Poor Ladysmith!  Deserted in its markets, repeopled in its wastes; here ripped with iron splinters, there rising again into rail-roofed, rock-walled caves; trampled down in its gardens, manured where nothing can ever grow; skirts hemmed with sandbags and bowels bored with tunnels—­the Boers may not have hurt us, but they have left their mark for years on her.

They have not hurt us much—­and yet the casualties mount up.  Three to-day, two yesterday, four dead or dying and seven wounded with one shell—­they are nothing at all, but they mount up.  I suppose we stand at about fifty now, and there will be more before we are done with it.

And then there are moments when even this dribbling bombardment can be appalling.

I happened into the centre of the town one day when the two big guns were concentrating a cross-fire upon it.

First from one side the shell came tearing madly in, with a shrill, a blast.  A mountain of earth, and a hailstorm of stones on iron roofs.  Houses winced at the buffet.  Men ran madly away from it.  A dog rushed out yelping—­and on the yelp, from the other quarter, came the next shell.  Along the broad straight street not a vehicle, not a white man was to be seen.  Only a herd of niggers cowering under flimsy fences at a corner.

Another crash and quaking, and this time in a cloud of dust an outbuilding jumped and tumbled asunder.  A horse streaked down the street with trailing halter.  Round the corner scurried the niggers:  the next was due from Pepworth’s.

Then the tearing scream:  horror! it was coming from Bulwan.

Again the annihilating blast, and not ten yards away.  A roof gaped and a house leaped to pieces.  A black reeled over, then terror plucked him up again, and sent him running.

Head down, hands over ears, they tore down the street, and from the other side swooped down the implacable, irresistible next.

You come out of the dust and the stench of melinite, not knowing where you were, hardly knowing whether you were hit—­only knowing that the next was rushing on its way.  No eyes to see it, no limbs to escape, no bulwark to protect, no army to avenge.  You squirm between iron fingers.

Nothing to do but endure.

XV.

IN A CONNING-TOWER.

     THE SELF-RESPECTING BLUEJACKET—­A GERMAN ATHEIST—­THE SAILORS’
     TELEPHONE—­WHAT THE NAVAL GUNS MEANT TO LADYSMITH—­THE SALT OF THE
     EARTH.

LADYSMITH, Dec. 6.

“There goes that stinker on Gun Hill,” said the captain.  “No, don’t get up; have some draught beer.”

I did have some draught beer.

“Wait and see if he fires again.  If he does we’ll go up into the conning-tower, and have both guns in action toge—­”

Boom!  The captain picked up his stick.

“Come on,” he said.

We got up out of the rocking-chairs, and went out past the swinging meat-safe, under the big canvas of the ward-room, with its table piled with stuff to read.  Trust the sailor to make himself at home.  As we passed through the camp the bluejackets rose to a man and lined up trimly on either side.  Trust the sailor to keep his self-respect, even in five weeks’ beleaguered Ladysmith.