Ladysmith—Humours of the shell—The Lyre tries to be funny—Attack on Long Tom—A brave bugler—Practical jokes—The black postman—A big trek—Last shots—Some one comes—Saved at last.

Ladysmith, where Sir George White and his men detained the Boers so long, is a scattered town lying on a lake-like plain, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of rocky hills. To the north-west was Pepworth Hill, where the Boer Long Tom was placed; north-east of the town, and four miles away, was Unbulwana: here the Boers had dragged a large siege-gun.

South of the town the Klip River runs close under the hills, and here many caves were dug as hiding-places for the residents. There were many women and children there all day long. On the 3rd of November the wires were cut; Ladysmith was isolated and besieged. On the next day it was discussed whether General Joubert’s proposal should be accepted—that the civilians, women, and children should go out and form a camp five miles off under the white flag. Archdeacon Barker got up, and said: “Our women and children shall stay with the men under the Union Jack, and those who would do them harm may come to them at their peril.”

The meeting cheered the tall, white-haired priest, and agreed thereto.

The townsfolk soon got used to shell-fire, but they spent most of the day by the river in their cool caves. There was a Dr. Starke, a visitor from Torquay, who used to go about with a fishing-rod, and spend hours by the river—a kindly man, who one day found a cat mewing piteously at a deserted house, and, making friends with it, used to carry it about with him. This gentleman, having the cat in his arms, was standing near the door of the Royal Hotel talking to Mr. McHugh, when a shell came through the roof, passed through two bedrooms, and whizzed out at the front-door, catching the poor doctor just above the knees. His friend escaped without a scratch. Dr. Starke had always tried to avoid the peril of shells, and they used to banter him on his over-anxiety. It is strange how many hits and how many misses are in the nature of a surprise.

Late in November a shell entered a room in which a little child was sleeping, and knocked one of the walls of the bedroom clean out. In the cloud of dust and smoke the parents heard the cry of the little babe, rushed in, and found her absolutely untouched, while 20 yards away a splinter of the same shell killed a man of the Natal Police. At the same house later in the evening two friends called to congratulate the mother; they were being shown two pet rabbits, when a splinter of a shell came in and cut in two one of the rabbits.

One day a Natal Mounted Rifleman was lying in his tent, stretched himself, yawned, and turned over. At that instant a shell struck the spot where he had just been lying, made a hole in the ground, and burst. The tent was blown away from its ropes, his pillow and clothes were tossed into the air. Poor fellow! his comrades ran towards him, and found him sitting up, pale, but unharmed. They could hardly believe their senses. “Why, man, you ought to have been blown to smithereens!” Another day a trooper of the 18th Hussars was rolled over, horse and all, yet neither of them suffered any severe injury.

December came, and by then the poor women were looking harassed and worn: so many grievous sights, so many perils to try and avoid, so many losses to weep over.

Some of the correspondents brought out a local paper, the Ladysmith Lyre, to enliven the spirits of the dull and timid and sick. The news may be sampled by the following extracts:

“November 14.—General French has twice been seen in Ladysmith disguised as a Kaffir. His force is entrenched behind Bulwen. Hurrah!

“November 20.—H.M.S. Powerful ran aground in attempting to come up Klip River; feared total loss. [Klip River is 2 feet deep in parts.]

“November 21.—We hear on good authority that the gunner of Long Tom is Dreyfus.

“November 26.—Boers broke Sabbath firing on our bathing parties. Believed so infuriated by sight of people washing that they quite forgot it was Sunday.”

The Ladysmith Lyre had come out three times before December.

On the 7th of December, at 10 p.m., 400 men, who had volunteered for the task, were ordered to turn out, carrying rifles and revolvers only, and to make no noise. A small party of Engineers were to be with them. Their object was to destroy Long Tom, which was now removed from Pepworth to Lombard’s Kop, on the north-east. They started when the moon went down on a fine starlight night. By a quarter to two a.m. they were close to the foot of Lombard’s Kop, but the Boer pickets had not been alarmed. General Hunter, who led them, explained how 100 of the Imperial Light Horse and 100 of the Carbineers would steal up the mountain and take the Boer guns, while 200 of the Border Mounted (on foot) would go round the hill to protect their comrades from a flank attack. The Engineers, carrying gun-cotton and tools, followed close after the storming party. As our men were creeping quietly up the hill on hands and knees, amazed that there were no outposts, a sudden challenge rang out behind them: “Wis kom dar?”

