Upon the fall of Woodgate, Thorneycroft, who bore the reputation of a determined fighter, was placed at the suggestion of Buller in charge of the defence of the hill, and he was reinforced after noon by Coke’s brigade, the Middlesex, the Dorsets, and the Somersets, together with the Imperial Light Infantry.  The addition of this force to the defenders of the plateau tended to increase the casualty returns rather than the strength of the defence.  Three thousand more rifles could do nothing to check the fire of the invisible cannon, and it was this which was the main source of the losses, while on the other hand the plateau had become so cumbered with troops that a shell could hardly fail to do damage.  There was no cover to shelter them and no room for them to extend.  The pressure was most severe upon the shallow trenches in the front, which had been abandoned by the Boers and were held by the Lancashire Fusiliers.  They were enfiladed by rifle and cannon, and the dead and wounded outnumbered the hale.  So close were the skirmishers that on at least one occasion Boer and Briton found themselves on each side of the same rock.  Once a handful of men, tormented beyond endurance, sprang up as a sign that they had had enough, but Thorneycroft, a man of huge physique, rushed forward to the advancing Boers.  ‘You may go to hell!’ he yelled.  ’I command here, and allow no surrender.  Go on with your firing.’  Nothing could exceed the gallantry of Louis Botha’s men in pushing the attack.  Again and again they made their way up to the British firing line, exposing themselves with a recklessness which, with the exception of the grand attack upon Ladysmith, was unique in our experience of them.  About two o’clock they rushed one trench occupied by the Fusiliers and secured the survivors of two companies as prisoners, but were subsequently driven out again.  A detached group of the South Lancashires was summoned to surrender.  ‘When I surrender,’ cried Colour-Sergeant Nolan, ’it will be my dead body!’ Hour after hour of the unintermitting crash of the shells among the rocks and of the groans and screams of men torn and burst by the most horrible of all wounds had shaken the troops badly.  Spectators from below who saw the shells pitching at the rate of seven a minute on to the crowded plateau marvelled at the endurance which held the devoted men to their post.  Men were wounded and wounded and wounded yet again, and still went on fighting.  Never since Inkerman had we had so grim a soldier’s battle.  The company officers were superb.  Captain Muriel of the Middlesex was shot through the check while giving a cigarette to a wounded man, continued to lead his company, and was shot again through the brain.  Scott Moncrieff of the same regiment was only disabled by the fourth bullet which hit him.  Grenfell of Thorneycroft’s was shot, and exclaimed, ’That’s all right.  It’s not much.’  A second wound made him remark, ‘I can get on all right.’  The third killed him.  Ross