTS AND SCOUTING. 

 DRISCOLL, KING OF SCOUTS. 

 ORANGE RIVER COLONY. 

I have a weakness for scouts. Good scouts seem to me to be of moreimportance to an army in the field than all the tape-tied intelligenceofficers out of Hades. They don't get on well with the regular officers asa rule, because scouts are like poets--they are born, not manufactured. They are people who do not feel as if God had forsaken them for ever ifthey don't get a shave and a clean shirt every morning, they are just atrifle rough in their appearance and manners; but they ride as straight asthey talk, and shoot straighter than they ride. They have to be built forthe business. All the training in the world won't make a scout unlessnature has commenced the job; mere pluck is not worth a dog's bark in thisline of life, though without pluck no scout is worth a wanton woman'ssmile. A good scout wants any amount of courage; he wants a level head--ahead of ice, and a heart of fire. He wants to know by instinct when to rushonward and chance his life to the heels of his horse and the goodness ofGod, and he wants to know with unfailing certainty when to crawl into coverand hide. He must understand how to ride with no other guide than the layof the country, the course of the sun, or the position of the stars. Hemust have eyes that note every broken hill, every little hollow, everyfootprint of man or horse on the veldt. 

He must be an excellent judge of distance, of time, of numbers. He must beable to tell at a glance whether a cloud of dust is caused by moving troopsor by the action of the elements. Above all, he must be truthful, not givento exaggeration of his friends' strength or his enemy's weakness. When hemakes his report it should need no corroboration. If a scout is worth hissalt, his advice should be accepted and acted upon promptly. 

I often go out with the scouts; they are the eyes of the army. A man whoknocks around with scouting parties knows more, sees more, hears more ofthe real state of affairs than nine-tenths of the staff officers ever know, hear, or see. Men fresh from the Old Country seldom make good scouts. Takethe Yeomanry, for instance. They are plucky enough, but not one in ahundred of them has the making of a scout in him. All his fathers and hisgrandfather's and his great-grandfather's breeding trends in otherdirections, and there is an awful lot more in the breeding of men than mostfolk imagine. The American makes a good scout. If he knows nothing of thelife, he soon picks it up. So does the Australian, and the Canadian, andthe Colonial-born South African. Something in the life appeals to them. They get the "hang" of it with very little trouble. There are someEnglish-born men, however, who develop into rattling great scouts. Thesemen are mostly adventurous fellows, who have roamed about the world, andhad the corners knocked off them. I have two of them in my mind's eye justat present. One of them is an Irishman named Driscoll, Captain of theScouts who are the eyes and ears of Rundle's army. The other is anEnglishman named Davies, a captain in the same gallant little band. Thefirst lieutenant is a Cape colonial of English extraction, named Brabant, agallant son of a gallant general. Captain Driscoll is a typical Irishman, just such a man as the soul of Charles Lever would have revelled in, a manof dauntless daring, with a heart of iron, and a face to match. Strangelyenough, the captain does not pride himself a bit on his pluck, but hethinks a deuce of a lot of his beauty. As a matter of fact, he has thecourage of ten ordinary men, but he would not take a prize in a first-classbeauty show. (Lord send I may be far from the reach of his revolver whenthis reaches his eye. ) He has that dash of vanity in his composition whichI have found in all good Irishmen, and he prides himself far more on theexecution his eyes have done amidst the Dutch girls than of the work hisdeadly rifle has wrought in the ranks of the Dutch mea Yet, if you want toknow if Driscoll can shoot, just go to Burmah, where for ten years he heldthe position of captain in the Upper Burmah Volunteer Rifles. That waswhere I heard of him first, as the most deadly rifle and revolver shot inall the East. 

The Boers know him now as the prince of rifle shots and the king of scouts. He is standing in the wintry sunlight just in front of my tent as I amwriting, one hand on the bridle of his horse, rapping out Dutch oaths witha strong Cork accent to a nigger who has not groomed his pet animalproperly. The nigger is very meek, for past experience has told him thatIrish blood is hot, and an Irishman's boot quick and heavy. He is apicturesque figure, this Celtic scout leader, just such a picture as PhilMay could bring to life on a sheet of paper with a few strokes of hismaster hand. He is about eleven stone in weight, and, roughly, five feeteight, clean cut and strong, with a face which tells you he was born inCork, and had knocked about a lot in tropic lands; eight-and-thirty if heis a day, though he swears at night around the camp fire that the prettyDutch girls have guessed his age as twenty-seven. He wears a slouch hat, around which a green puggaree coils lovingly. In his right hand his riflerests as if it felt at home there. His coat is worn and shabby, khaki incolour; riding pants of roughest yellow cords, patched in placesunspeakable, leggings around his sinewy calves, and feet planted in neatboots make up the whole man. He is clean shaven except for a moustache, dark brown in colour, which sprouts from his upper lip. 

In his softer moments Driscoll tells us that it used to "cur-r-r-l" beforehe had the "faver" in Burmah, and on such occasions we assure him that it"cur-r-rls" even yet. It is more polite to agree with him than to crosshim--and a lot safer. He is as full of anecdote as heaven is of angels, andI mean to use him in the sweet days of peace, unless some stay-at-homejournalist niches him from me in the meantime. Driscoll and Davies are fastfriends. The Englishman is not such a picturesque figure as the Irishman. Englishmen seldom are, somehow; but he is a man, a real white man, allover. He is rather a good-looking, well set-up young fellow, who alwayslooks as if he had just had a bath; not a dude by any manner of means, buta fellow with a soft eye for a pretty ankle, and a hard fist for a foe--oneof those quiet chaps a man always likes to find close beside him in a row. Driscoll almost weeps over him to me sometimes. "He's the devil's own atclose quarters, " says the Irishman. "Never want a better chum when it comesto bashing the enemy. If he could only shoot a bit 'straighther and talk abit sweether to the colleens he'd be perfect. " All the same, I have, andhold, my own opinion concerning the "talking. " Many a smile which thegallant Celt appropriated to himself as we rode out of a conquered townseemed to me to belong of right to the rosy-faced Welsh lad on theoff-side. To hear these two men chatter over a glass of hot rum in my tentat night one would think they had never faced danger. Yet never a day goesby but one or the other of them has to run the gauntlet of Boer rifles;whilst Jack Brabant, who is death on cigars or anything else that will emitsmoke, and who curls up and says little, has been near death so often thatit will be no stranger to him when it comes in all its finality. 

Driscoll was in Burmah when the news came of the first disaster to theIrish troops in South Africa. He threw up his business as lightly as acoquette throws up a midsummer lover, and started for the war. At Bombay hewas stopped by a yard or two of red tape, and had to go back to Calcutta, where he used his Irish tongue to such purpose that he got a permit toleave India, and made his way to the scene of trouble. He first joinedGeneral Gatacre as orderly officer. Later he was attached to the BorderMounted Rifles as captain, and did splendid service at the battles ofDordrecht and Labuschagne's Nek In the latter place he was the first man togallop into the Boer laager before the fight had ceased. Captain, thenLieutenant, Davies was as close to his side as a shadow to a serpent, andthey only had fourteen men with them at the time. After this Driscoll, whose skill as a scout had been remarked on all sides, was ordered to forma body of fifty scouts to act as the very eyes of the rapidly movingColonial Division under General Brabant. This was promptly done, most ofthe men picked being Colonial-born Britishers. Soon after the formation ofhis band, Driscoll, with fifty men, attacked Rouxville from four sides atonce. Dashing in, he demanded surrender of the place, as if he had an armyat his back to enforce his demands, a piece of Irish impudent valour thatwould have cost every man amongst the little band his life had the Boersknown that he was unbacked. But they did not know it, and consequentlysurrendered, and he hoisted the British flag and disarmed the residents--areally brilliant piece of work, for which Driscoll's Scouts have up to datereceived no public credit. 

