LADYSMITH

The Scene of the Fighting at Monte Cristo Hill on February 19.(From sketches taken during the action by Captain P. U. Vigors, 2nd Devon Regiment.)

Further important movements took place on the 18th. Through the operations of the day before, the Boers had been hunted along towards Monte Cristo, and from thence at daylight they commenced to pour Creusot shells on the British troops. The Queen’s, who had bivouacked on the northern slope of Cingolo, and came in for a good deal of fire, valiantly crossed the nek, and, supported by the rest of the 2nd Brigade under General Hildyard, assaulted and finally took the southern end of Monte Cristo. The 4th Brigade occupied the left or western slope. Operations were begun very early, and the long precipitous climb in a baking sun occupied till midday. The advance over country that is trellised with spruits, dongas, thorn-bush, and scrub at times was painfully slow, and the scrambling and stumbling, sometimes on all fours, to the roll and rattle of musketry and the banging of unseen and unlocatable guns occupied some hours. The words of the Scripture, “Eyes havethey and see not,” might have been applied to this nerve-trying assault against hidden men with smokeless weapons. No sooner had the troops reached the top of Monte Cristo than they were assailed by a well-directed artillery fire from the direction of the invisible foe, shrapnel, Maxim, and Nordenfeldt guns pouring over the men as they advanced. But they steadily pushed on and up till at last they entirely routed the Boers. These, finding themselves in a desperate situation, took to their heels, leaving tents, food, biltong, lard, potatoes, onions, clothing, bridles, blankets, and Bibles behind them in disarray. In their retreat they were fired on by the cavalry, but they made small reply. Quantities of ammunition were captured, and, unfortunately for those who still maintained their respect for the enemy, several forms of expanding bullets. The Royal Welsh Fusiliers, supported by the rest of the 6th Brigade, assailed the eastern flank of the enemy’s position. The 2nd Brigade of Cavalry on the extreme right watched the eastern slopes of Monte Cristo, and drove back those of the enemy who scurried there to escape the artillery fire. They had been completely taken by surprise; they had expected the British to begin a frontal attack on Green Hill, a smooth grassy eminence sliced with the gashes of Boer entrenchments, some of these six feet in depth, others blasted in the solid rock. Assaulted now by big guns in front and flank, attacked in flank and rear, the enemy, without offering much resistance, evacuated their strong positions and fled across the Tugela. That their flight was precipitate was testified by the fact that they even left letters behind. One of these was from General Joubert in answer to a request for supports, in which he said these could not be sent; the position was sufficiently garrisoned with the men they had.

The crest of Monte Cristo gained, all at once took heart. This hill was the hinge on which all the subsequent movements turned. By means of it Green Hill and the frowning eminence of Hlangwane could become ours. From Hlangwane the whole western section of the great Colenso position could be rendered untenable by the enemy. This the Boers well knew, and this was the reason for their tough resistance on the dreadful 15th of December. Now, seeing us masters of Monte Cristo, they wisely decided to make themselves scarce. The British guns once mounted on Monte Cristo made a complete difference in the situation. It was now possible to enfilade many of the choice positions which for two months had been the snug hiding-places of the enemy. Now, in the distance, was visible—the subject of many dreams, many nightmares—Ladysmith. Around it, here and there, were dotted the enemy’s camps and hospitals—only eight miles away—a comfortable walking distance—eight miles ahead of our advanced lines! Ladysmith—an austerequeen to be wooed, a fainting beauty to be won—so she had seemed, with lives risked and sacrificed like mere handfuls of sand for the sake of her, for a few yards of approach near to that cestus which engirdled all the grand British blood that had palpitated for our coming, so long, so very long. It was glorious merely to know that Ladysmith was now in sight of the British picquets: there was a sense of exhilaration in the thought of real progress after the ghastly six days at Spion Kop, the fluctuating four at Vaal Krantz, the fourteen in and out and round about the precincts of fatal Colenso. Success was now almost within a stone’s throw, and all hearts throbbed with expectation and confidence. All were in some way longing for the handclasp of those beleaguered men. There, in that cup of the hills were kindred; if not kindred, friends; if not friends, comrades in arms—comrades who had belonged to the same old regiments or “ground” with the same “crammers” at the same schools. And even for complete strangers there was a thrill of excitement, almost of exultation, at the prospect of coming in touch with these men, of grasping hands with renowned warriors, every one of whom had helped to illuminate one of the most sumptuous pages of the history of the nineteenth century.

The intense heat, the terrific toil, the unparalleled hardships were forgotten. The energy and dash of the troops, hitherto unfailing, were now redoubled. They had now taken possession of the most important ridge which pointed towards the frowning guardian eminence of the beleaguered concave—Bulwana Hill—and hopes were high and spirits exuberant. There remained but Pieter’s Hill between them and the imprisoned multitude. They now saw that the turn of the tide had arrived, and already they looked towards the distressed town, veiled in the haze of distance, and pictured the hour when their long spell of strain and turmoil should meet its reward. In this day’s fight, the Queens, the Scots Fusiliers, the Rifle Brigade, and the irregular cavalry had especially distinguished themselves. It was the distinction of endurance rather than of display. The dogged perseverance with which they launched themselves at the positions to be taken, toiling through scrub and thorn, “potting away” at an invisible foe, was more to be applauded than more demonstrative feats of heroism. Colenso and Spion Kop had been showy in their tragedy, but the “fighting march,” as it was called, was a feat of superb endurance, of obdurate pluck. A perpetual stumbling and tearing, an eternal pushing up and on against opposition the more terrifying because unseen; the sound of booming, smokeless murderous guns; the sight of maimed or mutilated human beings dropping suddenly under the serene and smiling sky were experiences to test the grit of the toughest andmost stoical. A bolt from the blue! That was all. Yet presently there were dead men littered about, and far away, unconscious of their woe, were widows and orphans.

