Riding along, I soon found my raincoat soaked through.  The water began to rush along the path, and the loud, incessant pealing of the thunder and the rapidly succeeding and fearfully vivid lightning flashes so terrified my horse that it refused to move a step.  Dismounting, I led the animal through the blinding rain for upwards of an hour, when I reached camp, to find the outpost already gone.  I took off my streaming garments, and turned into my warm bed.  At midnight the flap of the tent was opened, and I was ordered to turn out and stand guard.  Our effects were still at Volksrust.  Drawing on a soaking wet pair of heavy corduroy breeches in the middle of the night is one of the least delicious experiences possible, as I found to my cost, to say nothing of sitting in them on an antheap for a couple of hours with a chilly rain falling.

In the morning came the news that the enemy had again surprised and blown up one of our guns—­none other than the howitzer visited by me the previous evening.  Presently the young cadets themselves came riding into camp, bringing with them pieces of guncotton, and showing by the state of their ragged uniforms the hand-to-hand nature of the struggle that had taken place.

One of them said in answer to my inquiries—­

“We heard someone climbing the hill in the night, and challenged.  It was the British.  They shouted ‘Rule Britannia!’ and rushed up to the top.  We fired into them.  We were too few.  By sheer weight of numbers they forced us aside.  One of the artillerymen was dragged by the leg from his sleeping-place.  He shook himself free, and bolted.  The soldiers formed a square round the gun, charged it with guncotton, shouted ‘Stand back!’ and the next moment our gun was crashing through the sky.  It all happened in a moment.  Then the enemy retired, followed by some burghers, who had by this time arrived from the laager at the back of the hill.  The Pretoria commando was also waiting for them, and intercepting their retreat, made them pay dearly enough for their exploit.”

COLENSO

One day our scouts made a splendid haul, bringing into camp that celebrated, devil-may-care animal, the war-correspondent.  His story was that he had wandered out of Ladysmith with a packet of newspapers—­“merely to exchange notes and to challenge you for a cricket match!”

Squatted on the ground, crowds of bearded Boers gazing at him with fierce interest, he looked anything but comfortable, and no wonder, for the word spion was often uttered.  His colour was a pale green, while his teeth chattered audibly.  He was subsequently sent to Pretoria, and thence exiled to civilisation, via Delagoa Bay.

On the same day we captured three natives bearing British despatches.  As these runners were giving considerable trouble, it was decided to execute one and send the other two to spread the news among their friends—­black and white.