November 21, 1899.

The desultory bombardment went on as usual, except that “Long Tom” did not fire.  The Staff is said to have lost heliographic communication with the south.  To-day they sent off two passenger pigeons for Maritzburg.  The rumour also went that the wounded Dublins, taken to Intombi Spruit, from the unfortunate armoured train, had heard an official report of Buller’s arrival at Bloemfontein after heavy losses.  Another rumour told that many Boer wives and daughters were arriving in the laagers.  They were seen, especially on Sunday, parading quite prettily in white frocks.  This report has roused the liveliest indignation, which I can only attribute to envy.  In our own vulgar land, companies would be running cheap excursions to witness the siege of Ladysmith—­one shilling extra to see “Long Tom” in action.

In the morning they buried a Hindoo bearer who had died of pneumonia.  The grave was dug among the unmarked heaps of the native graveyard on the river bank.  It took five hours to make it deep enough, and meantime the dead man lay on a stretcher, wrapped in a clean white sheet.  His friends, about twenty of them, squatted round, almost motionless, and quite indifferent to time and space.  In their midst a thin grey smoke rose from a brazen jar, in which smouldered scented wood, spices, lavender, and the fresh blossom of one yellow flower like an aster.  At intervals of about a minute, one of the Hindoos raised a short, wailing chant, in parts of which the others joined.  On the ground in front of him lay a sweetly-scented manuscript whose pages he never turned.  It was written in the Oriental characters, which seem to tell either of Nirvana or of the nightingale’s cry to the rose.  At times the other friends tapped gently on three painted drums, hardly bigger than tea cups.  The enemy, seeing from Bulwan the little crowd of us engaged upon a heathen rite, threw shrapnel over our heads.  It burst and sprinkled the dusty ground behind us with lead.  Not one of the Hindoos looked up or turned his face.  That low chant did not pause or vary by a note.  Close by, a Kaffir was digging a grave for a Zulu woman who had died in childbed.  In the river beyond soldiers were bathing, Zulus were soaping themselves white, and one of the Liverpool Mounted Infantry was trying to prevent his horse rolling in four feet of water.

     November 22, 1899.

A day only relieved by the wildest rumours and a few shells more dangerous than usual.  Buller was reported as being at Hellbrouw; General French was at Dundee; and France had declared war upon England.  Shells whiffled into the town quite indiscriminately.  One pitched into the Town Hall, now the main hospital.  In the evening “Long Tom” threw five in succession down the main street.  But only one man was killed.  A Natal policeman was cooking his dinner in a cellar when “Silent Susan’s” shot fell upon him and he died.  For myself, I