News at last!  This morning we sighted a sail—­a large homeward-bound steamer, spreading her canvas to catch the trades, and with who should say what tidings on board.  We crowded the decks, and from every point of view telescopes, field glasses, and cameras were directed towards the stranger.  She passed us at scarcely two hundred yards, and as she did so her crew and company, giving three hearty cheers, displayed a long black board, on which was written in white paint:  ’Boers defeated; three battles; Penn Symons killed.’  There was a little gasp of excitement.  Everyone stepped back from the bulwarks.  Those who had not seen ran eagerly up to ask what had happened.  A dozen groups were formed, a hum of conversation arose, and meanwhile the vessels separated—­for the pace of each was swift—­and in a few moments the homeward bound lay far in our wake.

What does it mean—­this scrap of intelligence which tells so much and leaves so much untold?  To-morrow night we shall know all.  This at least is certain:  there has been fierce fighting in Natal, and, under Heaven, we have held our own:  perhaps more.  ‘Boers defeated.’  Let us thank God for that.  The brave garrisons have repelled the invaders.  The luck has turned at last.  The crisis is over, and the army now on the seas may move with measured strides to effect a final settlement that is both wise and just.  In that short message eighteen years of heartburnings are healed.  The abandoned colonist, the shamed soldier, the ’cowardly Englishman,’ the white flag, the ’How about Majuba?’—­all gone for ever.  At last—­’the Boers defeated.’  Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Hurrah!

So Sir Penn Symons is killed!  Well, no one would have laid down his life more gladly in such a cause.  Twenty years ago the merest chance saved him from the massacre at Isandhlwana, and Death promoted him in an afternoon from subaltern to senior captain.  Thenceforward his rise was rapid.  He commanded the First Division of the Tirah Expeditionary Force among the mountains with prudent skill.  His brigades had no misfortunes:  his rearguards came safely into camp.  In the spring of 1898, when the army lay around Fort Jumrood, looking forward to a fresh campaign, I used often to meet him.  Everyone talked of Symons, of his energy, of his jokes, of his enthusiasm.  It was Symons who had built a racecourse on the stony plain; who had organised the Jumrood Spring Meeting; who won the principal event himself, to the delight of the private soldiers, with whom he was intensely popular; who, moreover, was to be first and foremost if the war with the tribes broke out again; and who was entrusted with much of the negotiations with their jirgas.  Dinner with Symons in the mud tower of Jumrood Fort was an experience.  The memory of many tales of sport and war remains.  At the end the General would drink the old Peninsular toasts:  ‘Our Men,’ ‘Our Women,’ ‘Our Religion,’ ‘Our Swords,’ ‘Ourselves,’ ‘Sweethearts and Wives,’ and ’Absent Friends’—­one for every night in the week.  The night when I dined the toast was ‘Our Men.’  May the State in her necessities find others like him!