On the 19th, Hlangwane Hill—the impregnable Gibraltar, as it has been called—was taken by the Fusilier Brigade. As this hill, which commanded Colenso, had been evacuated by the enemy—who had left three camps and all their paraphernalia, thousands of rounds of ammunition, and 2000 Maxim automatic shells behind them—we were now free to cross the Tugela. Whether the enemy would continue to fight inch by inch was uncertain, but still there was one subject of rejoicing—the river was ours. The following officers were killed and wounded during this day’s operations:—2nd Royal Fusiliers—Killed, Captain W. L. Thurburn; wounded, 2nd Lieutenant E. C. Packe. 2nd Scottish Rifles—Wounded, 2nd Lieutenant J. M. Colchester-Wemyss.

On the 20th General Hart, after a slight resistance by a weak rearguard, occupied the village, and now the line of the Tugela on the south side from Colenso to Eagle’s Nest was in British hands.

Colenso was found to be a desolate ruin. The enemy had evidently tried to make matchwood of the place. Windows and doors told the tale of wanton destruction. They were wrecked past remedy. Houses everywhere were redolent of the Boer, the walls bore traces of his illiterate caligraphy, and his offensive remarks in many tongues amused without disturbing those who read them. They could afford to smile now. And while they went on their tour of investigation the hidden Boers could not resist some sniping shots from their trenches in Port Wylie, which were only silenced by the forcible arguments of the Naval gunners on Hussar Hill. On this day another trooper of the South African Light Horse (Walters) distinguished himself by swimming across the Tugela and bringing over the pontoon, thus repeating the gallant deed of his comrades at Potgieter’s Drift. Thorneycroft’s Mounted Infantry, though peppered by Boers who were ensconced on the kopjes on the opposite side, succeeded in fording the river, and proceeded to reconnoitre the kopjes on the other side. All the guns were gone, and the kopjes themselves seemed to be weakly held. In the distance small clusters of Boers were seen in the act of digging trenches, but it was generally believed that the enemy’s tactics were now those of a rearguard action.

THE RELIEF OF LADYSMITH—THE LAST RUSH AT HLANGWANE HILL.From a Sketch by René Bull, War Artist.

Terrible reminiscences of the battle of Colenso greeted them wherever they turned. Fort Wylie was seamed with bombardment. The railway bridge remained a lamentable picture of upheaval. Outside the village, lying as they had dropped, were the rotted carcases of horses which had fallen victims to the enemy’s volleys—fallen in tangled masses, all harnessed together, while making a futile effortto save the guns of the 14th and 66th Batteries. The trenches, beginning on the very brink of the river, with their protective layers of sandbags and their ingeniously arranged earthworks, told how comfortably and with what immunity from danger the Boers had set about their fell work on the fatal 15th of December. The labour in making Colenso and its surroundings impregnable must have been as immense as it was skilful.

General Hart’s advanced guard now proceeded to cross the Tugela, the Boers having vacated all their positions south of the river, and on the 21st he was followed by the 5th Division, who drove back the enemy’s rearguard. The enemy had moved north and turned into a strongly fortified line of kopjes midway between the river and Grobler’s Kloof, and from thence there was some doubt whether he could ever be displaced. At the approach of the British, he, however, retired precipitately towards Grobler’s Kloof.

The crossing, on both days, of the magnificent infantry was apiece with all that had gone before. First came one shell, then another, but the troops steadily pursued their warlike course while the missiles hurtling over their heads exploded in the plain behind them. The great question had been as to where the river should be crossed. Now that the British were in possession of the whole area of Hlangwane and its connecting hills, it was possible to cross either where the river ran north and south, or where it ran east and west. The idea was to cross and get along the line of railroad, and follow a straight course up to Ladysmith. The enemy were believed to be in retreat, and therefore it seemed perfectly feasible to advance in the way attempted.

On the 21st the gunners continued persistently at work, determining that the Dutchmen should have no spare time for the building of further entrenchments. The foe managed, however, to render themselves aggressive by firing on an ambulance train that was steaming out of Colenso station. Meanwhile the army was moving westward from Hlangwane plateau, with a view to marching up beyond the stream, and getting out of the valley of the river and beyond the kopjes that frowned over it.

The story of famine is an insidious story, a creeping horror that, scarcely visible, yet slowly and very gradually saps first the spirits, then the energies, then the blood, and finally all the little sparks of being that serve to divide us from the dead. The seal of hunger was set on every action, though there was no complaint. The cramped-up Tommy in his sangar was scarcely as conscious of his risk of danger from shot and shell as of the aching void that assuredhim how much nature abhorred a vacuum. When he marched, he marched now with the step of one who husbands his resources; when he whistled as of old, he ceased abrupt, the lung power being scant and short-lived. His eyes, plucky and Britishly dogged, grew large and wistful, as though looking for something that never came. Dysentery and fever caught him and left him, but left him still in charge of famine, which held him in leading-strings, allowing him his freedom to crawl so far and no farther. Yet daily routine went on as of yore. The shadow of the man went on picket or fatigue duty and met his fellow-shadows as often as not with a jest. In ordinary life you don’t look upon cheek-bones as the features of a face. You take stock of eyes, nose, mouth, possibly ears. In Ladysmith a man’s character betrayed itself in his cheek-bones and in the anæmic tone of the tanned parchment that was stretched across them. You could read of patience and heroism in the hard, distinct outlines, and comprehend the magnificent endurance of one who, expecting to fight like a devil, was condemned to feed like an anchorite.