The Scout and his men took a warm part in the, very warm fight at Wepener, where many a good Briton fell. He had lost a good few fellows in the manyfights, but Driscoll's name soon charmed others to his little band. AtJammersberg Drift the Scouts were so badly mauled that over a fourth oftheir number were counted out, but the places of the fallen men were soonfilled, and to-day the number is almost complete. Driscoll has oneespecially good quality. He never speaks slightingly of his enemy unless hewell deserves it. Few men have had so many hand-to-hand encounters with theburghers as he has; few men have held their lives by virtue of their steadyhand on a rifle as frequently as this wild, good-natured, merry Irishmanhas done. Yet of the Boer as a fighter he speaks most highly. "He don'tlike cold steel, and shmall blame to'm, " says Driscoll, "but for the clevertactics he's a devil of a chap, 'nd the men who run him down are mostly themen who run away from him. They're not all heroes, any more than all womenare angels. Some of 'em are fit only for a dog's death, but most of 'em aregood men; and if I wasn't an Irishman I wouldn't mind being a Boer, forthey've no call to hang their heads and blush when this war is over. "

I asked him if he had ever of his own knowledge come into contact withanything savouring of white flag treachery. "Once I did, " said the greatscout, and for a while his eyes were filled with a sombre fire which spokeof the volcano under the genial human crust. "Onct, " and he lapsed into thebrogue as he spoke; "only onct, and there's a debt owin' on it yet whichhas got to be paid. It was at Karronna Ridge. I was out wid me scouts, 'ndI saw a farmhouse flying the white flag--a great flag it was, too, as bigas a bed sheet. I'm not sure that it was not wan, too. I rode towards it, thinking the people wanted to surrender, and sent two of me men, two younglads they were--good boys, eager for duty. I sent 'em forward to ask whatwas the matther inside; and when they got within fifteen paces of the housethe Boers inside opened fire from twenty rifles, and blew 'em out of thesaddle. I had to ride with me little troop for dear life then, for therocks all around us were alive with rifles. That house still stands; but ifDriscoll's name is Driscoll it's going to burn, and the cur who flew thewhite flag in it, if I can get him, for the sake of the dead boys out onthe veldt there. That's the only dirty trick I knew them play, and theymust have been a lot of wasters, not like the general run of theirfighters. "

Three nights ago Driscoll, Davies, Brabant, and twenty men camped in afarmhouse a long way from the British lines, for these men scour thecountry for many miles in all directions. The night was cold and rough, ableak wind whistling amidst the kopjes half a mile away. Just as the scoutswere sitting down to supper, the farmer's wife rushed in, and said toDriscoll, in a voice between a sob and a scream, "Do you know, sir, thatour burghers are in the kopjes, and are watching the farm?" and as shespoke she wrung her hands wildly. The Irish scout rose from the table andbowed, as only an Irish scout can bow, for the "vrow" was about thirtyyears of age, and pleasing to the eye beyond the lot of most women. "I amawfully glad to hear it, madam, " he said in his execrable Dutch. "I've beenlooking for that commando for a week past. As they have doubtless sent amessage by you, please send this back for me. Tell their officers, if theywill accept an offer to come and dine with Driscoll's Scouts here to-night, they shall be made welcome to the best we have in the way of kindness. Forit must be cold waiting outside in the wind. Tell them they shall go asthey come, unmolested and unwatched, and in the morning we'll come out andgive 'em all the fight they want in this world. " Then, sweeping the floorwith a graceful wave of his green puggareed soft slouch hat, Driscoll bowedthe astonished dame out of the dining-room, whilst his officers and mennearly choked themselves with their hot soup, as they noticed himsurreptitiously drawing a pocket mirror from his breeches pocket. For wellthey knew that the dare-devil leader was thinking far more of the effecthis looks had had on the Dutch housewife than of the effect of his messageon the enemy. Yet, at the first promise of dawn, he unrolled himself fromhis blanket on the hard floor, and was the foremost man to show in theopen, where the enemy's rifles might reach him. But no rifles sounded, forthe Boers had declined the invitation both to supper and breakfast. 

 HUNTING AND HUNTED. 

 ORANGE RIVER COLONY. 

There is a funny side to pretty nearly every kind of tragedy if one onlyhas the humorous edge of his nature sufficiently well developed to see it. Not that the humour is always apparent at the time--that comes later. I amled to these reflections as I watch Lieutenant "Jack" Brabant, of theScouts, dancing a wild war dance round our little camp fire. He is apicturesque figure in the firelight, this thirty-year-old son of therenowned General Brabant, ten stone weight I should say, all whipcord andfencing wire, rather a hard-faced man; no feather-bed frontiersman this, but a tough, hard-grained bit of humanity, who has fought niggers andhunted for big game at an age when most young fellows are thinking more ofpoetry and pretty faces than of hard knocks and harder sport. I know himfor a rattling good shot at either man or beast, a fine bushman, and adandy horseman. He is a rather quiet fellow, as a rule, but all thequietness is out of him to-night, and he only wants to be stripped of histight yellow jacket, cord breeches, leather gaiters, soft slouch hat withgreen puggaree, and then, given a coat of black paint, he would pass wellfor some warrior chief doing a death dance in the smoke. He is boiling withpassion, his left fist, clenched hard as the head of an axe, moves up anddown, in and out, like the legs of a kicking mule midst a crowd ofcart-horses. In his right he swings his Mauser carbine, and a man don'tneed to be a descendant of a race of prophets to know that something hasgone gravely wrong with the lieutenant, otherwise he would not be making acircus of himself in this fantastic fashion. 

I lay my pencil aside for a minute or two to catch what he is saying, andwhen I have got the hang of the story I don't wonder he feels as mad as awooden-legged man on a wet mud-bank. He had been out all day since the verybreak of dawn with a couple of scouts, searching the kopjes for a notoriousBoer spy, whose cleverness and audacity had made him a thorn in our side. If there was a man in the British lines capable of running the "slim" Boerto earth, that man was Lieutenant Jack Brabant. It had been a grim hunt, for the spy was worthy of his reputation, and the pursuers had to move withtheir fingers on their triggers, and a rash move would have meant death. All the forenoon he dodged them, in and out of the kopjes, along thesluits, up and down the dongas; sometimes they pelted him at long rangewith flying bullets, sometimes he sent them a reminder of the same sort. And so the day wore on; but at last, towards evening, they fixed him sothat he had to make a dash out across the veldt. He was splendidly mounted, and when the time came for a dash he did not waste any time making poetry. Neither did Brabant and his two men; they galloped at full speed after thefleetly flying figure, and when they saw that a broad and deep donga ranright across his track, cutting him off from the long line of kopjes forwhich he was making, they counted him as theirs. He only had one chance, togallop into the donga, jump out of the saddle and fire at them as theyclosed in on him; and, as they rode far apart, it was a million to one onmissing in his hurry in the fading light. But the gods had decidedotherwise, for the whiplike crack of rifles suddenly cut the air, and thebullets fell so thick around the pursuers that the three men could almostbreathe lead. Half a mile away, on the far side of the donga, appeared asquad of Yeomanry, blazing away like veritable seraphs at Brabant and hismen, whilst they let the flying Boer go free. Brabant whipped out hishandkerchief, and waved it frantically; but the lead only whistled thefaster, and he had only one chance for his life, and that was to wheel andride at full speed for the nearest cover, where he and his men hid untilthe Yeomen rode up. Then Brabant hailed them, and asked them what the devilthey meant by trying to blow him and his men out of the saddle. 

There was a pause in the ranks of the Yeomen, then a voice lisped throughthe gathering gloom, "Are you fellahs British?"

"Yes, d--n you; did you think we were springbok?"

"No, by Jove, but we thought you were beastly Booahs. Awfully sorry ifwe've caused you any inconvenience. What were you chasing the other fellahfoah, eh?"

"Oh!" howled the disgusted backwoodsman with a snort of wrath, "we onlywanted to know if he'd cut his eye tooth yet. "

"Bah Jove, " quoth the Yeoman, "you fellahs are awfully sporting, don't yerknow. "

"Yes, " snarled the angry South African, "and the next time you Johnniesmistake me for a Booah and plug at me, I'll just take cover and send youback a bit of lead to teach you to look before you tighten your finger on atrigger. "

Talking of the Yeomen brings back a good yarn that is going round the campsat their expense. They are notorious for two things--their pluck and theirawful bad bushcraft. They would ride up to the mouth of a foeman's gunscoolly and gamely enough, but they can't find their way home on the veldtafter dark to save their souls, and so fall into Boer traps with aregularity that is becoming monotonous. Recently a British officer who hadbusiness in a Boer laager asked a commander why they set the Yeomen freewhen they made them prisoners. "Oh!" quoth the Boer, with a merry twinklein his eye, "those poor Yeomen of yours, we can always capture them when wewant them. " This is not a good story to tell if you want an _encore_, if you happen to be sitting round a Yeoman table or camp fire. 