Had the Boer sentry been dreaming in the drowsy night?

“Wis (pronounced ve) kom dar? Wis kom dar?” he impatiently shouted. Our men sat down on the slope above him, grinning to themselves, and made no answer.

“Wis kom dar?” He was getting angry and frightened this time, by the tone of it.

“Take that fellow in the wind with the butt of a rifle, and stop his mouth.”

Then the Boer knew who they were, and yelled to his comrades for help; then they heard him say to his after-rider: “Bring my peart—my horse!” and he was safely off!

Further up the hill a shrill voice shouted: “Martinas, Carl Joubert, der Rovinek!” (the Red-neck). At this our men clambered up like goats, while a volley was fired, and bullets whizzed over their heads.

“Stick to me, guides!” shouted General Hunter.

As they neared the top Colonel Edwards, of the volunteers, shouted: “Now then, boys, fix bayonets, and give them a taste of the steel.” This was meant for the Dutchmen to hear, for there was not a bayonet amongst the assaulting party.

The Boers do not like cold steel, and they were heard slithering and stumbling down the other side of the mountain. Now they were up on the top. There stood Long Tom pointing at high heaven, loaded ready, and laid to a range of 8,000 yards, or over four miles. Not a Boer was to be seen or heard anywhere.

Quickly the Engineers got to work. Some removed the breech-block, others filled the barrel with gun-cotton, plugged both muzzle and breech, and ran a pretty necklace of gun-cotton round the dainty ribs of the barrel. Long Tom was looking quite unconscious of their attentions, and shone in the starlight.

He had been set on solid masonry, was mounted on high iron wheels, and a short railway line had been laid down for purposes of locomotion. A thick bomb-proof arch was built over him, and huge pyramids of shells were piled up round about him. A Howitzer and a field-gun, which stood close by, were then destroyed, and a Maxim was reserved to be brought away.

In about twenty minutes the Engineers announced that they were ready.

Like goats they had swarmed about him, and now it was Long Tom’s turn to say “Baa!”

The firing fuse was attached. “Keep back! keep back!”

There was heard a dull roar from the monster, and the whole mountain flared out with a flash as if of lightning.

“Had the gun-cotton done its work?” They ran back to inspect.

“Barrel rent, sir; part of the muzzle torn away.” Long Tom has fired his last shot. The ladies of Ladysmith will be very thankful for this small favour. The men came back, most of them carrying small trophies.

Down they scrambled; no barbed wire, no impediments. Who would have thought that these English would stir out o’ night? Had they no desire to sleep and rest? But when they got down they found some had been wounded. Major Henderson had been twice hit—thumb almost torn away, and a couple of slugs in his thigh. Yet he had never halted, and was the first to tackle the gun. A few privates were also hit, but only one so seriously as to be left behind in care of a surgeon.

Great rejoicing at breakfast, and congratulations from Sir George White.

But the time wore on, and sickness came—far worse and more fatal than shell-fire. There were hundreds of fever patients in the hospital outside at Intombi Spruit.

Fever—typhoid, enteric—and no stimulants, no jellies, no beef-tea!

The only luxury was a small ration of tinned milk. Scores of convalescents died of sheer starvation. The doctors were overworked, and they, too, broke down.

No wonder that many in the garrison chafed at inaction, found fault with their superiors, and asked bitterly: “Are we to stay here till we rot?”

By New Year’s Eve Ladysmith had endured some 8,000 rounds of shell; many buildings had been hit half a dozen times. On New Year’s Day an officer of the Lancers was sleeping in his house, when a shell exploded and buried him in a heap of timber. When they pulled the mess off him, he sat up, rubbed the dust out of his eyes, and asked, “What o’clock is it?” He was unhurt.

There was a small bugler of the 5th Lancers who was the envy of every boy in the town. This boy was in the battle at Elands Laagte, and when a regiment seemed wavering he sounded the call, the advance, the charge. The result was that that regiment faced the music, and did valiantly. A General rode up to the bugler after the fight, and took his name, saying: “You are a plucky boy. I shall report you!”

For this boy, after sounding the charge, had drawn his revolver, rode into the thick of the fight on his Colonel’s flank, and shot three Boers one after the other.