The men were very near the barbaric brink of starvation. On one occasion a shell plumped into the mule lines and killed a mule. There was a general rush. Shells followed on the first, crashing all around, but the famished racing throng heeded them not; their one desire was to get at the slain beast, to capture the wherewithal to stay their grievous cravings. Quickly with their clasp-knives they possessed themselves of great chunks of the flesh, and then, with death hurtling around them and over their heads, they proceeded to carry their prize to safer quarters. Here they determined to have a good “tuck-in.” Fires were kindled, and the flesh was toasted and swallowed with lightning rapidity.

For some weeks the inhabitants had been reduced to an essence of horse politely termed Chevril, which was declared to be both palatable and nourishing. The horses, with their ribs shining in painful high lights along their skins, dropped day after day from sheer famine, and were boiled down to meet the pressing demand. Their bones were gelatinous, however wizened their poor flesh.

The horses that were used for food, like those that yet crawled, were mere skeletons. When the General, in view of making another sortie, inquired how many there were in camp that could still carry their rider for six miles, he was informed that there were only twelve equal to the task.

The lack of fat and milk and vegetables was irremediable, but dainties, so called, were provided in curious ways. Blancmange was manufactured from ladies’ violet-powder which had been “commandeered” for service in the kitchen, and biscuits were fried by the men in the axle-grease provided for the carts, in hope to make the task of biting them less like crunching ashes.

The place itself appeared to be becoming the Abomination of Desolation. Many of the dwellings were unoccupied; the low bungalow-shaped villas were closed and barricaded; here and there were buildings cracked and seamed by shot and shell, with great gaps in their faces, reminding one of human beings without eyes and teeth. Melancholy and depression reigned everywhere—on the tangled, desolated gardens, as on the silent, listless men, who had almost ceased to converse, for there was nothing left to converse about. Buller’s coming had been discussed threadbare; the prospect of the food holding out had been examined in all its hideous emptiness. Lassitude and weariness was the universal expression on the visages of the hollow-eyed spectres that were the remains of the dashing heroes of Glencoe and Elandslaagte. The land and riverbeds presented the appearance of a series of grottoes, shelters of wood, stone, and wire, the dens of wild animals, the caves of primitive man. Between the burrows and caves were sentry-paths and paths to the water-tanks, worn with the incessant traffic of weary feet.

Though affairs were arriving at a sorry pass, there were still some wonderful recoveries. For instance, Captain Paley (Rifle Brigade), who was wounded in both hips, was getting on amazingly. Though the leg was badly shattered near the joint of the hip, there was every reason to hope that it might be saved. Captain Mills, too, was mending. To have a bullet pass through the lung and pierce the spinal column is not a common experience, and one that few recover from; yet the doctors gave hopeful reports. They had scarcely thought that Major Hoare would outlive a fractured skull—completely riddled they said it was—yet the Major was expected to be himself again shortly. These were marvellous cases, and probably the wounded owed their curious recovery to the nature of the weapon of offence. Missiles have peculiar characteristics, and differ in their capacity for deadliness. For instance, bullets of the most harmless kind are those having a high velocity, those that hit apex-first and do not “keyhole,” and those possessing a hard, smooth sheath with a smooth, rounded surface. After these come missiles of more death-dealing or mutilating nature—the Dum-Dum bullets, with the nickel sheaths around the apex removed in order to expose the lead nucleus, Remington lead or brass bullets, shrapnel bullets, and fragments of shell. Each and all of these things had been endured by one or other of our gallant men during the course of the campaign, and the surgeons were able to make a profound study of causes and effects. One of the heroes of Ladysmith who went near to testing the efficacy of that most deadly thing, the shell, was Archdeacon Barker. With the utmost presence of mind, he picked up a shell in the act of exploding and plumped it into a tubof water, thus saving many lives. Numbers of officers who had been hit by Mausers or Lee-Metfords were now pronounced out of danger, among them Colonel C. E. Beckett (Staff), Major F. Hammersley (Staff), Captain W. B. Silver, Captain M. J. W. Pike, Major H. Mullaly, Lieutenants Crichton, S. C. Maitland, W. W. MacGregor (of the Gordons), and A. A. G. Bond. Captain Lowndes, who was wounded dangerously on Surprise Hill, was picking up wonderfully. Lieutenant Campbell, of the Imperial Light Horse, whose case at first seemed serious, was rapidly gaining ground.

Very capricious sometimes was the action of bullets. Some of the injured would have as many as four or five wounds, all “outers,” to use their musketry phrase, while others would suffer strange and wonderful things in consequence of the vagaries of a single shot. A strange chapter of accidents befell one officer. He was hit under the left eye, the bullet passing out of his cheek into his left shoulder, and then into his upper arm, which it broke. Not content with doing this damage, the shock of the blow knocked him down, and in falling the unfortunate man broke the other arm! On the other hand, there were some, reported doing well, and expecting to be fit for duty shortly, who were veritably perforated with bullets—“a perfect sieve” one man called himself, with a touch of excusable pride.

