It is significant for our own use of artillery that not a single man ’was killed by shells, though the air buzzed with them.  The loose stone walls were cover enough.  But the demoralising effect of shell fire is well known to all who have stood it.  A good regiment is needed to hold on against such a storm.  But the Devons are a good regiment—­perhaps the best here now—­and, under the command of Major Curry, they held.  At half-past nine the rifle fire at short range became terrible.

Boers were crawling up over what little dead ground there was, and one group of them reached an edge from which they began firing into our breastwork at about fifteen yards.  One or two of them sprang up as though to charge.  With bayonets they might have come on, but, standing to fire, they were at once shot down.  Among them was Schutte, the commandant of the force.  He was killed on the edge, with about ten others.  Then the attacking group fell back into the dead ground.  Our men got the order not to fire on them if they ran away.  It was the best means of clearing them off the hill, and they made off one by one.  The long-range fire continued all day, but there was no further rush upon our works.  Our loss was only two men killed and a few wounded.  The Boer loss is estimated at fifty, but it is impossible to know.

The King’s (Liverpools), who now hold the works built by the Devons on the low Helpmakaar ridge, were also under rifle and shell fire all day.  About 3 p.m. about eighty Boers came down the deep ravine or donga at the further end of the ridge.  A mounted infantry picket of three men was away across the donga, watching the road towards Lombard’s Nek.  Instead of retiring, they calmly lay down and fired into the thick of the Boers whenever they saw them.  Apparently the Boers had intended some sort of attack or feint, but, instead of advancing, they remained hidden in the donga, firing over the banks.  At last Major Grattan, fearing the brave little picket might be cut off, sent out two infantry patrols in extended order, and the Boers did not await their coming; they hurried up the donga into the shelter of the thorns, which just now are all golden with balls of sweet-smelling blossom.

Soon after the sun set behind the storm of rain the fighting ceased.  The long and terrible day was done.  I found myself with the Irish Fusiliers at Range Post, where the road crosses to the foot of Waggon Hill.  The stream of ambulance was incessant—­covered mule-waggons, little ox-carts, green dhoolies carried by indomitable Hindoos, knee-deep in water, and indifferent to every kind of death.  In the sixteen hours’ fighting we have lost fourteen officers and 100 men killed, twenty-one officers and 220 men wounded.  The victory is ours.  Our men have done what they were set to do.  But two or three more such victories, and where should we be?

     Sunday, January 7, 1900.