As many wounded as possible were piled on to the engine, standing in the cab, lying on the tender, or clinging to the cowcatcher.  And all this time the shells fell into the wet earth throwing up white clouds, burst with terrifying detonations overhead, or actually struck the engine and the iron wreckage.  Besides the three field-guns, which proved to be 15-pounders, the shell-firing Maxim continued its work, and its little shells, discharged with an ugly thud, thud, thud, exploded with startling bangs on all sides.  One I remember struck the footplate of the engine scarcely a yard from my face, lit up into a bright yellow flash, and left me wondering why I was still alive.  Another hit the coals in the tender, hurling a black shower into the air.  A third—­this also I saw—­struck the arm of a private in the Dublin Fusiliers.  The whole arm was smashed to a horrid pulp—­bones, muscle, blood, and uniform all mixed together.  At the bottom hung the hand, unhurt, but swelled instantly to three times its ordinary size.  The engine was soon crowded and began to steam homewards—­a mournful, sorely battered locomotive—­with the woodwork of the firebox in flames and the water spouting from its pierced tanks.  The infantrymen straggled along beside it at the double.

Seeing the engine escaping the Boers increased their fire, and the troops, hitherto somewhat protected by the iron trucks, began to suffer.  The major of volunteers fell, shot through the thigh.  Here and there men dropped on the ground, several screamed—­this is very rare in war—­and cried for help.  About a quarter of the force was very soon killed or wounded.  The shells which pursued the retreating soldiers scattered them all along the track.  Order and control vanished.  The engine, increasing its pace, drew out from the thin crowd of fugitives and was soon in safety.  The infantry continued to run down the line in the direction of the houses, and, in spite of their disorder, I honestly consider that they were capable of making a further resistance when some shelter should be reached.  But at this moment one of those miserable incidents—­much too frequent in this war—­occurred.

A private soldier who was wounded, in direct disobedience of the positive orders that no surrender was to be made, took it on himself to wave a pocket-handkerchief.  The Boers immediately ceased firing, and with equal daring and humanity a dozen horsemen galloped from the hills into the scattered fugitives, scarcely any of whom had seen the white flag, and several of whom were still firing, and called loudly on them to surrender.  Most of the soldiers, uncertain what to do, then halted, gave up their arms, and became prisoners of war.  Those further away from the horsemen continued to run and were shot or hunted down in twos and threes, and some made good their escape.