But it is time I got back to the subject which lay in my mind when I satdown to write this epistle. The lieutenant's war dance took me off thetrack for a while, but I thought his story would come in nicely under theheading of "Hunting and Hunted. " Camp life gets dull at times, so does campfood, the eternal round of fried flour cakes and mutton makes a man longfor something which will remind him that he has still a palate, so when oneof the scouts came in and told me that he had seen three herds ofvildebeestes, numbering over a hundred each, and dozens of little mobs ofspringbok and blesbok, within ten miles of camp, away towards Doornberg, Imade up my mind to ride out next day, and have a shot for luck. My friendDriscoll, captain of the Scouts, rammed a lot of sage advice into meconcerning Boers known to be in force at Doornberg. I assured him that Ihad no intention of allowing myself to drift within range of any of theveldtsmen, so taking a sporting Martini I mounted my horse and set forth, intending to have a real good time among the "buck. " At a Kaffir kraal Ipicked up a half-caste "boy, " who assured me that he knew just where topick up the "spoor" of the vildebeeste, and he was as good as his boast, for within a couple of hours he brought me within sight of a mob of aboutfifty of the animals, calmly grazing. I worked my way towards them as wellas I could, leaving the "boy" to hold my horse; but, though I was carefulaccording to my lights, I was not sufficiently good as a veldtsman to getwithin shooting distance before they saw me or scented me. Suddenly I saw afine-looking fellow, about as big as a year-and-a-half-old steer, trot outfrom the herd. He came about twenty yards in my direction, and I had agrand chance to watch him through my strong military glasses. He looked forall the world like a miniature buffalo bull, the same ungainly head andfore-quarters, big, heavy shoulders, neat legs, shapely barrel, light loin, and hindquarters, the same proppy, ungainly gait. I unslung my rifle tohave a shot at him, when he wheeled and blundered back to the herd, and thelot streamed off at a pace which the best hunter in England would havefound trying, in spite of the clumsiness of their movements. The half-castegrinned as he came towards me with the horses, grinned with such a gloriousbreadth of mouth that I could see far enough down his black and tan throatto tell pretty well what he had for breakfast. This annoyed me. I like anopen countenance in a servant, but I detest a mouth that looks like a mereburial ground for cold chicken. We rode on for a mile or two, and then sawa pretty little herd of springbok about eighteen hundred yards away on theleft. Slipping down into a donga, I left the horse and crawled forward, getting within nice, easy range. I dropped one of the pretty littlebeauties. I tried a flying shot at the others as they raced away like magicthings through the grass, which climbed half-way up their flanks, but itwas lead wasted that time. 

My coffee-coloured retainer gathered up the spoil, and paid me a complimentconcerning my shooting, though well I knew he had sized me up as a"wastrel" with a rifle, for his shy eyes gave the lie to his oily tongue. We hunted round for awhile, and then from the top of a little kopje I saw abeautiful herd of vildebeestes one hundred and sixteen in number, lumberingslowly towards where we stood. The wind blew straight from them towards us, so that I had no fear on the score of scent. Climbing swiftly down untilalmost level with the veldt, I lay cosily coiled up behind a rock, andwaited for the quarry. They came at last, Indian file, about a yard and ahalf separating one from the other, not a hundred and twenty yards fromwhere I lay. I had plenty of time to pick and choose, and plenty of time totake aim, so did not hurry myself. Sighting for a spot just behind theshoulder, I sent a bit of lead fair through a fine beast, and expected tosee him drop, but he did nothing of the kind. For one brief second theanimal stood as if paralysed; then, with a leap and a lurch, he dashed onwith his fellows. I fired again, straight into the shoulder this time, andbrought him down; but he took a third bullet before he cried_peccavi_. I had a good time for pretty near the whole of that day, and was lamenting that I had not brought a Cape cart and pair of horseswith me to bring home the spoil, when, happening to look into the face ofmy brown guide, I saw that his complexion had turned the colour of blightedsandalwood. He did not speak, but swift as thought ripped out his knife, and cut the thongs which bound the springbok and other trophies of theday's sport to his saddle, letting everything fall in an undignified heapon to the veldt. Then, without a word of farewell, or any other kind ofword for that matter, he drove his one spur into the flank of his wretchednag, and fled round the bend of a kopje, which, thank Providence, was closehandy, and as he went I saw something splash against a rock a dozen yardsbehind him. I had glanced hurriedly over the veldt the moment I caught thatqueer expression on the saffron face of my assistant, but as far as the eyecould reach I could see nothing. Now, however, looking backwards, I sawthree or four men riding out of a donga two thousand five hundred yardsaway. 

Twenty-five seconds later I had caught and passed my fleeing servant, whowas heading for some kopjes, which lay right in front, about a mile and ahalf away. As I passed him he yelled, "Booers, baas, Booers! Ride hard, baas, ride hard; there are three hundred in the donga. " When I heard thatitem of news I just sat down and attended strictly to business, and I amfree to wager that never since the day he was foaled had that horse coveredso much ground in so short a space of time as he did by the time he reachedthe kopjes. My servant had adroitly dodged into a sluit which hid him fromview, and I knew that he could work his way out far better than I could. Besides, if they captured him, the worst he would get would be a cut acrossthe neck with a sjambok for acting as hunting-guide to a detestedRooitbaaitje; whilst as for me, they would in all probability discredit mytale concerning the hunting trip, and give me a free, but rapid, pass tothat land which we all hope to see eventually, but none of us are anxiousto start for; because a correspondent has no right to carry a rifle duringwar time, a thing I never do unless I am out hunting. I gave my tired horsea spell, whilst I searched the veldt with my glasses, then slipping througha gully I made my way out on to the veldt, got in touch with a donga thatran the way I wanted to travel, got into its bed, gave my horse a drink, and rode on until dark; then I made my way into camp, and religiously heldmy peace concerning the doings of that day, because I did not want the lifechaffed out of me. A few days later I happened to call at the Colonialcamp, and was asked to dine by one of the officers. 

"Like venison?" he asked cheerily. 

"Yes, when it comes my way, " I replied. 

"Got some to-day, " he said. "It's nicely hung, too; not fresh from thegun. "

"Shoot it yourself, eh?"

"Well, no, not exactly; was out on patrol on Monday, and saw a couple oflousy Dutchmen. They didn't think we were round, so were enjoyingthemselves shooting buck. We nearly got one of 'em with a long shot. "

"Didn't they show fight?" I asked innocently. 

"Fight?" he said, with scorn unutterable in his accent. "Not a bit of it. They dropped their game, and cleared as if a thousand devils were afterthem. I never saw men ride so fast. "

"Positive they were Dutchmen?" I ventured. 

"Yes, " he laughed; "why, I'd know one of those ugly devils five miles off. "

That settled me, and I said no more. 

 WITH THE BASUTOS. 

When the Eighth Division was skirting the borders of Basutoland I thoughtit would not be a waste of time to cross the border, and if possibleinterview one of the chiefs. My opportunity came at last. Our generaldecided to give his weary men a few days' rest, so getting into the saddleat Willow Grange I rode to Ficksburg, and there crossed the River Caledon, whose yellow waters, like an orange ribbon, divide Basutoland from the FreeState. At this point the river runs between steep banks, and when I crossedit was about deep enough to kiss my horse's girths, though I could wellbelieve that in the flood season it becomes a most formidable torrent. Anartificial cutting has been made on both sides to facilitate the passage oftraders, black and white, but even there the ford is so constituted thatthe Boers on the one side and the blacks on the other could successfullydispute the passage of an invading army with a mere handful of men. 

