Ten more shells were pitched at us on Tuesday, only one of which reached its destination; the other nine went off at a tangent somewhere else, to the chagrin of curio company promoters.  It would have been more tactful of the Boers, we thought, to have reserved their ammunition for a more aggressive foe.  No great attention, however, was paid to their extravagances, and from anything in the nature of repartee we refrained.  There was more serious work in hand; preparations were going on apace to open up an avenue for the Relief Column.  The Town Guard were ready; the Light Horse, the Imperial troops, and the armoured train were also to the fore.  This formidable combination was soon on its way to the Schmidt’s Drift Road, where it found shelter behind some friendly ridges.  The Boers occupied Spitzkop and were looking across at us with curiosity—­not unmingled with uneasiness, we felt sure.  They maintained a rigid silence, and made no attempt to interfere with our arrangements until the armoured train came into view.  The ridges we occupied were afterwards shelled, and the Diamond Fields’ Artillery responded.  While this not too bloody duel was in progress, a body of mounted men had received instructions to take up a position away to the right of Spitzkop.

It grew dark eventually, and we decided, or rather got orders, to remain where we were for the night.  Given a choice we would have done nothing of the sort; it was chilly weather outside canvas; we had not come prepared for a bivouac, and we had no great coats nor blankets.  But they were subsequently sent out to us.  To satisfy the pangs of hunger, which were asserting themselves with increasing importunity, we tried (advisedly) the pockets of the coats, and there found the goods required.  There were belated “Guards” who got blankets only.  How they fared is not recorded, but I believe they asked for more!  The firing had by this time ceased on both sides; but the impression was that it would be resumed early next morning; that a battle was imminent, and a sleep desirable but not at all imminent.  Our “beds” were too strange and cold for sleep—­as in the case of peaceful people when travel necessitates a departure from feathers to planks of straw.  We watched the play of the searchlight, and were interested observers of a responsive gleam from Modder River.  The Column was there for a certainty.  We had been listening all day to the booming of guns, but had yet no idea that it was connected with the battle of Modder River.  Ultimately we ceased chattering, and charmed Morpheus at last—­all unconscious of the sad morrow.

For a sad morrow it was.  The most tragic day of the siege!  A rumour ran riot that Scott-Turner had been killed; but the people would not believe it.  Colonel Scott-Turner dead!  It was hard to convince the populace of the fate of the gallant Colonel; harder still to inculcate that over with him to the great majority had passed twenty-four of his followers.  But so it was.  Of the survivors thirty were wounded!