Another informal council of war was called.  Sir Charles Warren wanted to know Colonel Thorneycroft’s views.  I was sent to obtain them.  The darkness was intense.  The track stony and uneven.  It was hopelessly congested with ambulances, stragglers, and wounded men.  I soon had to leave my horse, and then toiled upwards, finding everywhere streams of men winding about the almost precipitous sides of the mountain, and an intermittent crackle of musketry at the top.  Only one solid battalion remained—­the Dorsets.  All the others were intermingled.  Officers had collected little parties, companies and half-companies; here and there larger bodies had formed, but there was no possibility, in the darkness, of gripping anybody or anything.  Yet it must not be imagined that the infantry were demoralised.  Stragglers and weaklings there were in plenty.  But the mass of the soldiers were determined men.  One man I found dragging down a box of ammunition quite by himself.  ’To do something,’ he said.  A sergeant with twenty men formed up was inquiring what troops were to hold the position.  Regimental officers everywhere cool and cheery, each with a little group of men around him, all full of fight and energy.  But the darkness and the broken ground paralysed everyone.

I found Colonel Thorneycroft at the top of the mountain.  Everyone seemed to know, even in the confusion, where he was.  He was sitting on the ground surrounded by the remnants of the regiment he had raised, who had fought for him like lions and followed him like dogs.  I explained the situation as I had been told and as I thought.  Naval guns were prepared to try, sappers and working parties were already on the road with thousands of sandbags.  What did he think?  But the decision had already been taken.  He had never received any messages from the General, had not had time to write any.  Messages had been sent him, he had wanted to send others himself.  The fight had been too hot, too close, too interlaced for him to attend to anything, but to support this company, clear those rocks, or line that trench.  So, having heard nothing and expecting no guns, he had decided to retire.  As he put it tersely:  ’Better six good battalions safely down the hill than a mop up in the morning.’  Then we came home, drawing down our rearguard after us very slowly and carefully, and as the ground grew more level the regiments began to form again into their old solid blocks.

Such was the fifth of the series of actions called the Battle of Spion Kop.  It is an event which the British people may regard with feelings of equal pride and sadness.  It redounds to the honour of the soldiers, though not greatly to that of the generals.  But when all that will be written about this has been written, and all the bitter words have been said by the people who never do anything themselves, the wise and just citizen will remember that these same generals are, after all, brave, capable, noble English gentlemen, trying their best to carry through a task which may prove to be impossible, and is certainly the hardest ever set to men.