as soon as they were out of range the men wandered away in groups to the town, sick and angry, but longing above all things for water and sleep.  The enemy’s shells followed hard on their trail nearly into the town, plumping down in the midst whenever any body of men or horses showed themselves among the ridges of the kopjes.  Seeing what was happening on the right the centre began to withdraw as well, and as their baggage train climbed back into the town up the Newcastle road a shell from “Long Tom” fell among them at a corner of the hill, blowing a poor ambulance and stretcher to pieces, and killing one of the Naval Brigade just arrived from the Powerful.

It was the Naval Brigade that saved the day, though, to be sure, a retirement like that is in itself a check, though no disaster.  Captain Lambton had placed two of his Elswick wire guns on the road to the town, and sent shot after shot straight upon “Long Tom’s” position four miles away.  Only twelve-pounders, I believe, they were, but of fine range and precision, and at each successful shot the populace and Zulus standing on the rocks clapped their hands and laughed as at a music-hall.  For a time, but only for a time, “Long Tom” held his tongue, and gradually the noise of battle ceased—­the bang and squeal of the shells, the crackle of the rifle, the terrifying hammer-hammer of the enemy’s two Krupp automatic guns.  It was about half-past two and blazing hot.  The rest of the day was quiet, but for rumours of the lamentable disaster of which one can hardly speak at present.  The Gloucesters and Royal Irish prisoners—­1,100 at least after all losses!  They say two Boers were brought in blindfold last night to tell the General.  This morning an ambulance party has gone out to bring in the wounded, and whilst they are gone with their flag of truce we have peace.

I take the opportunity to write, hurriedly and without correction, for the opportunity is short.  “Long Tom” sent two shells into us this morning as we were dressing (I should have said washing, only the water supply is cut), and at any moment he may begin again.

     November 1, 1899.

I may add that the retirement of the battalions of the 60th, with the Leicesters, is the theme of every one’s praise to-day.  Its success was chiefly due to General Hunter, and the dogged courage of the men themselves.

But the second part of the despatch is after all the main point of interest.  Such a disaster has, I suppose, seldom befallen two famous and distinguished battalions.  After heavy loss they are prisoners.  They are wiped out from the war.  The Gloucesters and the Royal Irish Fusiliers—­they join the squadron of the 18th Hussars in Pretoria gaols.  Two Boers came in blindfolded to tell the news last night.  All day long we have been fetching in the wounded.  Their wounds are chiefly from Martini rifles, and very serious.  I know the place of the disaster well, having often ridden there when the Boers were at a more respectful distance.  It is an entangled and puzzling country, full of rocks and hills and hidden valleys.  It was only some falling boulders that caused the ruin—­a few casual shots—­and the stampeding mules.  That ammunition mule has always a good deal to bear, but now the burden put on him officially is almost too heavy for any four-legged thing.