One morning a score of Theron’s scouts passed by, their famous captain at their head.  One of them—­an old friend—­reined in long enough to tell me they were off to lie in wait for a small British patrol, which, a native had told them, daily passed a certain spot suitable for an ambuscade.

In the afternoon the same band returned, several on foot, and carrying someone in a blanket.  What was my surprise to find that this was no other than poor Harry C——!

The native had misled them, and the surprise had been the other way about.  My friend had received a bullet through the stomach, a wound which appeared necessarily fatal.  He was laid down in a tent.  Theron bent over him, his eyes filling with compassionate tears.  “How now, Harry?”

“Awful pain, captain.”

To break the news gently we wired home that he was only slightly wounded.  This turned out to have been wiser than we knew, for, to our joy, Harry lingered on, rallied, and finally recovered, a triumph of medical skill.

PLATRAND

In Natal itself the situation was satisfactory, but the course of events elsewhere made the speedy capture of Ladysmith imperative.  It was accordingly decided to make an attack on Platrand, or Waggon Hill, as the British call it.  If we could gain this hill the town would be at our mercy.

The plan of attack was simple in the extreme.  The Free Staters would climb one side, the Transvaalers the other, and Louis Botha himself ride over from Colenso with a reserve of three hundred men.

Our chief determined to view this fight, and agreed to take me along.  It had been arranged that the attack should take place on the 6th of January.  In the afternoon of the 5th we took the road to Ladysmith, travelling in a light mule-waggon, our horses tied alongside.

Near Nelthorpe a small commando passed us.  Knowing very well what errand they were bound upon, we yet thought fit to ask them where they were off to.  “Oh, nowhere particular,” was the answer.  “Out for exercise, that’s all.”  This discretion was most commendable, for in our mixed forces spying must have been easy and frequent.

We pitched tent for the night, and at three the next morning saddled our horses and followed the spoor of the commando.  Presently, encountering a Kafir holding half a dozen horses, we asked him where the owners were.  He pointed to a hill near by, where we found the gallant Villebois, the kindly Oberst von Braun, and ill-fated von Brusewitz.  Little did we think at the time that the latter would meet his death a few weeks later on Spion Kop and the former shortly fall at Boshof!

It was growing light, and we could see, lying on our right, the neutral camp; further away, on Bulwana, our biggest gun, where we knew General Joubert was standing, his wife by his side.

Straight before us lay the key to Ladysmith—­Platrand, whence now and again came the sharp rat-tat of the Metford, followed by the Mauser’s significant cough.