They looked offensively modern, and I wondered why our Army had not got field artillery with fixed ammunition and 8,000 yards range.  Some officers and men of the Staats Artillerie, dressed in a drab uniform with blue facings, approached us.  The commander, Adjutant Roos—­as he introduced himself—­made a polite salute.  He regretted the unfortunate circumstances of our meeting; he complimented the officers on their defence—­of course, it was hopeless from the first; he trusted his fire had not annoyed us; we should, he thought, understand the necessity for them to continue; above all he wanted to know how the engine had been able to get away, and how the line could have been cleared of wreckage under his guns.  In fact, he behaved as a good professional soldier should, and his manner impressed me.

We waited here near the guns for half an hour, and meanwhile the Boers searched amid the wreckage for dead and wounded.  A few of the wounded were brought to where we were, and laid on the ground, but most of them were placed in the shelter of one of the overturned trucks.  As I write I do not know with any certainty what the total losses were, but the Boers say that they buried five dead, sent ten seriously wounded into Ladysmith, and kept three severely wounded in their field ambulances.  Besides this, we are told that sixteen severely wounded escaped on the engine, and we have with the prisoners seven men, including myself, slightly wounded by splinters or injured in the derailment.  If this be approximately correct, it seems that the casualties in the hour and a half of fighting were between thirty-five and forty:  not many, perhaps, considering the fire, but out of 120 enough at least.

After a while we were ordered to march on, and looking over the crest of the hill a strange and impressive sight met the eye.  Only about 300 men had attacked the train, and I had thought that this was the enterprise of a separate detachment, but as the view extended I saw that this was only a small part of a large, powerful force marching south, under the personal direction of General Joubert, to attack Estcourt.  Behind every hill, thinly veiled by the driving rain, masses of mounted men, arranged in an orderly disorder, were halted, and from the rear long columns of horsemen rode steadily forward.  Certainly I did not see less than 3,000, and I did not see nearly all.  Evidently an important operation was in progress, and a collision either at Estcourt or Mooi River impended.  This was the long expected advance:  worse late than never.

Our captors conducted us to a rough tent which had been set up in a hollow in one of the hills, and which we concluded was General Joubert’s headquarters.  Here we were formed in a line, and soon surrounded by a bearded crowd of Boers cloaked in mackintosh.  I explained that I was a Special Correspondent, and asked to see General Joubert.  But in the throng it was impossible to tell who were the superiors.