Scores of officers gave the boy a sovereign for his pluck, and he wore his cap all through the siege in a very swagger fashion.

Some of the regiments had their pet dogs in Ladysmith.

When the King’s Royals went into action their regimental dog went with them. He had never been out of the fighting line, and had never had a scratch, but seemed to enjoy the fun of barking and looking back, saying, “Come on—faster!”

There was another, a little red mongrel, who insisted on seeing every phase of warfare; he had lost a leg in India—it was so smashed up that the doctor had to cut it off. There he was, pottering about on three legs, full of inquisitive ardour, and when not engaged on sanitary inspection work, always to the front when the guns were at it. This was the Hussars’ dog.

The Boers were fond of playing practical jokes. On Christmas Day they had fired a shell containing a plum-pudding into the artillery camp. On the hundred and first day of the siege one of the Boers on Bulwana Hill called up the signallers at CÆsar’s Camp, and flashed the message, “A hundred and one, not out.”

The Manchesters flashed back: “Ladysmith still batting.”

“What is the use of shelling these Britishers?” once said a Boer artilleryman. “They just go on playing cricket. Look yonder!”

Ah! but that was in the early days of the siege, when they had some strength in them. Later, after having short rations of horse-flesh, they could hardly creep from hill to hill.

Another day a heliograph message came: “How do you like horse-meat?”

“Fine,” was the answer, “When the horses are finished we shall eat baked Boer!”

It became very difficult to get letters through the Boer pickets; they had so many ways of trapping the native runners. The Kaffir paths were watched; bell-wires were doubled—one placed close to the ground, the other at the height of a man’s head. When the Kaffir touched one of these an electric bell rang on one of the kopjes, or hills, and swarms of guards swooped down to intercept him. But the Kaffir, being paid £15 a journey, did his best too.

He left the outer line of our pickets at dusk, and flitted away silently to the nearest native kraal; he handed in the letters to the black chief, and wandered on empty-handed towards General Buller’s camp. Meanwhile a simple Kaffir girl would pass the Boer camp, calabash on head, going to fetch water from the spring in the early morning. The letters were in the empty water-vessel!

She put them under a stone by the spring, and another maiden would come from the other side, and take them on in her calabash or mealie-jar.

At last the native runner would call for them and carry the letters to the English lines.

On the 6th of January a determined attack was made by the pick of the Boers upon CÆsar’s Camp. Our pickets in Buller’s relieving army could hear the sound of the guns, muffled by distance; officers and men gathered in groups on the hill-sides and listened intently to the long low growl of the rifle. Then came a helio message from Sir George White to General Clery: “Attacked on every side.” The nervous strain on these men, condemned to inaction after each new failure to cross the Tugela and fight their way into Ladysmith, became almost insupportable. They sat outside the big camp, gazing on Bulwana with telescopes and field-glasses, hardly daring to utter their thoughts. A second helio was flashed across: “Enemy everywhere repulsed; fighting continues.” Then tongues were once more loosened, and hope arose as the distant firing sank to a sullen minute-gun. But half an hour later the booming of big guns on Bulwana was renewed, and away to the west arose a fierce rifle fire. “Attack renewed; enemy reinforced,” winked the helio from the top of Convent Hill, and again a dumb despair fell on the watchers. “Very hard pressed,” came the third message, firing our soldiers with indignant rage, as they thought of the poor part they had hitherto taken in relieving Ladysmith. But at length the heroism of the Devons, the Imperial Light Horse, and others of the Ladysmith garrison beat back the Boers’ desperate assault.

The Devons had climbed up the hill late in the afternoon to avenge their fallen comrades. They had charged straight up the hill in a line, but a deadly fire at short range brought down dozens of them as they rushed the top. However, there was no wavering in the Devons, but they pressed forward at the double with the steel advanced, and only a few Boers waited for that disagreeable operation in war. There was a terrific hailstorm going on as Colonel Park halted his men just below the crest: it was a moment to try the nerves of the strongest. Once over that lip of hillside and a fiercer storm than hail would meet them in the face, and call many of them to their last account. No wonder many a hand went for the water-bottle, and little nervous tricks of foot and hand betrayed the tension of the moment.

“Now then, Devons, get ready!” The men gripped their rifles in the old way of drill, quick and altogether, brows were knit, teeth set, and away they went into the jaws of death.