Once across the river one soon felt the influence of Jonathan, the "blackprince. " The niggers, naked except for the loin cloth, swaggered along witharms in their hands, and grinned with insolent familiarity into our faces. They may have an intense respect and an unbounded love for the British--Ihave read scores of times that they have--but I beg leave to doubt it. Physically speaking they are a superb race of men, these sable subjects ofour Queen. Their heads sit upon their necks with a bold, defiant poise, their throats are full, round, and muscular, their chests magnificent, broad and deep, tapering swiftly towards the waist. Their arms and legs arebeautifully fashioned for strong, swift deeds. Strip an ordinary white manand put him amongst those black warriors, and he would look like a humanclothes rack. They walk with a quick, springy step, and gave me theimpression that they could march at the double for a week without tiring. But they are at their best on horseback. To see them barebacked dash downthe side of a sheer cliff, plunge into the river, swim their horses over, and then climb the opposite bank when the face of the bank is like the faceof a wall is a sight worth travelling far to see. 

There are many things in this world that I know nothing at all about, but Ido know a horseman when I see him, for I was bred in a land wherenine-tenths of the boys can ride. But nowhere have I seen a whole malepopulation ride as these Basuto warriors ride, and the best use England canmake of them is to turn them into mounted infantry. Give them six months'drill, and they will be fit to face any troops in Europe. I never saw themdo any fighting, but they carry the fighting brand on every lineament--thebold, keen eye, the prominent cheek-bone, the hard-set mouth, the massivejaw, the quivering nostril, the swing and spring of every movement, allspeak the fighting race. 

And their women; what of them? From the back of the head to the back of theheel you could place a lance shaft, so straight are they in their carriage. Their dress is a bunch of feathers and the third of a silk pockethandkerchief, with a copper ring around the ankle and another around thewrist. They do most of the daily toil, such as it is, though I know of nopeasant population in any other part of the world who get a living aseasily as these folk. The men allow the women to do most of the fieldlabour, but when the grain is bagged the males place it in single bagsacross the back of a pony, and so take it to market. They walk beside thetiny little ponies and balance the grain slung crosswise on the animal'sback, and when the grain has been sold or bartered they bound on to theirponies and career madly homewards, each one trying to outdo his neighbourin deeds of recklessness in the hope of winning favour in the eyes of thedusky maidens. They are mean in regard to money or gifts, and know theintrinsic value of things just as well as any pedlar in all England. Judging the "nigger" merely as a human being, irrespective of sentiment, colour, and so forth, I can only say that in my estimation he and his arefar better off in every respect than the average white labourer and hisfamily in England. These folk have plenty to eat, little to do, and arevery jolly. They would be perfectly happy if they only had a sufficientnumber of rifles and a large enough supply of ammunition to enable them todrive every white man clean away from their borders. 

When I arrived at Jonathan's village that warrior was away with a band ofhis young men, so that I could not see him, though I saw his son at awedding which was being held when I reached the scene. I was taken throughrows of naked, grinning savages, of both sexes, to be introduced to thebride and bridegroom, whom I found to be a pair of mission converts. When Isaw the pair the shock nearly shook my boots off. The bride, a full-bloodedyoung negress, was dressed in a beautiful white satin dress, which fittedher as if it had been fired at her out of a gun. It would not meet in frontby about three inches, and the bodice was laced up by narrow bands of redsilk, like a foot-baller's jersey. In her short, woolly hair she had pinneda wreath of artificial orange blossoms, which looked like a diadem of snowon a mid-winter mudheap. Down her broad back there hung a great gauzy laceveil, big enough to make a fly-net for a cow camel in summer. It was notfixed on to her dress, nor to her wreath, but was tied on to two littlekinky curls at each side of her head by bright green ribbons, after thefashion of a prize filly of the draught order at a country fair. Her handswere encased in a pair of white kid gloves, man's size, and a pretty bigman at that, for she had a gentle little fist that would have scared JohnL. Sullivan in his palmiest days. 

When I was introduced to the newly shackled matron she put one of thosegloved hands into mine with a simpering air of coyness that made me feelcold all over, for that hand in the kid glove reminded me of the day I tookmy first lesson from Laurence Foley, Australia's champion boxer, and he hadan eight-ounce glove on (thank Heaven!) on that occasion. In her right handthe bride carried a fan of splendid ostrich feathers, with which shebrushed the flies off the groom. It was vast enough to have brushed away atoy terrier, to say nothing of flies, but it looked a toy in that giantfist. 

The groom hung on to his bride's arm like a fly to a sugar-stick. He was atall young man, dressed in a black frock coat, light trousers, braced up toshow that he wore socks, shoes, white gloves, and a high-crowned hat. Hecarried his bride's white silk gingham in one hand, and an enormous bunchof flowers in the other. He tried to look meek, but only succeeded inlooking sly, hypocritical, and awfully uncomfortable. At times he wouldlook at his new spouse, and then a most unsaintly expression would crosshis foxy face; he would push out his great thick lips until they threw ashadow all round him; open his dazzling white teeth and let his greatblood-red tongue loll out until the chasm in his face looked like a rent ina black velvet gown with a Cardinal's red hat stuffed in the centre. He mayhave been full of saving grace--full up, and running over--but it was notthe brand of Christianity that I should care to invest my money in. When hecaught my gaze riveted upon him, he tried to look like a brand plucked fromthe burning; he rolled his great velvet-black eyes skyward, screwed up thesluit which ran across his face, and which he called a mouth, until itlooked like a crumpled doormat, folded his hands meekly over his breast, and comported himself generally like a fraudulent advertisement for aLondon mission society. 

From him I glanced to his "Pa, " who had given him away, and seemed mightyglad to get rid of him. "Pa" was dressed in pure black from head toheel--just the same old suit that he had worn when he struck this planet, only more of it. He was guiltless of anything and everything in the shapeof dress except for a large ring of horn which he wore on top of his head. He did not carry any parasols, or fans, or geegaws of any kind in his greatmuscular fists. One hand grasped an iron-shod assegai, and the otherlovingly fondled a battle-axe, and both weapons looked at home where theyrested. He was not just the sort of father-in-law I should have hankeredfor if I had been out on a matrimonial venture; but I would rather have hadone limb of that old heathen than the whole body of his "civilised" son, for with all his faults he looked a man. A chum of mine who knew the waysof these people had advised me to purchase a horn of snuff before beingpresented to the bride and groom, and I had acted accordingly. 

When the ceremony of introduction was over, and I had managed to turn myblushing face away from "Ma" and the bevy of damsels, as airily clothed asherself, I offered the snuff box to the happy pair. The groom took a tinypinch and smiled sadly, as though committing some deadly sin. The bride, however, poured a little heap in the palm of her hand about as big as ahen's egg, regardless of her nice white kid gloves. This she proceeded tosnuff up her capacious nostrils with savage delight, until the tearsstreamed down her cheeks like rain down a coal heap. Then she threw backher head, spread her hands out palm downwards, like a mammoth duck treadingwater, and sneezed. I never heard a human sneeze like that before; it waslike the effort of a horse after a two-mile gallop through a dust storm. And each time she sneezed something connected with her wedding gear rippedor gave way, until I began to be afraid for her. But the wreck was notquite so awful as I had anticipated, and when she had done sneezing shelaughed. All the crowd except the groom laughed, and the sound of theirlaughter was like the sound of the sea on a cliff-crowned coast. 

A little later one of the bridesmaids, whose toilet consisted of a daintynecklace of beads and a copper ring around one ankle, invited me to drink adraught of native beer. The beer was in a large calabash, and I feltconstrained to drink some of it. These natives know how to make love, andthey know how to make war, but, as my soul liveth, they don't know how tomake beer. The stuff they gave me to drink was about as thick asboardinghouse cocoa; in colour it was like unto milk that a very dirty maidof all work had been stirring round in a soiled soup dish with an unwashedforefinger. It had neither body nor soul in it, and was as insipid as apoliceman at a prayer meeting. Some of the niggers got gloriously merry onit, and sang songs and danced weird, unholy dances under its influence. Butit did not appeal to me in that way, possibly I was not educated up to itsniceties. All I know is that I became possessed of a strange yearning toget rid of what had been given me--and get rid of it early. 