The bravery of these men! The bravery of these women! Outside we knew only of the husk of their suffering; but the kernel of it, the bitter sickening taste of it, the taste that lived with them, that was there when they woke, and remained after they had closed their eyes in sleep—that, none but themselves could ever know. Boredom and flies, they jestingly said it was! Rather was it a slow petrifaction of the soul. Death to them had lost its sting, as life had lost its fire. Ladysmith was the grave of corpses that were not dead, forms in the cerements of burial now too weak to knock themselves against the coffin-lid and cry, “Save us! our last breath is not yet spent; we are living, loving men!” Yes, they were too weak. They made no sound, no cry. They who had so long resisted could resist no longer; they, who with their last effort on that fatal 6th of January had been a terror to their enemies, were now only a terror to themselves. Could they bear it longer? Was it possible? Might they not in some fit of madness, some palpitating moment of lust for dear life, begin to spell the letters of the unframable word, begin just to think how it might be spelt?—S—u—r—r— No! They could not get to the end of it! It choked them. They could stand the fetid water, the foul air with its loathsome whispers, its hideous suggestions, which at eventide grew strong as phantoms from the nether world; they could face the sight of virulent disease and gaunt famine stalkingup and down as the hyena slinks round and about his prey; they could gasp under the fierce heat; they could tune their ears to the racking, rending tortuous explosions of death dealing shells—they could do all this, but they could not get beyond. The first syllable of the crushing word could never pass their lips!

Food now was only interesting because of its mystery; it was beginning to have merely an ornamental value in the programme. Various “confections” made of violet-powder that had been impounded, strange brawns of mule-heel and suspicious “savouries” were the subject of speculation and awe. People pretended to be pleased and to put a good face on matters, and indeed they had every reason to be thankful; for, owing to the ingenuity of Lieutenant M’Nalty, A.S.C., under whose auspices potted meats, jellies, soups, were manufactured, the imagination if not the appetite was appeased with what, when not too closely investigated, appeared to be quite delectable fare.

The following prices were realised at an auction on February 21:—Fourteen lbs. of oatmeal, £2, 19s. 6d.; a tin of condensed milk, 10s.; 1 lb. of fat beef, 11s.; a 1-lb. tin of coffee, 17s.; a 2-lb. tin of tongue, £1, 6s.; a sucking-pig, £1, 17s.; eggs, £2, 8s. per dozen; a fowl, 18s.; four small cucumbers, 15s.; green mealies, 3s. 8d. each; a small quantity of grapes, £1, 5s.; a plate of tomatoes, 18s.; one marrow, £1, 8s.; a plate of potatoes, 19s.; two small bunches of carrots, 9s.; a glass of jelly, 18s.; a 1-lb. bottle of jam, £1, 11s.; a 1-lb. tin of marmalade, £1, 1s.; a dozen matches, 13s. 6d.; a packet of cigarettes, £1, 5s.; 50 cigars, £9, 5s.; a ¼-lb. cake of tobacco, £2, 5s.; ½ lb. of tobacco, £3, 5s.

A doctor, writing home about this time, said:—

“Things are getting very trying here now. For two or three weeks we have had only half a pound of horseflesh and a quarter a pound of very bad mealie-meal bread, with one ounce of sugar. Sometimes a little mealie porridge is added or a little more bread. This is precious low fare, I can tell you, especially as the bread is so bad we can hardly eat it, and it makes us ill. Of course, drinks gave out after the first month, and tobacco followed suit some time ago, but, fortunately, they discovered a little Kaffir tobacco recently, which, vile as it is, we smoke eagerly. Alas! mine won’t last long now. It is impossible to get proper food for patients, and not much of improper. Consequently men are beginning to die fast of scurvy, enteric, and dysentery. We have reduced the number of sick from two thousand to seventeen hundred here, of which I have about a hundred severe cases, and am allowed about two to three wineglasses of stimulants a day for the lot; so you can imagine what a farce that is. Drugs, too, are almost finished, and firewood forcooking is an endless difficulty; so you can imagine I am pretty tired of the daily duty in these terrible fever-tents. About half of our doctors and half the nurses are sick, and there were always few enough. One doctor has already died and a nurse.”

Among the severe cases alluded to was one especially to be deplored. Colonel Royston, whose name is intimately connected with Volunteering in Natal, was hopelessly ill. In spite of his iron constitution, he succumbed to the ravages of enteric fever, and was in reality marked by the finger of death at the very time when the relief force was pressing to deliver the town from the awful doom that hung like a miasma over the whole place. The gallant Colonel had done splendid service, and for two decades had worked energetically to promote the welfare of the Colony and stimulate interest in the Volunteer movement. As trumpeter in the Carabineers in 1872, the youth was found engaging in operations against Langalibalele, including the flying column in the Double Mountains and the capture of the chief; and in 1879, in command of a troop of Carabineers, he distinguished himself in the Zulu campaign. Later he accompanied Sir Bartle Frere to the Transvaal in command of the High Commissioner’s escort. From 1881 to 1889 he commanded the regiment, and was appointed Commandant of Volunteers in 1898. When the call to arms came, the brave Volunteers of Natal were ready to a man, fully equipped to go to the front—a practical proof of the splendid ability and foresight of their chief. All agreed in deploring his illness, and declared that an officer more fitted to lead the gallant regiment, more trusted and more beloved, it would be hard to find.

