Our prejudice against the khaki grew stronger than ever.  Who was Gorle?  The Army Service Corps had come into prominence, and much of its bad management was rightly or wrongly attributed to a Major Gorle.  But the Military did not put their feet in it firmly until they reduced the cattle-looting wage from a pound to half a sovereign.  The natives engaged in this hazardous occupation had been hitherto in receipt of twenty shillings for every animal captured; and they not unnaturally resented the curtailment of their commission.  They declined to jeopardise their lives on half pay, and went out on strike.  From that day onward the cow-catching industry languished; and though some of us held that the Colonel personally was in matters monetary above suspicion, like Caesar’s wife, we did not forget that he was also an Absolute Monarch, like Caeesar himself.

It was reported in the afternoon that news of Magersfontein had been gleaned at last, but that owing to the presence of spies in our midst efforts were being made to keep it secret.  We gathered, however, that the Highland Brigade had been sufferers in a sanguinary struggle.  That was all—­except the usual accompaniment—­the essential corollary to every recorded battle—­that the Boer losses had been numerically frightful.  Definite official reports were not forthcoming; nor confirmation of rumour.  But we were satisfied that Methuen had been checked; we were constrained to confess, we consented to believe that he had at least been checked.

Next day we were more fully convinced; the terrible truth was revealed at last.  All our sympathies went out to the brave men who had tried to fell the barrier that blocked the way to Kimberley.  Their failure was a blow to our hopes; but personal considerations were for the moment taboo.  And, curiously enough, although the world was ringing with criticism of Methuen we in Kimberley blamed nobody.  Even the “Military Critic” was dumb.  Lord Methuen rose in our estimation to the level of a hero, who had driven the enemy before him from Orange River, to fail only in the last lap.  Even now, perhaps, the people of Kimberley, looking back at the events of the past, would be reluctant to join in the criticism his name evokes.  The facts, of course, speak for themselves; and it did seem strange to see soldiers like Buller and Warren being arraigned, and Gatacre getting recalled, while others passed through the fire officially unscathed.  Speaking of Gatacre, we—­having just been made acquainted with the Stormberg affair—­were saying nasty things of him.  Monday was altogether a miserable day, with the outlook far less bright than our fancy had painted it.

On Tuesday the muffled booming of the British guns at Modder River was heard again.  It was hard to credit the evidence of our senses, that Methuen had retreated.  Still, we were not to be entirely disheartened while there remained the possibility of a drive to the sea for Christmas.  At a meeting of the Town Council a new Mayor (Mr. Oliver) was chosen for the year 1900.  General Clery, we were informed, was getting towards Ladysmith; the news was vague, but we were glad to hear it.  Any news not bad was good.  The old proverb is wrong; for who would dare after all the suspense we had endured to put “no news” in the “good” category.