It is sheer witching desert for five hundred miles, and for aught I know five hundred miles after that.  At the rare stations you see perhaps one corrugated-iron store, perhaps a score of little stone houses with a couple of churches.  The land carries little enough stock—­here a dozen goats browsing on the withered sticks goats love, there a dozen ostriches, high-stepping, supercilious heads in air, wheeling like a troop of cavalry and trotting out of the stink of that beastly train.  Of men, nothing—­only here at the bridge a couple of tents, there at the culvert a black man, grotesque in sombrero and patched trousers, loafing, hands in pockets, lazy pipe in mouth.  The last man in the world, you would have said, to suggest glorious war—­yet war he meant and nothing else.  On the line from Capetown—­that single track through five hundred miles of desert—­hang Kimberley and Mafeking and Rhodesia:  it runs through Dutch country, and the black man was there to watch it.

War—­and war sure enough it was.  A telegram at a tea-bar, a whisper, a gathering rush, an electric vibration—­and all the station and all the train and the very niggers on the dunghill outside knew it.  War—­war at last!  Everybody had predicted it—­and now everybody gasped with amazement.  One man broke off in a joke about killing Dutchmen, and could only say, “My God—­my God—­my God!”

I too was lost, and lost I remain.  Where was I to go?  What was I to do?  My small experience has been confined to wars you could put your fingers on:  for this war I have been looking long enough, and have not found it.  I have been accustomed to wars with headquarters, at any rate to wars with a main body and a concerted plan:  but this war in Cape Colony has neither.

It could not have either.  If you look at the map you will see that the Transvaal and Orange Free State are all but lapped in the red of British territory.  That would be to our advantage were our fighting force superior or equal or even not much inferior to that of the enemy.  In a general way it is an advantage to have your frontier in the form of a re-entrant angle; for then you can strike on your enemy’s flank and threaten his communications.  That advantage the Boers possess against Natal, and that is why Sir George White has abandoned Laing’s Nek and Newcastle, and holds the line of the Biggarsberg:  even so the Boers might conceivably get between him and his base.  The same advantage we should possess on this western side of the theatre of war, except that we are so heavily outnumbered, and have adopted no heroic plan of abandoning the indefensible.  We have an irregular force of mounted infantry at Mafeking, the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment at Kimberley, the Munster Fusiliers at De Aar, half the Yorkshire Light Infantry at De Aar, half the Berkshire Regiment at Naauwpoort—­do not try to pronounce it—­and the other half here at Stormberg.  The Northumberlands—­the famous Fighting Fifth—­came crawling up behind our train, and may now be at Naauwpoort or De Aar.  Total:  say, 4100 infantry, of whom some 600 mounted; no cavalry, no field-guns.  The Boer force available against these isolated positions might be very reasonably put at 12,000 mounted infantry, with perhaps a score of guns.