Meantime we can make out in our break-of-day scoutings up the river that bodies of men are approaching from the east.  They have made a laager about ten miles up, and evidently mean to dispute our passage to the capital.  The longer old Cronje holds out, the more men from Colesberg and Natal will come up, the more entrenchments will be cut, and the harder will be our way to Bloemfontein.  ’Tis the only way he sees to save the town, for we should march straight in else.  Perhaps, too, he cherishes some hope of being relieved himself; of a determined attack from without, which might enable him, by a sudden sally, to break through; though, for dismounted men (and their horses are all dead by this time), the chances of ultimate escape in a country like this must be very small, one would think.  Anyhow, he sticks to his work like a glutton.  The shells burst over them.  The lyddite blows them up in smoke and dust, the sun grills, the dead bodies reek, our infantry creep on them day and night; foul food, putrid water, death above and around, they grin and bear it day after day to gain the precious hours.  And all the time we on our side know perfectly well that no relief they could possibly bring up would serve our army for rations for a day.

LETTER XII

PAARDEBERG—­THE SURRENDER

March 5, 1900.

Well, that is over, and I hope you are satisfied.  We have got Cronje.  His victories are o’er.  We have also got Mrs. Cronje, which was a bit more than we bargained for.  They cut her an extra deep hole, I hear, to be out of shell-fire, and she sat at the bottom all day long, receiving occasional visits from Cronje, and having her meals handed down to her.  One can fancy her blinking up at her “Man,” whom she always, I am told, accompanies on his campaigns, and shaking her head sorrowfully over the situation.  There is nothing very spirit-stirring about a mud hole and an old woman sitting at the bottom of it, but the danger and the terrible hardships were real enough.  That is always the way with these Dutch.  They have all the harsh realities and none of the glamour and romance.  Athens, with their history and record, would have made the whole world ring for ever.  But they are dumb.  It seems such a waste.

Albrecht too is among the prisoners, the famous German “expert,” who designs their works for them and manages their artillery; and we have taken 4000 prisoners, and several guns and one detested “pompon.”  Come, now, here is a little bit of all right at last.

I was one of a party that rode down with the Major on the morning of the surrender to the laager and saw the prisoners marched in.  They seemed quite cheery and pleased with themselves.  They were dressed in all sorts of ragged, motley-looking clothes; trousers of cheap tweed, such as you see hung up in an East End slop-shop; jackets once black, now rusted, torn and stained, and battered hats.  They reminded me more of a mob of Kent hop-pickers than anything else, and it was a matter of some surprise, not to say disgust, to some of us to think that such a sorry crowd should be able to withstand disciplined troops in the way they did.