January 15, 1900.

This is the day I had fixed upon long ago for our relief.  There were rumours of fighting by the Tugela, and some said they had seen squadrons of our cavalry and even Staff officers galloping on the further limits of the Great Plain.  But beyond the wish, there is no need to believe what they said.

In the morning Steevens, of the Daily Mail, was so much worse that we sent off a warning message to Mrs. Steevens by heliograph.  At least I climbed to all the new signal stations in turn, trying to get it sent, but found the instruments full up with official despatches.  Major Donegan (R.A.M.C.) was called in to consult with Major Davis, of the Imperial Light Horse, who has treated the case with the utmost patience and skill.  Strychnine was injected, and about noon we recovered hope.  A galloper was sent to stop the message, and succeeded.  Steevens became conscious for a time, and Maud, of the Graphic, explained to him that now it was a fight for life.  “All right,” he answered, “let’s have a drink, then.”  Some champagne was given him, and he seemed better.  When warned against talking, he said, “Well, you are in command.  I’ll do what you like.  We are going to pull through.”  Maud then went to sleep at last, and between four and five Steevens passed quietly from sleep into death.

Everything that could possibly be done for him had been done.  For five weeks Maud had nursed him with a devotion that no woman could surpass.  Two days ago we thought him almost well.  He talked of what it would be best to do when the siege was raised, so as to complete his recovery.  And now he is dead.  He was only thirty.  What is to most distinguished men the best part of life was still before him.  In eight working years he had already made a name known to all the Army and to thousands beyond its limits.  Beyond question he had the touch of genius.  The individuality of his power perhaps lay in a clear perception transfused with an imaginative wit that never failed him.  The promise of that genius was not fulfilled, but it was felt in all he said and wrote.  And beyond this power of mind he possessed the attractiveness of courtesy and straightforward dealing.  No one ever knew him descend to the tricks and dodges of the trade.  There was not a touch of “smartness” in his disposition.  On the field he was too reckless of his life.  I saw him often during the fighting at Elands Laagte, Tinta Inyoni, and Lombard’s Kop.  He was usually walking about close to the firing line, leading his grey horse, a conspicuous mark for every bullet.  Veteran officers used to marvel that he was not hit.  In the midst of it all he would stand quite unconcerned, and speak in his usual voice—­slow, trenchant, restrained by a cynicism that came partly from youth and an English horror of fuss.  How different from the voice of unconsciousness which I heard raving in his room only this morning!