The wedding joys were of a peculiar nature. Bride and bridegroom, linkedarm in arm, marched up and down on a pad about twenty yards in length, anude minstrel marched in front, and drew unearthly music from a kind ofmouth organ. Girls squatting in the dust _en route_ clapped theirhands and chanted a chorus. The groom hopped first on one leg and then onthe other, and tried to look gorgeously happy; the bride kicked her satinskirts out behind, pranced along the track as gracefully as a lady camel inthe mating season; behind the principal actors in the drama came a regimentof youths and girls, and the antics they cut were worthy of the occasion. Now and again some dusky Don Juan would dig his thumb into the ribs of adaughter of Ham. The lady would promptly squeal, and try to look coy. It isnot easy to look coy when you have not got enough clothes on your wholebody to make a patch to cover a black eye; but still they tried it, for thesex seem to me to be much alike on the inside, whether they dress in a coatof paint or a coat of sealskin. 

By-and-by the groom took his bride by the arm, and made an effort to induceher to leave her maids of honour and "trek" towards the cabin whichhenceforth was to be her home. The lady pouted, and shook his hand off herarm; whilst the maidens laughed and clapped their hands, dancing in thedust-strewn sunlight with such high kicking action as would win fame forany ballet dancer in Europe. The young men jeered the groom, and incitedhim to take charge of his own. He hung down his ebony head and lookedsillily sullen, and the bride continued to "pout. " Have you ever seen asavage nigger wench pout, my masters? Verily it is a sight worth travellingfar to see. First of all she wraps her mouth in a simper, and her lips looklike a fold in a badly doubled blanket. Then slowly, she draws the cornerstowards, the centre, just as the universe will be crumpled up on the Day ofJudgment. It is a beautiful sight. The mouth, which, when she smiled, looked like a sword wound on the flank of a horse, now, when the "pout" iscomplete, looks like a crumpled concertina. The groom again timidlyadvanced his hand towards the satin-covered arm of his spouse, and the"pout" became more pronounced than ever. The white of one eye was slylyturned towards the bridesmaids, the other rolled with infinite subtlety inthe direction of him who was to be her lord and master; and the "pout" grewlarger and larger, until I was constrained to push my way amidst the maidsto get a look behind the bride, for I fancied the back of her neck mustsurely have got somehow into the front of her face. When I got to the frontagain the "pout" was still growing, the rich red lips in their midnightsetting looking like some giant rose in full bloom that an elephant's hoofhad trodden upon. So the show proceeded. At last one of the bridesmaidsstepped from amidst her sisters, and playfully pushed the bride in thedirection of her home. Then the "pout" gave way to a smile, the white teethgleaming in the gap like tombstones in a Highland churchyard. I had been abit scared of her "pout, " but when she smiled I looked round anxiously formy horse. After a little manoeuvring, the blissful pair marched cabinwards, with the whole group of naked men and maids circling round them, stampingtheir bare feet, kicking up clouds of dust like a mob of travelling cattle. The men yelled some barbarous melody, flourished their arms, smote upontheir breasts, and anon gripping a damsel by the waist circled afar likegoats on a green grass hill slope. The maids twisted and turned infantastic figures, swaying their nobly fashioned bodies hither and thither, whilst they kept up a continuous wailing, sing-song cry. So they passedfrom my sight into the regions of the honeymoon, and the clubbings andgeneral hidings which follow it. 

I only stayed a few days amongst these savages, but, short as my stay was, I arrived at the conclusion that the sooner they are disarmed the better. There are hundreds of white women living upon isolated farms within easyriding distance of the Basuto villages, and as we are disarming thehusbands and brothers of these women it is our solemn duty to see that thesavage warriors have not the means within their reach to injure or outragethose whom we have left practically defenceless. It is true that thesewomen are the wives, daughters, and sisters of our enemy, but surely in allEngland there does not breathe a man so poor in spirit as to wish to placethem at the mercy of a horde of barbarians. Ours is a grave responsibilityin regard to this matter. Just at present the native warriors are quiet intheir kraals, but a day will surely dawn when the younger and moreturbulent fighting men will lust for the excitement of war. They look uponthe Boer farmers who dwell near their borders as so many interlopers, whosetitle deeds were signed by the rifle, and they long for the time to comewhen they can sweep them backwards with the strong arm. They never speak ofthe land close to their border as the Free State. They call it with deadlysignificance the "conquered territory, " and the idea of reconquest isstrong in their minds. Of old time the Boer farmers stood ever ready todefend what they had conquered with the rifle, and the nigger had learnedto dread the Dutch rifle as he dreads few things in this world. To-day heknows that the Boer is helpless, and is unsparing in his insolence to hisold-time foe. Later on friction between the white man and the black iscertain to ensue, and if he has the upper hand the black man will not stopat mere insolence. 

I don't know how the Imperial Parliament may feel about it, but I do knowthat if there is wrong done the Boers by the blacks, the South Africanfarmers of British blood will rise like one man to defend the men and womenof their own colour. They will never permit the black man to dominate thewhite, and that will cause friction between the Colonists and the ImperialGovernment. There is more in this than may meet the eye at the firstglance, for if the Colonists rise to battle with the blacks the Imperialtroops will have to assist them whether the Government of the day likes ordislikes it, or else we shall see the Colonists of our own blood clamouringfor the withdrawal of British rule in South Africa, and we shall hear againthe cry for a South African Republic. Not a "Dutch" South African Republicnext time, but a blended nationality, and Colonial Britons and ColonialDutchmen will be found fighting side by side under one flag, for one commoncause. 

Surely, if it is not wise to allow the whites to carry arms, it is not wiseor right to allow sixty thousand fierce fighting men to remain fullyequipped and mounted. To me it seems that now, whilst we have two hundredand fifty thousand fighting men in Africa to overawe and intimidate thewarriors, we should take from them, by force if necessary, everything inthe shape of warlike weapons. White men are not permitted in any of ourColonies to ride or strut about the country armed to the teeth. Therefore, I ask, why should these negroes be privileged to do what Australians orCanadians are forbidden to do? They have no valid excuse for being inpossession of weapons of war. They have now no enemies capable of attackingthem upon their borders. There is no animal life of a savage or dangerouscharacter near them, and their armament is a menace to the public safety. If their young men will not settle down to the peaceful calling ofhusbandmen, tillers of the soil, and breeders of stock, let them be draftedinto our Army for service abroad. If there is not enough for the moreelderly men to do in the farming line, let them turn their energies towardsthe development of the diamond mines and gold mines that lie within theirborders--mines which at present they will not work themselves nor allow anywhite man to work. 

I have spent a good many years of my life exploring new mineral territory, and have seen much of the best auriferous country known to modern times;but that Basuto country, presided over and held by a mere gang of blackbarbarians, ought, in my estimation, to be one of the richest gems in theBritish diadem. That good payable gold-bearing rock exists there I knowbeyond question. I also know beyond all doubt that diamonds are to beeasily won from the soil, and I am thoroughly cognisant of the fact that atleast one, and I believe many, quicksilver mines can be located there. Others who know the country well have told me of coal and tin and silvermines, and samples have been shown to me which made my mouth water. Yet, all this wealth, which nature's generous hand has scattered so liberallyfor the use of mankind, is jealously locked away year by year by men who, in their savage state, have no use for it themselves, yet will not, uponany consideration whatever, grant a mining concession to a white man, nomatter what that white man's nationality may be. Verily, the heathen badlywant educating, and we have now 250, 000 of the right kind of schoolmasterswithin handy reach of them. 

 MAGERSFONTEIN AVENGED. 

 THABA NCHU. 

