The grave was already dug, when General Joubert, always against harsh measures, decided to spare the Kafir’s life.  The contrast between the bearing of this savage and that of the war-correspondent was most striking.

Sometimes the merits of the different commandoes would be discussed.  The palm was generally awarded to the Irish Brigade and the Johannesburg Police, two splendid corps, always ready for anything, and possessing what we others painfully lacked—­discipline.

The burghers used to relate with much relish a story of how one day the British shells came so fast that even our artillerymen did not dare leave their shelter to bring up ammunition for the gun; how two of those devils of Irishmen sprang to the task, and showed how death should be faced and danger conquered.  Erin for ever!

Buller now began to press his advance on the Tugela, and his searchlight could nightly be seen communicating with the besieged; long official messages in cipher, and now and then a pathetic little message, “All well, Edith sends love,” would flash against the clouds, causing us to think of other scenes than those before us.

On the tenth of December a heavy bombardment was heard from the Tugela.  On happening to pass the telegraph office at two o’clock, a colleague called to me—­

“Buller has tried to cross the river; he is being driven back.  Ten of his guns are in danger, and as soon as the sun sets our men are going over to take them!”

This was news indeed.

“Which is the road to Colenso?”

“Round those hills, then straight on.”

“Thanks, good-bye,” and off I went, determined to see those guns taken.

About four hours’ hard riding, then a tent by the wayside, the red cross floating above.  An ambulance waggon has just arrived, bringing a few wounded.  I must be close to the battlefield now, but I hear no firing.  What can have happened?

Half an hour further.  I see the fires of a small camp twinkling in a gully to my left, and make my way thither.  It is pitch dark.  As I approach the camp I hear voices.  It is Dutch they are speaking.  Then several dim shapes loom up before me in the darkness.

“Hello!  What commando is this?”

“Hello, is that you?  By Jove, so it is!  I thought I knew the voice,” and dashing Chris Botha shakes my hand.

“It is you, commandant!  Where are those ten guns?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re after.  Sorry, but we took them early in the afternoon.  Never mind, come along into camp.  You’ll see enough in the morning.”

In the camp they had six Connaught Rangers—­a captain, lieutenant, and four men, about four of the lot wounded.  They alone of all their regiment had managed to reach the bank of the Tugela—­Bridle Drift, about two hundred yards from the trenches of the Swaziland commando.  Finding no shelter in the river bank, exhausted, wounded almost to a man, they ceased firing, whereupon our men left them in peace until the end of the fight, when they were brought over and complimented upon their pluck.