“Steady, Devons, steady!” No need to bid them be steady. They bore down upon the Boers with dogged and irresistible force, and the Boers turned and ran. Many an English officer fell that day, and several doctors were wounded while doing their duty.

The Boers who fought most fiercely were the old Dopper Boers, who nursed a bitter hatred for all Englishmen. These men would refuse all kind help even when lying hurt. They were suspected sometimes of cruelty to our wounded; for more than one of our men was found covered with bruises, as though he had been kicked or beaten to death. But these things were exceptional, and such conduct was confined to the most ignorant and uncivilized of the old Boers.

Many of the wounded lay where they fell for twenty-four hours and more. The Kaffir boys as they dug the long shallow graves would hum a low refrain; above wheeled the vultures, looking down upon the slain. The Boers confessed that it was the worst day they had ever had, and five days after the battle they were still searching for their dead. Our dead numbered about 150.

The Imperial Light Horse, containing many young Englishmen in their ranks, greatly distinguished themselves. The Brigadier commanding in the fight wrote to their chief officer: “No one realizes more clearly than I do that your men were the backbone of the defence during that day’s long fighting.” But sickness carried off far more than rifle or cannon. The Imperial Light Horse, who came to Ladysmith 475 strong, were now reduced to 150; the Devons, from 984 had gone down to 480.

As Majuba Day was coming near the messages brought by the runners became more hopeful: “All going well,” “Cronje is surrounded.”

But time after time came the news of Buller’s failure on the Tugela, and with every piece of ill news came reduced rations at Ladysmith. The artillery horses were nearly all eaten, the cavalry horses too; those that remained were too weak even to raise a trot. Would Buller ever cut his way through? The garrison were beginning to despond. If they had to fight a fierce battle again like that at CÆsar’s Camp a few weeks ago, when the pick of the Boer forces tried to take it by storm, would they not reel and faint for very want of food? Then, when all looked dark, and the far-off sound of Buller’s guns seemed to be dying away in another failure, something happened.

Men on outpost duty upon the hills round Ladysmith saw what seemed to them to be a long white snake crawling over the veldt. Officers seized their glasses, and started with an ejaculation of surprise, for what they saw was a long sinuous line of white-tilted waggons. “It’s the Boers coming away from the Tugela! By Jove! it’s a great trek!” Yes, the enemy were in full retreat at last; Buller had hammered them in so many places, and now at last he had succeeded.

There they came, waggon after waggon, in endless succession, as it seemed. Verily, it was a retreat of an army, for there were thousands of horsemen too, riding at a hand gallop, singly or in clusters, a continuous stream of moving figures coming round the corner of End Hill and then riding north behind Telegraph Hill. They were seeking their railway base.

But, though they rode fast in retreat, there was no confusion; the Boers know how to trek, and they do it well.

Oh! that we had had some horses, good strong horses, to gallop our guns in their direction. But the horses were all either eaten or too weak to trot. Those who looked to Bulwana Hill saw a strange black tripod being erected above the big Boer gun: they were going to take the gun away. The gunners of the Powerful saw the tripod too. They set to work to try and prevent that work from being accomplished; both the 4·7’s were in action, and made the red earth fly near the Boer redoubt.

The third shell burst upon the summit of the hill. The many clusters of men who were watching waited breathlessly for the white smoke to clear away, and when it cleared there was no tripod to be seen! Then an exultant shout rose up from hill-side and from spruit; some in their excitement danced and sang and shook hands and laughed. They were weak for want of food, and had not the usual English restraint. Then a great hailstorm came drifting by, and there was a rush into the town to tell the glad news.

What a Babel of talk there was at dinner that evening! Why, some officers were so hopeful now that they ventured to predict that by to-morrow some of Buller’s men would be in Ladysmith.

The dinner of horse-flesh was progressing merrily when all at once a strange clattering of shoes outside awoke attention. They listened in the mess-room, and heard eager voices, cries of men and boys as they hurried past. One went to the window and shouted: “What’s the row?”

“Buller’s troopers are in sight; they have been seen riding across the flats!”

What! Then they all jumped up, and the youngest and strongest fared forth with the hurrying crowd towards the nearest river-drift.