When, a few months ago, I stood upon the veldt almost within the shadow ofthe frowning brow of Magersfontein's surly heights, and looked upon thecold, stern faces of Scotland's dead, and listened to the weird wailing ofthe bagpipes, whilst Cronje gazed triumphantly down from his inaccessiblemountain stronghold upon his handiwork, I knew in my soul that a day woulddawn when Scotland would demand an eye for an eye, blood for blood. I readit written on the faces of the men who strode with martial tread around thelast sad resting-place Of him they loved--their chief, the dauntlessGeneral Wauchope. Vengeance spoke in the sombre fire that blazed in everyScotsman's eye. Retribution was carved large and deep on every hard-setScottish face; it spoke in silent eloquence in the grip of each hard, browned hand on rifle barrels; it found a mute echo in each knitted brow, and leapt to life in every deep-drawn breath; it sparkled in each tear thatrolled unheeded and unchecked down war-scarred cheeks, and thundered in theecho of the men's tread across the veldt, right up to Cronje's lines, asthey marched campwards. The Highland Brigade had gazed upon its dead; andneither time, nor change, nor thought of home, or wife, or lisping babe, would wipe the memory of that sight away until the bayonet's ruthlessthrust gave Scotland quittance in the rich, red blood of those who did thatdeed. 

That hour has come. The men who sleep in soldiers' graves beside thewillow-clad banks of the Modder River have been avenged. Or, if the debthas not been paid in full, the interest owing on that bond of blood has atleast now been handed in. It was not paid by our Colonial sons; not fromAustralian or Canadian hands did the stubborn Boers receive the debt weowed. They were not Irish hearts that cleared old Scotland's legacy of hateon that May Day amidst the African hills; it was not England's yeoman sonswho did that deed. But men whose feet were native to the heather, men onwhose tongues the Scottish burr clung lovingly--the bare-legged kilted"boys" whom the lasses in the Highlands love, the gallant Gordons. 

Let the tale be told in Edinburgh Town; let it ring along the Border; letthe lass, as she braids the widow's hair, whisper the story withlove-kissed breath; let the lads, as they come from their daily toil, throwout their chests for the sake of their breeding; let the pessimist turn upthe faded page of history, written when the world was young, and find, ifhe can, a grander deed done by the sons of men since the morning stars sangtogether. 

So to my tale. It was the 1st of May. We had the Boers hard pressed inThaba Nchu in a run of kopjes that reached in almost unbroken sequencefarther than a man's eye might reach. The flying French was with us, chafing like a leashed greyhound because he could not sweep all before himwith one impetuous rush. Rundle, too, was here, with his haughty, handsomeface, as keen as French, but with a better grip on his feelings. Sixthousand of the foe, under Louis Botha, cool, crafty, long-headed, resourceful, have held the kopjes. Again and again we manoeuvred to trapthem, but no wolf in winter is more wary than Botha, no weasels morewatchful than the men he commanded. When we advanced they fell back, whenwe fell back they advanced, until the merest tyro in the art of war couldsee that a frontal attack, unless made in almost hopeless positions, wasimpossible. So Hamilton swept round their right flank, ten miles north ofThaba Nchu, and gave them a taste of his skill and daring, whilst Rundleheld their main body here at Thaba Nchu. Rundle made a feint on theircentre in strong force, and they closed in from both flanks to resist him. Then he drew off, as if fearing the issue. This drew the Boers in, and theypounded our camp with shells until one wondered whether the German-maderubbish they used would last them much longer. Then we threatened theirleft flank quickly and sharply, giving Hamilton time to strike on theirright; and he struck without erring, whipping the enemy at every point hetouched, driving them out of their positions, and holding them firmlyhimself, so threatening their rear and the immense herds of sheep and oxenthey have with them, making a footing for the British to move on and cutBotha off from his base at Kroonstad. 

Whether he will now stand his ground and fight or make a break for the mainarmy of the Boers is hard to calculate, for the Boer generally does justwhat no one expects he will attempt to do. It was during Hamilton'sflanking effort that the Gordons vindicated their character for courage. Captain Towse, a brave, courteous soldier and gentleman, whom I had had thepleasure of meeting at Graspan, and whose guest I had been on severaloccasions, was the hero of the hour. He is a fine figure of a man, well setup, good-looking, strong, active. He was, I think, about the only soldier Ihave seen who could wear an eye-glass and not lose by it. In age he lookedabout forty. I remember snapping a "photo" of him as he was "tidying up"the grave of gallant young Huddart, an Australian "middy, " who lay buriedon the veldt; but the Boers collected that portrait from me later on, worseluck. On this fateful day Captain Towse, with about fifty of the Gordons, got isolated from the main body of British troops, and the Boers, with thatmarvellous dexterity for which they are fast becoming famous, sized up theposition, and determined upon a capture. They little dreamt of the natureof the lion they had snared in their toils. With fully two hundred andfifty men they closed in on the little band of kilted men, and intriumphant tones called upon them to throw down their arms and surrender. It was a picture to warm an artist's heart. On all sides rose the bleak, black kopjes, ridge on ridge, as inhospitable as a watch-dog's growl. Onone hand the little band of Highlanders, the picturesque colours of theirclan showing in kilt and stocking, perfect in all their appointments, butnowhere so absolutely flawless as in their leadership. Under such leadersas he who held them there so calm and steady their forbears had hurled backthe chivalry of France, and had tamed the Muscovite pride, and they weresoon to prove themselves men worthy of their captain. 

On the other side rose the superior numbers of the Boers. A wild and motleycrew they looked compared with the gem of Britain's army. Boys stood sideby side with old men, lads braced themselves shoulder to shoulder with menin their manhood's prime, ragged beards fell on still more ragged shirtfronts. But there were manly hearts behind those ragged garments, heartsthat beat high with love of home and country, hearts that seldom quailed inthe hour of peril. Their rifles lay in hands steady and strong. The Boerwas face to face with the Briton; the numbers lay on the side of the Boer, but the bayonet was with the Briton. 

"Throw up your hands and surrender. " The language was English, but theaccent was Dutch; a moment, an awful second of time, the rifle barrelsgleamed coldly towards that little group of men, who stood their ground aspine trees stand on their mountain sides in bonny Scotland. Then out on theAfrican air there rang a voice, proud, clear, and high as clarion note:"Fix bayonets, Gordons!" Like lightning the strong hands gripped the readysteel; the bayonets went home to the barrel as the lips of lover to lover. Rifles spoke from the Boer lines, and men reeled a pace from the Britishand fell, and lay where they fell. Again that voice with the Scottish burron every note: "Charge, Gordons! Charge!" and the dauntless Scotchmanrushed on at the head of his fiery few. The Boer's heart is a brave heart, and he who calls them cowards lies; but never before had they faced so grima charge, never before had they seen a torrent of steel advancing on theirlines in front of a tornado of flesh and blood. On rushed the Scots, onover fallen comrades, on over rocks and clefts, on to the ranks of the foe, and onward through them, sweeping them down as I have seen wild horsessweep through a field of ripening corn. The bayonets hissed as they crashedthrough breastbone and backbone. Vainly the Boer clubbed his rifle andsmote back. As well might the wild goat strike with puny hoofs when thetiger springs. Nothing could stay the fury of that desperate rush. Do yousneer at the Boers? Then sneer at half the armies of Europe, for never yethave Scotland's sons been driven back when once they reached a foe tosmite. 

How do they charge, these bare-legged sons of Scotia? Go ask the hills ofAfghanistan, and if there be tongues within them they will tell you thatthey sweep like hosts from hell. Ask in sneering Paris, and the red recordsof Waterloo will give you answer. Ask in St. Petersburg, and fromSebastopol your answer will come. They thought of the dreary morning hoursof Magersfontein, and they smote the steel downwards through the neck intothe liver. They thought of the row of comrades in the graves beside theModder, and they gave the Boers the "haymaker's lift, " and tossed the deadbody behind them. They thought of gallant Wauchope riddled with lead, andthey sent the cold steel, with a horrible crash, through skull and brain, leaving the face a thing to make fiends shudder. They thought of Scotland, and they sent the wild slogan of their clan ringing along the line untilthe British troops, far off along the veldt, hearing it, turned to oneanother, saying: "God help the Boers this hour; our Jocks are into 'em withthe bay'nit!"

But when they turned to gather up those who had fallen, then they foundthat he whose lion soul had pointed them the crimson path to duty was tolead them no more. The noble heart that beat so true to honour's highestnotes was not stilled, but a bullet missing the brain had closed his eyesfor ever to God's sunlight, leaving him to go through life in darkness; andthey mourned for him as they had mourned for noble, white-souled Wauchope, whose prototype he was. They knew that many a long, long year would rollaway before their eyes would rest upon his like again in camp or bloodyfield. But it gladdened their stern warrior hearts to know that the lastsight he ever gazed upon was Scotland sweeping on her foes. 

