I rode down to Belmont a couple of days ago, and had a look at the Canadians and Queenslanders, who are quartered there.  They are all in excellent health and spirits, and seem to be just about hungry for a fight.  The Munsters, who are quartered there, are simply spoiling for a brush with the enemy, and seem to be as full of ginger as any men I have ever seen.

And every one of them with whom I conversed—­and I chatted with a good many of the burly young Irishmen—­expressed a keen desire to meet in open fight the Irish brigade now fighting on the side of the Boers.  Should it ever come to pass during the progress of the war, I devoutly hope that I may be handy to witness the struggle.  It will not be a long-range fight if I am any judge of men and things; it will be settled at close quarters, and the “baynit and the butt” will play a prominent part in the melee.

A few of our New Zealand fellows got to close quarters with the enemy recently up Colesberg way, and they did just as we knew they would when it came to the crossing of steel.  The Boers stormed the position, and the New Zealanders joined in the bayonet charge which drove them back.  Our men had a couple killed and one or two wounded.  The enemy left a goodish number of dead on the field when they retired, about thirty of whom met their fate at the bayonet’s point.  The British losses were small.  There was nothing remarkable about the behaviour of the New Zealanders in action; they simply did coolly and well what they were ordered to do, and proved that they are quite as good fighting material as anything the Old Country can produce.  The gravest misfortune which has yet befallen any of the Australians happened at the same locality, when eighteen New South Welshmen allowed themselves to be pinned in a tight place.  Eight escaped, but the others are either prisoners or killed.  We do not like the surrender business, and would rather see our men do as their fathers and grandfathers used to do—­bite the motto, “No surrender,” into the butts of their rifles with their teeth, and fight their way out of a hot corner.  There has been a good deal too much of this throwing up of arms during the present campaign, and I hope that we shall hear less of it in the future.

We had a nasty night here at Enslin.  Word reached our headquarters that three thousand mounted Boers were on the move towards our camp, which, for strategic purposes, is the most important between Methuen’s column and De Aar.  If the enemy could take Enslin they could make things very awkward for General Methuen, because they would then have him between two fires.  As soon as the news came our fellows, with the Gordons, were ordered to occupy the surrounding heights.  All night long, and well on into the day, we held them until we learned that the enemy had decided not to attack us.  Had they done so they would have paid bitterly for their rashness, for the place is practically impregnable.  A thousand resolute and skilful men, who knew how to use both rifle and bayonet, could hold the place against 20,000 of the finest troops in the world, providing the defenders were not hopelessly crushed by an immense artillery force.