Sir Charles Warren was standing near me with his staff.  One of his officers came up and told me that they had been disturbed at breakfast by a Boer shell, which had crashed through their waggon, killing a servant and a horse.  Presently the General himself saw me.  I inquired about the situation, and learned for the first time of General Woodgate’s wound—­death it was then reported—­and that Thorneycroft had been appointed brigadier-general.  ’We have put what we think is the best fighting man in command regardless of seniority.  We shall support him as he may request.  We can do no more.’

I will only relate one other incident—­a miserable one.  The day before the attack on Spion Kop I had chanced to ride across the pontoon bridge.  I heard my name called, and saw the cheery face of a boy I had known at Harrow—­a smart, clean-looking young gentleman—­quite the rough material for Irregular Horse.  He had just arrived and pushed his way to the front; hoped, so he said, ‘to get a job.’  This morning they told me that an unauthorised Press correspondent had been found among the killed on the summit.  At least they thought at first it was a Press correspondent, for no one seemed to know him.  A man had been found leaning forward on his rifle, dead.  A broken pair of field glasses, shattered by the same shell that had killed their owner, bore the name ‘M’Corquodale.’  The name and the face flew together in my mind.  It was the last joined subaltern of Thorneycroft’s Mounted Infantry—­joined in the evening shot at dawn.

Poor gallant young Englishman! he had soon ‘got his job.’  The great sacrifice had been required of the Queen’s latest recruit.

CHAPTER XIX

A FRESH EFFORT AND AN ARMY CHAPLAIN

Spearman’s Hill:  February 4, 1900

The first gleams of daylight crept underneath the waggon, and the sleepers, closely packed for shelter from the rain showers, awoke.  Those who live under the conditions of a civilised city, who lie abed till nine and ten of the clock in artificially darkened rooms, gain luxury at the expense of joy.  But the soldier, who fares simply, sleeps soundly, and rises with the morning star, wakes in an elation of body and spirit without an effort and with scarcely a yawn.  There is no more delicious moment in the day than this, when we light the fire and, while the kettle boils, watch the dark shadows of the hills take form, perspective, and finally colour, knowing that there is another whole day begun, bright with chance and interest, and free from all cares.  All cares—­for who can be worried about the little matters of humdrum life when he may be dead before the night?  Such a one was with us yesterday—­see, there is a spare mug for coffee in the mess—­but now gone for ever.  And so it may be with us to-morrow.  What does it matter that this or that is misunderstood or perverted;