And when our noble Queen shall place upon his breast the cross which is thesoldier's diadem, their hearts will throb in unison with his, for theirstrong hands on that May Day helped him to win what he is so fat to wear;and when our Sovereign honours him she honours them, and well they know it. And when the years have rolled away, and they are old and grey, and spentwith wounds and toil, fit for nothing but to dandle little grand-babes ontheir knees, young men and maids will flock around, and pointing out theveteran to the curious stranger say, with honest pride, "He was with Towsethe day he won the cross. "

 THE CONDUCT OF THE WAR. 

 ORANGE RIVER COLONY. 

There are hundreds of men lying in unmarked graves in African soil to-daywho ought to be alive and well, others who have been done to death by thecrass ignorance, the appalling stupidity, the damnable conceit which willbrook no teaching. I have seen men die like dogs, men who left comfortablehomes in the old land to go forth to uphold the power and prestige of ournation's flag. I have seen them gasping out their lives like strickensheep, just in the springtide of their manhood, when the glory and the lustof life should have been strong upon them I have watched the Irish lad withthe down upon his brave boyish face pass with the last deep-drawn quiveringsob over the border line of life, into the shadows of the unsearchablebeyond, a wasted sacrifice upon the grim altar of incapacity. I have seenthe kilted Scottish laddie lie, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, waitingfor the whisper of the wings of the Angel of Death. I have seen the deathdamp gather on his unlined brow, and watched the grey pallor creep upwardsfrom throat to temple; until my very soul, wrung with anguish unutterable, has risen in hot revolt against the crimes of the incapable. 

I have knelt by England's fair-faced sons, the child of the cities, the boyfrom the fens, the youth from the farm, and watched the shadows creepingover eyes that mothers loved to look upon. I have seen the wasted fingers, grown clawlike, plucking aimlessly at the rude blankets as if weaving thewoof of the winding-sheet, and have listened with aching heart to theaimless babbling of the dying, in which home and friends were blended, until the tired voice, grown aweary with the weight of utterance, died outlike the crooning of a lisping child, as the soul slipped through thegolden gateway that leads to the glory beyond the grave. I have watchedthem pile the earth above the last home of Cambria's sons, the gallantchildren of the old Welsh hills. I have seen them laid to sleep, as harvesthands will lay the sheaves in undulating rows when the summer shower haspassed; and over every shallow grave I have sent a curse for those whosebrutish folly caused the flower of Britain's army to wither in the pride oftheir peerless boyhood. 

For the men who fall in battle we can flush our tears with pride, andthough our hearts may ache for those we love, yet is there an undercurrentof hot joy to know they fell as soldiers love to fall, face forward to thefoe. But for those who die, as more than half of Britain's dead have diedin this last war, stricken by pestilence brought about by ignorance andindolence, we have only sorrow and tears and prayers, blended with hate andcontempt for the triple-dyed dandies and dunces who robbed us of those whoshould have been alive to-day to be the bulwark of the Empire, the pride ofthe nation, and the joy of many homes. 

Why did they die, these strong young soldiers of our Queen? Was it becausetheir hearts failed them in the presence of hardship and danger? I tellyou, No. The hardships of the campaign only roused them to greaterexertions. Bravely and uncomplainingly they answered every call of duty, ready by night or day to go anywhere, or do anything, if only they were ledby men worthy of our Queen's commission, worthy of the cloth they wore. Whydid they die? Was it because of poisoned or polluted water, left in theirpath by the enemy whom they were fighting? Not so. No, not so. The Boersleft no death-traps in our path. Why did they die? Was it because thecountry through which we marched lent itself climatically to thepropagation and dissemination of fever germs? No, England, no! In all theworld there is no finer climate than that in which our gallant soldiersdied like rotting sheep. Wherever else the blame may lie, no truthful mancan lay the blame of those untimely graves upon the climate or the countryof our enemies. 

I will tell you why they died, and tell you in language so plain that awayfaring man, even though a fool, cannot misunderstand me, for the timehas arrived when the whole Empire should know the truth in all its nativehideousness. Those men were done to death by wanton carelessness upon thepart of men sent out by the British War Office. They were done to deaththrough criminal neglect of the most simple laws of sanitation. Men werehuddled together in camp after camp; they were allowed to turn thesurrounding veldt and adjacent kopjes into cesspools and excreta camps. Insome camps no latrines were dug, no supervision was exercised. Theso-called Medical Staff looked on, and puffed their cigarettes and talkedunder their eye-glasses--the fools, the idle, empty-headed noodles. Andwhilst they smoked and talked twaddle, the grim, gaunt Shadow of Deathchuckled in the watches of the night, thinking of the harvest that was tofollow. 

Then the careless soldiers passed onward, leaving their camp vacant, andlater came another batch of soldiers. Perhaps the men in charge would bemen of higher mental calibre; they would order latrines to be dug, and allgarbage to be burnt or buried. But by this time the germs of fever were inthe air, the men would sicken and die, just as I have seen them sicken anddie upon a score of mining fields away in the Australian bush; and all forthe want of a little honest care and attention, all for the want of a fewgrains of good, wholesome, everyday common sense. Had proper care beentaken in regard to these matters, four-fifths of those who now fill fevergraves in South Africa would be with us, hale and hearty men, to-day. 

But, England, you must not complain. "Tommy" is a cheap article; he onlycosts a few pence per day, and if he dies there are plenty more ready andwilling to take his place. Don't think of him as a human being. Don't thinkof him as some woman's husband and breadwinner. Don't think of him as somegrey-haired widow's son, whose support he has been. Don't think of him assome foolish girl's heart's idol. But think of him as a part of thecountry's revenue. Think of him as "One-and-fourpence a day. "

What excuse can or will be made by the authorities for the wholesale murderof our men I know not. Possibly those high and haughty personages willsniff contemptuously and decline to give any explanation at all. And you, who hold the remedy in your own hands, what will you do? Will you atelection times put a stern question to every candidate for the Commons, anddemand a straight and unqualified answer to your questions. Remember this:You supply the men who do the fighting; the nation at a pinch can dowithout a Roberts, a Duller, or a Kitchener, but, as my soul liveth, itcannot do without "Tommy. "

If you want Army reform, you must commence with the "Press gang"; you muststand in one solid mass firmly behind those war correspondents who have notfeared to speak out plainly. You must send men to the Commons pledged tostand behind them also, men who will not flinch and allow themselves to beflouted by every scion of some ancient house; for if you do not support thewar correspondents of the great newspapers, how are you ever to know thereal truth concerning the doings of our armies in the field? I tell youthat you have not heard one-millionth part of the truth concerning thisSouth African enterprise, and now you never will know the truth. Had theabominable practice of censorship been abolished prior to this war, most ofthe abuses which have made our Army the laughing stock of Europe would havebeen set right by the correspondents, for they would have pointed out theevils to the public through the medium of their journals, and an indignantpeople would have clamoured for reform in a voice which would brook nodenial. As things are at present, the military people during the progressof the war have their heel upon the necks of the journalists, and thepublic are robbed of what is their just right, the right of knowledge ofpassing events; only that which suits the censor being allowed to filterover the wires. Had it been otherwise, hundreds of young widows in Ireland, Scotland, England, and Wales would be proud and happy wives to-day. 

But do not let me rouse your phlegmatic blood, my Britons; sit down, withyour thumbs in your mouths, my masters, and allow a coterie to flout you atwill, whilst the Frenchmen, the Germans, the Russians alternately laugh atand pity you. Pity you, the sons of the men who chased their fathers halfover Europe at the point of the blood-red bayonet! Have you grown tame, have you waxed fat and foolish during these long years of peace? Is thespirit that swept the legions of France through the Pyrenees and carriedthe old flag up the heights of Inkerman in the teeth of Russianchivalry--is it dead, or only sleeping? If it but slumbers, let me cry, Sleeper, awake, for danger is at the gates! Not the danger due from foreignfoes, but a greater danger--the danger of unjust government, for where evilis hidden injustice reigns. 