On reaching this they saw across the river and the flat ground beyond, riding down a little ridge, a column of horsemen trotting towards them. Horsemen at full trot! Then they could not be any of their men, for their horses could not trot to save their lives.

The evening sun shone upon their full kit, and no one could doubt that it was the relief column at last! God be thanked!

Now they had pulled up, and were welcomed by some officers of Sir George White’s staff. Meanwhile the motley crowd grew, at first too dazed to cheer or shout, but rather moist about the eyes. Malays were there in their red fezes, coolies in many-coloured turbans, and white-clad Indians, dhoolie-bearers, grinning a silent welcome. But the most excited and the noisiest in all that throng were the Kaffir boys and Zulus, the Basutos and Bechuanas. They felt no cold reserve strangle their expressions of delight, but danced and shouted and leapt like madmen, showing gleaming white teeth and sparkling eyes.

As they drew near the town they met many of the sick and wounded who had hobbled out, in their great joy, to receive the relievers, and who tried to wave their caps and say Hurrah! with the rest—a piteous sight of wan faces and poor shrunk shanks!

And the men of the Relief Column—so brown and well they looked—were feeling in their pockets for tobacco to distribute round, for the spectacle they saw of white-faced, feeble-kneed invalids smote them to the heart. They had never realized until at this moment all that the defenders of Ladysmith had suffered for England.

They rode in slowly, two by two, Dundonald and Gough and Mackenzie of Natal at the head of the column. All through the main street they rode, nodding to a friend here and a friend there, for the Imperial Light Horse had many friends in Ladysmith.

There were wild cheers half choked by emotion, and the little ones were hoisted on shoulder to be able to see the strong men who had come to save them. Then in the twilight came Sir George White and his staff to welcome the rescue party. As the leaders shook hands the excitement and joy of relief broke forth again. Men bit their lips as if nothing was happening, but women and children cried and laughed and cried again. All in their heart, many in their voices, were thanking God for this timely deliverance. And then they fell to and cheered Sir George White: just then his patient heroism and kindly grip of power appealed to them. And some who had not wept before cried now when they looked on the old soldier, sitting so erect and proud in his saddle, with all the heavy cloud of care suddenly removed from his brow and the light of joy and gratitude shining through wet eyes. Twice—aye, thrice—he tried to speak, but the tears were in his throat and he could not utter his thoughts. Then the cheers came again, and gave him time to pull himself together.

He lifted his bowed head and thanked them for all their loyal help, soldiers and civilians alike, and then finished by one solemn phrase that touched all hearts: “Thank God, we kept the old flag flying!”

Why, the very Zulus caught the enthusiasm and leapt high into the air, waving bare arms aloft and shouting the old war-cry of Cetewayo and his savage impis. That night there were long stories to be told in the camp of the Relief Column.

Mr. Winston Spencer Churchill, M.P., wrote his story down of how they rode into Ladysmith: “Never shall I forget that ride. The evening was deliciously cool. My horse was strong and fresh, for I had changed him at midday. The ground was rough with many stones, but we cared little for that—onward, wildly, recklessly, up and down hill, over the boulders, through the scrub. We turned the shoulder of a hill, and there before us lay the tin houses and dark trees we had come so far to see and save. The British guns on CÆsar’s Camp were firing steadily in spite of the twilight. What was happening? Never mind, we were nearly through the dangerous ground. Now we were all on the flat. Brigadier, staff, and troops let their horses go. We raced through the thorn-bushes by Intombi Spruit. Suddenly there was a challenge: ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ ‘The Ladysmith Relief Column.’ And thereat, from out of trenches and rifle-pits artfully concealed in the scrub a score of tattered men came running, cheering feebly, and some were crying. In the half-light they looked ghastly pale and thin, but the tall, strong colonial horsemen, standing up in their stirrups, raised a loud resounding cheer, for then we knew we had reached the Ladysmith picket-line.”

One word more on Sir Ian Hamilton, one of the greatest of our soldiers. It was he who held command on CÆsar’s Hill during those desperate seventeen hours of fighting. Spare, tall, quiet, smiling, he had the masterful manner of the born soldier, who fights and makes no fuss about it, and draws the soldiers after him in the forlornest of hopes by the magic of his sympathy and valour. Valour without sympathy, ability without the devotion of your men, can do little; but when both are united, steel and lead cannot prevail against them.