It was just at the first break of dawn—­the hour of fate in South African warfare—­that the battle began.  The mounted infantry post between the camp and the mountains were aware of moving figures in front of them.  In the dim light they could discern that they were clothed in grey, and that they wore the broad-brimmed hats and feathers of some of our own irregular corps.  They challenged, and the answer was a shattering volley, instantly returned by the survivors of the picket.  So hot was the Boer attack that before help could come every man save one of the picket was on the ground.  The sole survivor, Daley of the Dublins, took no backward step, but continued to steadily load and fire until help came from the awakened camp.  There followed a savage conflict at point blank-range.  The mounted infantry men, rushing half clad to the support of their comrades, were confronted by an ever-thickening swarm of Boer riflemen, who had already, by working round on the flank, established their favourite cross fire.  Legge, the leader of the mounted infantry, a hard little Egyptian veteran, was shot through the head, and his men lay thick around him.  For some minutes it was as hot a corner as any in the war.  But Clements himself had appeared upon the scene, and his cool gallantry turned the tide of fight.  An extension of the line checked the cross fire, and gave the British in turn a flanking position.  Gradually the Boer riflemen were pushed back, until at last they broke and fled for their horses in the rear.  A small body were cut off, many of whom were killed and wounded, while a few were taken prisoners.

This stiff fight of an hour had ended in a complete repulse of the attack, though at a considerable cost.  Both Boers and British had lost heavily.  Nearly all the staff were killed or wounded, though General Clements had come through untouched.  Fifty or sixty of both sides had fallen.  But it was noted as an ominous fact that in spite of shell fire the Boers still lingered upon the western flank.  Were they coming on again?  They showed no signs of it.  And yet they waited in groups, and looked up towards the beetling crags above them.  What were they waiting for?  The sudden crash of a murderous Mauser fire upon the summit, with the rolling volleys of the British infantry, supplied the answer.

Only now must it have been clear to Clements that he was not dealing merely with some spasmodic attack from his old enemy De la Rey, but that this was a largely conceived movement, in which a force at least double the strength of his own had suddenly been concentrated upon him.  His camp was still menaced by the men whom he had repulsed, and he could not weaken it by sending reinforcements up the hill.  But the roar of the musketry was rising louder and louder.  It was becoming clearer that there was the main attack.  It was a Majuba Hill action up yonder, a thick swarm of skirmishers closing in from many sides upon a central band of soldiers.  But the fusiliers were hopelessly