It is with feelings of the deepest satisfaction that I look at the address at the head of this notepaper.  Indeed for the last five minutes I have been staring at it dreamily without putting pen to paper, repeating “Kimberley Club, Kimberley,” to myself, vaguely thinking of all it portends; the varied fortunes of the last three months; the cheery setting out; the first battles, that already seem so long ago; the repulse, and long, dreary wait by Modder; the gradual reconstruction of the whole plan of attack, and now the final achievement.  Christian and I have been sharing a pint of champagne in the club bar.  It was not till I heard the bottle pop that I realised, as by a sudden inspiration, that the British army had really attained its object at last.  Very gravely we gave each other luck, and gravely drank our wine.  Both of us, I am glad to be able to tell you, rose to the occasion, and as we looked across the bubbles, no foolish chaff or laughter marred the moment.

I wrote you my last letter from old Modder just as we were leaving to catch French.  Marching light and fast, we got up with him on the night of the 15th at the Klip Drift on the Modder, northeast of Jacobsdal.  From there we were sent back to guide on Kitchener, which we did, bringing him to French’s camp on the river by 6 A.M. next morning (16th).  We met on the way our little ambulance cart bobbing home with the adjutant languidly reclining.  He had had one of those escapes that now and then come off.  There was a high hill to the north, and up this the previous morning, R., an active walker, had climbed to have a view of the country.  He reached the top, which is like a gable, slanting both sides to a thin edge, and precisely as he did so, ten or a dozen great hairy Boers reached it from the other side, and, at ten yards’ distance across the rock edge, their eyes met.  Can you conceive a more disgusting termination to a morning stroll?  Without a word said, R. took to his heels and the Boers to their Mausers.  Down the hill went R., bounding like a buck, and all round him whipped and whined the bullets among the rocks.  Twice he went headlong, twisting his ankle badly once as the stones turned underfoot; but he reached the bottom untouched and the shelter of the bluff where he had left his pony, jumped on and dashed out into the plain and under the Boer fire again, and got clean away without a scratch, him and his pony.  Was ever such luck?

French started on his final relief march about an hour later, and we were not able to accompany him as our horses were absolutely done up.  It was very disappointing at the time to see him ride off on this last stage with a large party of our comrades, led by Rimington himself (he was first into Kimberley, we heard afterwards) at the head.  However, as things turned out, it did not much matter, for the next day we had an interesting time, and saw a big job put in train, which is not finished yet, and which we shall probably see more of if we start, as they say, to-morrow.