But what of the men still at the front?  Effort after effort!  Retreat followed by advance!  Misunderstanding and mistake here and there.  And then Pieter’s Hill!  Ask the soldier who has come back wounded from Pieter’s Hill—­and how many of them are there?—­what he thought of it.  He can give you but a confused picture of the fight.  He has no idea of the plan in the general’s mind.  But ask him of his experiences.  His wound was nothing; he will not dwell upon that.  But the time spent upon the ground after the wound was received—­twenty-four hours, forty-eight, three days, and in one case, at any rate, so the poor fellow told us, four days—­before the stretcher party carried them to the rear.  It could not be helped.  There was no reaching the wounded.  They were scattered far and near.  They lay where they fell, starving for want of food, dying of thirst under a South African sun.  Oh! the horror of it!  But your soldier cannot describe it.  It will be a nightmare to him for life.  You speak to him on the subject ‘How long did you lie there?’ You want to inquire a little further; but he shakes his head,’ Don’t ask me, ’twas too awful,’ and he turns his head away.

=’Men, Christ can Save Me even Now.’=

Seated in the Buckingham Palace Soldiers’ Home the other day, some men from Pieter’s Hill were chatting together.  ’And what was your experience?’ said the chaplain.  ’Oh!  I just realized how God could save, and God could keep.  It was terribly hard, but all through those fearful battles I had always peace—­always joy.’

And then he continued, ’I never think of Pieter’s Hill but I think of Armstrong.  You did not know Armstrong.  He used to be in the orderly room every week—­a bad lad was poor old Armstrong.  But when we were in India he gave himself to Christ.  He was never in the orderly room after that.  One day his major met him.  “Armstrong,” said he, “what’s the matter? we never see you in the orderly room now.”

“No, sir,” he said, “old Armstrong’s gone.  A new Armstrong’s come.”  “What do you mean?” queried his officer.  “Just this, sir; I’ve given my heart to God, and chucked the sin.”

’So he lived until he went to the war, and so he died.  He passed through Spion Kop unscathed, but on Pieter’s Hill a bullet went through his head.  As he fell he cried, “Men, Christ can save me even now!  It’s all right, I’m going home,” and he died.’

The Guardsmen came thronging round while this man of the Royal Irish Rifles told about his chum They listened with tears in their eyes; they listened to tell the story again to others.  And so the good news that Christ can save upon the battle-field is sent flying through the British army.

‘Were you in that night attack at Ladysmith?’ asked one turning to another.  ‘Yes, I was there.’  ’Did you see Lieutenant Fergusson when he fell?’ ’Yes, I was close to him.  I went up to him and said, “Are you much hurt, sir?  Can I take you in?” “No thank you, my lad; I’m done for,” replied the dying officer.  “Take some fellow you can save.’” And so he, too, died like a hero.