On Wednesday the 21st, as we know, our troops were back at Colenso. The day was mainly devoted to “sniping,” to bringing up heavy guns, and to getting the troops across the Tugela. But the 12-pounder Naval guns on Hlangwane, and the 61st Howitzer Battery in the open, indulged in a stupendous concert addressed to the enemy’s position, in which they were assisted from below Monte Cristo on the right by more Naval guns. The enemy was not inactive. No sooner had a pontoon been thrown across the river below Hlangwane than they began to drop shells in the neighbourhood of the troops who were attempting to cross. These, however, accomplished their intention without sustaining much loss. Meanwhile, Corporal Adams, of the Telegraph Brigade, distinguished himself by swimming across the Tugela, wire in mouth. The troops now advanced—General Coke’s Brigade, followed by two battalions of General Wynne’s and a field-battery. The Somersets, Dorsets, Middlesex, coveredby shell-fire from two field-batteries and the heavy guns, moved across the plain to the foot of the hill, with the object of reconnoitring Grobler’s Kloof. At first no signs of the enemy were visible, the Dutchmen, though not entrenched, being cunninglyhidden in the dongas and thorn-bushes, which crowded the vicinity. But no sooner had the Somersets, who had been the first across the pontoon, approached the base of the hill, than a cataract from the rifles of the enemy suddenly burst over them. The Boers had withheld their fire till the troops were within point-blank range, and then rent the weird mystery of the dusk with jets of flame. Nearly a hundred of the gallant fellows dropped and three officers were killed. Some said that they were fighting the enemy’s rearguard, but in reality a large portion of the whole Boer army was engaged. Though it was the first time the regiment had been under fire, the admirable behaviour of the men in the face of overwhelming hostile numbers was remarkable. Nevertheless, the unpleasant discovery of the enemy’s strength at last involved the retreat of the troops, and decided the General that an advance in force must be made on the following day.

Balloon Map illustrating the Battle of Pieters and Relief of Ladysmith.

The following officers were killed and wounded in the operations of 20th and 21st February:—

1st Rifle Brigade—Wounded, Lieutenant W. R. Wingfield-Digby. 2nd Somersetshire Light Infantry—Killed, Captain S. L. V. Crealock, Lieutenant V. F. A. Keith-Falconer, Second Lieutenant J. C. Parr; wounded, Captain E. G. Elger. 2nd Dorsetshire Regiment—Wounded, Second Lieutenant F. Middleton. 2nd Royal Irish Fusiliers—Wounded, Colonel J. Reeves. Staff—Wounded, Captain H. G. C. Phillips. Royal Army Medical Corps—Died of wounds, Captain R. E. Holt.

On Thursday the 22nd, part of General Wynne’s Brigade began to advance. They were supported by Hildyard’s Brigade from the region of Fort Wylie. (General Barton’s Brigade and part of General Hart’s were left on the south side of the river.) Progress was slow and painful. The country—a strip some two miles broad and stretching out between high hills and the river—was richly veined with irritating dongas and covered with bushes and scrub. The position was commanded by the wooded slopes of Grobler’s Kloof, and enabled the Boers to worry the men in their advance with an enfilading fire. All around were steep kopjes such as the Boer soul delights in, and thorny tangles which afforded comfortable shelter for the enemy’s guns. The movement, therefore, was costly, as it was difficult to locate the guns, and the sharpshooters of the enemy, well hidden in their rocky fastnesses, maintained a continuous fire on front and flanks of the advancing force. With their usual wiliness, the Dutchmen had evidently suspended their contemplated retreat, and had gathered together, crept up, and taken up a strong position on the left flank, whence they were enabled to hamper the troops considerably. Nevertheless the Royal Lancasters leading, the South Lancashire following, valiantly advanced towards their objective so resolutely that the Boers, whoalmost to the last stood their ground, pelted off to the sheltering nooks and dongas in the shadow of Grobler’s Kloof. Only one remained to face the bayonet. But the losses consequent on this smart day’s work were many. Brigadier-General Wynne while conducting operations was slightly wounded, and about a hundred and fifty more were put out of action.

MAJOR-GENERAL A. FITZROY HART, C.B.Photo by Elliott & Fry, London.

The troops were now moving on a route along the line of river and rail to Ladysmith, half-way between Colenso and Pieters Hill, and with kopjes to be stormed at intervals during the onward course. They had performed a species of zigzag movement, pointing from Chieveley north-east to Cingolo and Monte Cristo, and coming back in an acute line north-west to the river. Now the forward march involved the capture of all the strong positions, beginning with the twin kopjes, Terrace and Railway Hill, and ending with the whole Pieters position, and possibly Bulwana.

On the three hills—Terrace Hill, Railway Hill, and Pieters Hill—rested the Boers’ second line of defence. The first hill, called Terrace Hill, lay about a mile and a half to north-east of the right flank. Farther east, divided by a valley, was Railway Hill, so called because on its east came the railway line, on the other side of which was Pieters Hill. Sir Redvers Buller’s plan was to advance the infantry beyond the angle of the river, and then stretch round the enemy’s left from Railway Hill, and so go straight to Ladysmith. The idea seemed a good one, as the Dutchmen were believed to be moving off; but it was afterwards discovered that they, seeing the assault was not to be made at once upon the weak, the left edge of their position, had gathered courage and returned, reinforced by commandos from Ladysmith, to their well-known hunting-ground on Grobler’s Kloof and elsewhere, preparing to give battle so long as there was safety for their extreme left. Most of the night of the 22nd was spent in fighting of desperate character, the Howitzer Battery keeping up an incessant roar, explosion following explosion in the sombre blackness of midnight. The Boers, meanwhile, were attacking with rifle fire all along the line, and so persistent were the Dutchmen in their effort to get rid of the troops, that some even were only repulsed by the bayonet.