Our military friends tell us that censorship of Press work is necessary forthe welfare of the Army. They urge that if we correspondents had a freehand the enemy might gain valuable information regarding the movements ofour troops. To us who for the greater portion of a year have been at thefront there is grim irony in that assertion. Fancy the Boer scouts wantinginformation from us which might filter through London newspapers! Thatflimsy, paltry excuse can be dismissed with a contemptuous laugh. That isnot why the military people want our work censored. The real reason is thattheir awful blunders, their farcical mistakes, and their criminalnegligence may not reach the British public. Just try for one brief momentto remember some of the "censored" cables that have been sent home to youduring the war, and then compare it with such a cable as this, which wouldhave come if the Press men had a free hand:

 "Kruger's Valley, Jan. 12. 

 "The ---- Division, under General ----, arrived at Kruger's Valley four days ago. No latrines have been dug . .. Weather terribly hot, with rain threatening. This Division moves out in about a week. Its place will be taken by troops just arrived at Durban from England. Should we have rain in the meantime half the new draft will be down with enteric fever before they are here a week, and the death rate will be simply awful. General ---- and staff will be responsible for those deaths. "

The military folk would, doubtless, designate such a telegram "a piece ofd----d impudence. "

But the latrines would be dug, the camp would be kept free from foulness, and the new draft would not die untimely deaths, but would live to fightthe enemies of their country. 

Why the camps in South Africa were not models of cleanliness passes mycomprehension. There was no need to harass "Tommy" by setting him to do thework. Every Division was accompanied by swarms of niggers, who drew fromGovernment £4 10s. Per month and their food. These niggers had agentleman's life. They waxed fat, lazy, and cheeky. Four-fifths of themrode all day on transport wagons, and never earned a fourth of the wagesthey drew from a sweetly paternal Government. Why could not those men havebeen used in every camp to make things safe and comparatively comfortablefor "Tommy, " who had to march all day, with his fighting kit upon his backmarch and fight, and not only march and fight, but go on picket and sentryduty as well? Those niggers ought to have, been turned out to dig and fillin latrines for our soldiers, they ought to have been compelled to do allthe menial work of the camps; but they never did anything of the sort"Tommy" was treated for the most part like a Kaffir dog, whilst the saucyniggers led the lives of fightingcocks, and to-day any ordinary ArmyService nigger thinks himself a better man than "Tommy, " and doesn'thesitate to tell you so. It would be instructive to know the name of thegenius who fixed the scale of nigger wage at £ 4 10s. Per month, withrations. Fully half that sum could with ease have been saved the Britishtaxpayer, and the nigger would have taken it with delight, and jumped atthe chance of getting it. As a matter of fact, the nigger has had a hugepicnic, and has been well paid for attending it. He has never been keptshort of food. He has never had to march until his feet were almost fallingoff him. He has not had to fight for the country that fed and clothed him. Poor "Tommy!"

 HOME AGAIN. 

I stood where Nelson's Column stands--a stranger, and alone. Alone amidst amighty multitude of men and maids. I saw a people drunk with joy. I lookedfrom face to face, and in each flashing eye, and on each quivering lip, anation's heart lay bared to all the world, for England's capital was butthe throbbing pulse of England's Empire. Our nation spoke to the nationsthat dwell where the sea foam flies, and woe to them who do not heed thetale that the city told. There was no sun, the city lay enveloped insilvery shadows, like some grey lioness that knows her might and is notquickly stirred to wrath or joy, like meaner things. I looked above, andsaw the monument of him whose peerless genius gave us empire on the seas. Ilooked below, and saw, far as my eyes could range, a seething mass of men, as good, as gallant, and as great of heart as those who fought and fellbeneath his flag, and in my blood I felt the pride of empire stirring, andknew how great a thing it is to call one's self a Briton. 

I looked along that swaying mass of human flesh and blood, and saw the bestthat England owns waiting to welcome, with heart-stirring cheers, thegallant lads whose lion hearts had carried London's name and fame along therough-hewn tracks of war. I saw the cream of Britain's chivalry andBritain's beauty there. Men and women from the countryside, from Irelandand from Scotland, all eager to pay tribute to the London lads who had soproudly proved to all the world that it was not for a soldier's pay, notfor the love of gain, but for a nation's glory that they had risked limband life beneath an African sun. Then, as I looked, I caught a distant humof voices--a far-off sound, such as I have heard amid Pacific isles whenwind and waves were beating upon coral crags, and foam-topped rollersthrashed the surf into the magic music of the storm-tossed sea. It was theroar of London's multitudes welcoming home her own; and what a sound itwas! I have heard the music of the guns when our nation spoke in the sterntones of battle to a nation in arms; I have heard the crash of tempests onSouthern coasts when ships were reeling in the breath of the blast, andsouls to their God were going; I have crouched low in my saddle when thetornado has swept trees from the forest as a boy brushes flowers with hisfootsteps. But never had I heard a sound like that. It was the voice ofmillions, it was the great heart-beats of a mighty nation, it was a welcomeand a warning--a welcome to the descendants of the 'prentice lads of OldLondon, a warning to the world. I caught the echoes in my hands, I huggedthem to my heart, I let them pour into my brain, and this is the tale theytold: "Sluggish we are, ye people, slow to wake, strong in the strength ofconscious might. Jibe at us, jeer at us, flout us and threaten us; butbeware the day we turn in our strength. We have sent forth a few of ourchildren, but they were but as a drop in the ocean. All Britain sent twohundred and fifty thousand strong men to Africa; London, if need be, cansend five hundred thousand more to the uttermost parts of the earth. Aye, and when they have died, as these would have died if need be, we can openour hearts and send five hundred thousand more, and yet be strong for ourhome fighting. " It was a nation speaking to the nations, and that is thetale it told. Let the nations take heed and beware, for the language wasthe language of truth. 

I listened; and lo! through the storm of cheering, through the cries ofwomen and the strong shouting of men in their prime, I caught anothersound, a sound I knew and loved--the sound of marching men. Music hathcharms to stir the blood and make men mad, but there is no music in all theearth like the trained tread of men who have marched to battle. I knew therhythm of that tread; I knew that the "boys" of Old London were coming, andmy nostrils seemed filled with the fumes of fighting. I looked again, and, saw them, hard faced, clean limbed, close set, as soldiers should be whohave faced the storm and stress of war, as proud a band as Britain everhad, soldier and citizen both in one, fit to be a nation's bulwark and anation's trust; and in the crowd around them there were a thousand thousandmen as good, as game, as gritty, as they, for they were the children of thepeople, the men of the shop-counter, the men of the city office, the men ofevery artisan craft, the very vitals of London. They had sprung from thewomb of the city, and the city could give birth to a million more if needbe. 

I saw them pass amidst a storm of cheers, and I, who had seen them out onthe African veldt under the foeman's guns, lifted up my voice to cheer themonward, for well I knew that there was nothing in the gift of England thatthey were not worthy of, those children of the "flat caps, " those offspringof the 'prentice lads of London. I knew how they had starved; I knew howthey had suffered through the freezing cold of the African winter; I knewhow gallantly, how uncomplainingly, they had marched with empty bellies andaching limbs, ready to go anywhere, to do anything, ready to fight, and, ifit were the will of the great God of Battles, ready to lay down their younglives and die. I knew those things, and, knowing them, gave them a cheerfor the sake of Australia, for the sake of the kinship which binds us as nobonds of steel could bind us and them. I heard a voice at my kneewhimpering, the voice of a gutter kid, who had dodged in there out of theway of the police. I looked at his ragged clothes, looked at his grimyface, looked at his hands, which looked as if they had never looked atsoap, and I said: "What are you yelping for, kiddie?" And he, looking up atme through his tears, fired a voice at me through his sobs, and said: "I'myelping, mister, because I'm only a little 'un, and can't see me mates comehome from the war. " Then I laughed, and tossing him up on my shoulder lethim jamb his dirty fist on the only silk hat I possess, whilst he looked athis "mates" march home; for they were his mates--he was a child of London, and some day--who knows?--he may be a general. 

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