Details of that dreadful night’s work are scarce, but a faint, yet tragic, outline was given by an officer of the 60th Rifles, who was one of the survivors of the fatal fray. This regiment had moved on the left of Hildyard’s Brigade, and were swinging along a boulder-strewn hillside, which, surmounted by a series of uneven and indefinite crest-lines, gave on to a plateau where they intended to take up a line of outposts for the night. It so happened that the Boers had ensconced themselves at the rear edge of the position which the troops, in the belief that it was evacuated, were so incautiouslyapproaching. Accordingly, in the gathering gloom a collision of amazing violence occurred—amazing to both Britons and Burghers, for the former surprisedly plumped upon the Dutchmen, who as surprisedly gave way before them. In an instant the gallant 60th were after the fugitives, charging and cheering, but assailed now by fierce volleys from undreamed-of trenches. This sudden and furious attack forced them, unsupported as they were, to seek cover till reinforcements could arrive. But no help appeared. The plight of the unfortunate band, whose peril had been hidden in the grim density of the night, was entirely unsuspected by the companion forces that fringed the crests in the vicinity, and therefore the unhappy fellows lay all night clinging to the cover of the boulders, and rained on by showers of bullets that traced a tale of agony along the ground. At dawn on the 23rd, no supports having arrived, and under the same fervid fusillade, they began to retire. In twos and threes they commenced to go back, finally covered in their retreat by the East Surreys, who had grandly gone forward to the rescue. But the cost of splendid succour was dearly and almost instantaneously paid. Men fell thick and fast over the hilltop—the Colonel, second in command, and four officers of the East Surrey Regiment dropping one after another, some wounded in many places. Captain the Hon. R. Cathcart, “the rearmost of his command, as he had been foremost of the night before,” dropped dead, and round him within a few moments fifty other noble fellows had passed to the Unknown!

General Buller’s orders on the 23rd were brief. Push for Ladysmith to-day, horse, foot, and artillery; both cavalry brigades to cross the river at once. The advance, which had hitherto been slow, was now hurried on. At midday it was in full swing, the cavalry having crossed the Tugela and massed at Fort Wylie. Meanwhile the Boers had taken up a formidable position on the right—on the well-entrenched height called by the gunners Three Knoll Hill, to describe the three hills, Terrace, Railway, and Pieters, that formed the entire position—while on the left they plied their activities from Grobler’s Kloof. The artillery in front of Railway Hill concentrated a brisk fire upon the Boers therein entrenched, who returned some animated replies, assisted by other Dutchmen from a hidden vantage-point on the north-east of that eminence. General Hart’s Brigade, to whose valiant Irishmen the difficult task of capturing the position was entrusted, was ordered to advance. This advance from Onderbrook Spruit to the base of Terrace Hill, the companion of Railway Hill, was a feat of cool courage that has seldom been equalled. The hill, triangular and standing some three hundred feet above the Tugela, was approached by a wide open space, which was commanded by the Boers, whosecomplicated position on Railway Hill and its component ridges gave them every advantage. The correspondent of theStandardfurnished a description of these precipitous steeps. “Railway Hill rises from the Tugela a mile from Platelayers’ House. It is, perhaps, best described as triangular in shape, with one angle pointing towards the river. It rises from the latter in a series of jagged, boulder-strewn kopjes, until three hundred feet or so above the Tugela. A kloof, through which the railway passes upwards on its way to Pieters Station, separates the last jagged ledge from the hill proper. From the last kopje or ledge, and immediately on the other side of the line, the main part of the hill rises abruptly, almost precipitously, with a sharp edge running back in a north-westerly direction for several hundred yards. The base of this north-westerly line of hill makes up a kloof thick with thorn trees, and this kloof recedes round the left end of the hill to the rear, where the enemy’s force, under Commandant Dupreez, had its quarters, while a little farther to the rear is still another kloof, in which the enemy’s Creusots were mounted. Along the beginning of the sharp edge referred to a long trench was cut out, and right ahead, as the hill ran still upwards on an incline for three hundred yards or so, were other trenches, until the hill terminated in a crest crowded with commanding fortifications.” To assail this formidable stronghold the troops moved off in the following order—the Inniskilling Fusiliers leading, followed by the Connaught Rangers, the Dublin Fusiliers, and the Imperial Light Infantry. Steadily marched the kharki-clad throng, advancing along the railroad in single file with rifles at the slope. At that time there was comparative silence save for the muffled drumming of artillery in the surrounding kopjes. These apparently frowned free of human influence, the dark, dull frown that portends many evil things to the eye of the advancing soldier. But nevertheless the troops moved nearer and nearer to the hill over the open ground by the railway bridge with a steady step and that air of consolidated distinction that marks acutely the difference between Briton and Boer armies. They had no sooner showed themselves in the open than the air grew alive, the trenches on the frowning hill vomited furiously. A casual observer remarked that it reminded him of the pantomimes of his youth, of Ali Baba’s cave, when, at a given signal, its jars opened and the forty thieves suddenly—simultaneously—popped up their heads. Only now there were not forty but thousands of brigandish forms—forms that hastened to deal death from their Mausers on the advancing men. These were now coming on at a rush, a rush through the hailstorm whose every shower meant disaster. But Hart the valiant had said, “That hill must be taken at all costs”—and that was enough! The hill was about to be seized and the payments had already begun.One, two, three, four, six—more and yet more down, one after another. So the men began to fall. The ironwork of the bridge had now its fringe of fainting forms. Still the splendid fellows pushed on. Still the air reverberated with the puissant pom-poming of the Boers’ automatic gun. This they had turned on to the position they knew must be passed by the advancing warriors. Meanwhile the British artillery was saluting the hill, throwing up to heaven dust and splinter spouts that filled the whole atmosphere with blinding, choking debris, and causing the purple boulders far and wide to give forth rumbling echoes of the infernal rampage.

Gradually, in face of the deluge of shot and shell, the Inniskilling Fusiliers, the Connaught Rangers, and one company each of the Dublin Fusiliers, had wound their way towards the eastern spurs of Railway Hill, and in the late afternoon were ready for the attack. General Hart gave the word. Then, up the rugged stone-strewn heights the troops laboriously began to climb. Soon they reached a point, some hundred yards above, whence the Boers could pepper them with ease. At the same time from the adjacent hill more bullets whizzed upon them. Yet, with this horrible fire on their flanks and the deadly fusillade from the front, they persevered, dropping one after another like ripe fruit in a gust of wind. Volley after volley poured down on them, but up they went, cutting through wire, leaping boulders, and hurling themselves forward, and in such grand style, that the Boers, seeing the determined glitter of the bayonet, thought it wiser to retreat. They receded some two hundred yards up the hill, while the troops occupied the first position. Then, in the growing dusk, the Dutchmen were seen taking a commanding place on a somewhat higher or parent peak of the hill. From this point the Inniskillings, flushed with their first triumph, deemed it necessary to rout them. Fire streamed and spouted, the dim gloom of twilight came on; still the Irishmen, through the mist of evening and flashings furious from every side, advanced along the hill—a glorious, a tragic advance. One after another bit the dust. Men in mute or groaning agony lay prone in the gathering dusk. First went a major, afterwards another, and then two captains of this gallant band. The Boers had known their business. Some of their kopjes are of the nature of spider-webs; the outer fringe involves entanglement; and this especial eminence was of that particular nature that the second Boer position commanded the first. The Dutchmen, even as they receded, were able to mow down the men as they advanced, by a converging fire, against which it was impossible to stand. It was now an almost hand-to-hand struggle between doughty Dutchman and dashing Briton. The Inniskillings were close, but every inch was gained with appallingloss to their numbers—indeed, the charging companies might almost have been described as individual men!

Finally, some one gave the order to retire. But how? Most of the valorous band were stricken down, or had perished. The wounded could not be removed. Yet those that remained were too few to hold the ground in the darkness. All that could be done was to retire below the crest and wait till morning. A retirement was attempted, under the personal direction of the Colonel (Colonel Sitwell),[4]but in the course of the movement he was hit, never to rise again. The troops at last got to the cover of the hill, where they built schanzes and bivouacked. But from this point throughout the night firing continued, while the Boers above, between the intervals of dozing, peppered the bivouacs with bullets.

At 7A.M., while cannonading had elsewhere assumed dangerous proportions, the Irish regiments were again assailed in their schanzes by the persistent Dutchmen. These had crept round the base of the hill and attacked the trenches from the western side. Volleys poured from all directions on a scene that was already deplorable. Only four officers of the Inniskillings remained. Of the Connaught Rangers five officers were wounded. The Dublin Fusiliers had lost their gallant Colonel (Colonel Sitwell), and also Captain Maitland of the Gordon Highlanders (attached). The picture at dawn and on throughout the day was truly appalling. The trenches of the Boers and those of the attacking force were now only some three or four hundred yards apart, and between them was spread an arena of carnage heart-breaking as irremediable. It was impossible for any one to show a nose and live. Wounded lay here, there, and everywhere, heaped as they had fallen, drenched in their own gore and helpless, yet struggling pathetically to edge themselves with hands or knees or heels nearer some place of safety. Dead, too, were entangled with the sinking, huddled together in grievous ghastly comradeship....

For thirty-six hours some of these heroes lay in wretchedness,hanging between life and death. Mercifully the Boers brought them water, but all their acts were not equally generous. Unfortunately, some misinterpretation regarding the Red Cross flag accentuated the misfortunes of the day.

The Boers, it appeared, had begun by producing one. This signal should have been responded to by our troops, who, however, were not prepared to show another Red Cross flag, which display would have been the signal for truce. This being the case, the Boers, after carrying off their wounded and giving certain of the British wounded some water, removed their rifles. Further, they rifled their pockets and despoiled dead and wounded of boots and other property. Naturally, those who saw them were so infuriated at this wanton behaviour that they began to fire. From this time hostilities recommenced, and the innate cruelty of the Boers was evidenced in several cases. It was stated on the authority of an officer that many of the wounded in act of crawling away were deliberately shot. Let us hope that the aggravation at the non-appearance of the British Red Cross flag was the cause of the ugly display of character on the part of the enemy.

During the late afternoon the worn-out troops in their trenches at the base of the hill were fiercely attacked by the enemy’s guns from all quarters. No such effective shell fire had been experienced since Spion Kop. Indeed, with the assistance of Krupps, and Creusots, and Maxims, and other diabolical instruments, the Boers managed to make a fitting concert for Beelzebub. Many of our positions on the lower slopes of the kopjes were enfiladed, and thus many gallant fellows in Hildyard’s and Kitchener’s brigades were killed. Several officers among those who were fighting on the left also fell, among them Colonel Thorold, Royal Welsh Fusiliers.

At this juncture, finding that the original passage of the river was commanded by entrenchments on every side, and that further advance would be costly in the extreme, the General decided that he must reconnoitre for another passage across the Tugela. This was forthwith discovered. Meanwhile, the day being Sunday, there was an armistice for the interment of the dead on both sides. Grievous were the sensations of those whose duty brought them to the awesome scene of death, who spent the long hours surrounded by sights hideous and forms uncouth, the remains of heroes, discoloured from days of exposure to the sun’s scorching rays, to the damps and dews of night—lying limply rigid and rigidly limp in the unmistakable and undescribable abandonment of untenanted clay; or succouring still more pitiable wrecks, wrecks joined perhaps by an invisible handclasp with comrades in the other world, but still here, making a last struggle for the dignity of manhood, or faintingslowly, peaceably, beyond all knowledge of pain as of the splendid heroism that had placed them where they were!

One who was present contributed toBlackwood’s Magazinea curious account of that armistice—that was not entirely an armistice—of Colonel Hamilton’s approach with the flag of fraternity (so often misused and abused by the Dutchmen), and of the strange apparitions that came forth suspiciously one by one from the depths of the hostile trenches. He said: “Seldom have I set eyes on a more magnificent specimen of male humanity than the Commandant of the trenchful of Boers, Pristorius by name, a son of Anak by descent, and a gallant, golden-bearded fighting-man by present occupation; for in far-away Middleburg those mighty limbs—he told it us without any of that stupid deprecation which would probably have characterised a similar confession on the part of an Englishman—were wont to stretch themselves beneath a lawyer’s desk. Close on his heels came what a person who had never seen Boers before would have thought the strangest band of warriors in the world—old men with flowing, tobacco-stained, white beards; middle-aged men with beards burnt black with the sun and sweat of their forty years; young men, mostly clean shaven, exhibiting strongly the heavy Dutch moulding of the broad nose and chin; big boys in small suits, suits of all kinds and colours, tweed, velveteen, homespun, and ‘shoddy,’ all untidy in the extreme, but mostly as serviceable as their wearers.” These strange beings formed a strong contrast to the men who joined them, particularly in their attitude when confronted with the ghastly foreground of death which made the prominent feature of the amicable picture. The eye-witness before quoted declared that “it was much more difficult for them to conceal the natural discomposure which all men feel in the presence of the silent dead than for their more artificial opponents. From the airy and easy demeanour of the uniformed British officers, that dreadful plateau might have been the lobby of a London club. A Briton is at all times prone to conceal his emotions, and certainly in this instance the idiosyncrasy gave him a great social advantage over the superstitious Burghers, with their sidelong glances and uneasy shiftings.” By-and-by, however, both parties grew even friendly, and the writer went on to describe an animated dialogue between himself and “a deep-chested old oak-tree of a man, whose swarthy countenance was rendered more gipsy-like by the addition of ear-rings. The opening of the conversation had its humours. ‘Good-morning!’ quoth I. ‘Gumorghen,’ rumbled the oak-tree sourly. ‘Surely we can be friends for five minutes,’ I ventured, after a pause. The rugged countenance was suddenly, not to say startlingly, illumined with a beaming smile. ‘Whynot, indeed!whynot, officer! Have you any tobacco?’ Out came my pouch,luckily filled to bursting that very morning, and the oak-tree proceeded to stuff a huge pipe to the very brim, gloating over the fragrance of the ‘best gold flake’ as he did so. The rumour of tobacco had the effect of dispelling the chill that still lingered on the outskirts of that little crowd, and many a grimy set of fingers claimed their share as the price of the friendship of the owners, the Commandant himself not disdaining to accept a fill with a graceful word of thanks. They were out of tobacco in that trench, it appeared, and suffering acutely from the deprivation of what to a Boer is more necessary than food.”

Near to the place where they were stricken the Irish heroes were buried. Their last bed was made in a picturesque spot within the whisper of the spray of the river, and sheltered by the low-spreading thorn-bushes. The rest of the day was unusually peaceful, but in the evening the crackle of musketry from left to right of the position taken up by the Durhams again showed that the enemy was on the alert, and it was believed he was preparing for offensive operations during the night. It was discovered, however, that a gallant deed had put any effort to rush the British lines out of his power. Captain Phillips with eight Bluejackets had effectually rendered their searchlight useless, and had, moreover, got safely away after the venturesome act had been perpetrated and discovered.

The new passage was found by Colonel Sandbach (Royal Engineers) at a point below the waterfall on the east, and again guns, baggage, &c., were ordered to be removed to the south side of the Tugela. It may be advisable to note that the armistice mentioned was an informal one, which did not interfere with military movements. Owing to the desperate straits of the wounded on Inniskilling Hill (as the position, baptized in the blood of our heroes, had now been christened), the General had sent in a flag asking for an armistice. The Boers had refused. On condition that we should not fire on their positions during the day, they only consented to allow the bearer companies to remove the wounded and bury the dead. The Boers meanwhile improved their entrenchments, and the British troops, as stated, prepared for the operation of removal across the river. This they at first did with some misgivings, for they had tacked about so many times, but, on the whole, they bore the strain admirably. What with the hammering of Maxims, Nordenfeldts, and the fluting of Mausers, the men had for twelve days past run through the gamut of discomfort. They had been fed up with war. They were in the daytime fried, grilled, and toasted. At night the cold with its contrast had bitten and numbed them. They had bivouacked now in keen chilly blasts, now in intermittent downpours of rain, which had drenched them and made existence a prolongedwretchedness. And nothing had been achieved. Lives only had been lost. But they still munched their bully beef and biscuit with an heroic cheerfulness and resignation that served to astonish and inspirit all who beheld it. There was no doubt about it that the pluck and perseverance of the British Tommy had become subjects for wonder and veneration!

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