In Natal itself the situation was satisfactory, but the course of events
elsewhere made the speedy capture of Ladysmith imperative. It was
accordingly decided to make an attack on Platrand, or Waggon Hill, as
the British call it. If we could gain this hill the town would be at our
mercy.
The plan of attack was simple in the extreme. The Free Staters would
climb one side, the Transvaalers the other, and Louis Botha himself ride
over from Colenso with a reserve of three hundred men.
Our chief determined to view this fight, and agreed to take me along. It
had been arranged that the attack should take place on the 6th of
January. In the afternoon of the 5th we took the road to Ladysmith,
travelling in a light mule-waggon, our horses tied alongside.
Near Nelthorpe a small commando passed us. Knowing very well what errand
they were bound upon, we yet thought fit to ask them where they were
off to. "Oh, nowhere particular," was the answer. "Out for exercise,
that's all." This discretion was most commendable, for in our mixed
forces spying must have been easy and frequent.
We pitched tent for the night, and at three the next morning saddled our
horses and followed the spoor of the commando. Presently, encountering a
Kafir holding half a dozen horses, we asked him where the owners were.
He pointed to a hill near by, where we found the gallant Villebois, the
kindly Oberst von Braun, and ill-fated von Brusewitz. Little did we
think at the time that the latter would meet his death a few weeks later
on Spion Kop and the former shortly fall at Boshof!
It was growing light, and we could see, lying on our right, the neutral
camp; further away, on Bulwana, our biggest gun, where we knew General
Joubert was standing, his wife by his side.
Straight before us lay the key to Ladysmith--Platrand, whence now and
again came the sharp rat-tat of the Metford, followed by the Mauser's
significant cough.
Through our glasses we espied six helmeted men slowly retreating up the
mountain, pausing at every dozen yards to fire a volley at some
invisible enemy. Three of them reached the top. The sentries were being
driven in.
General Botha now arrived with the reserve force. All dismounted.
"Put your horses out of sight," were his first words to his men, "they
will draw the enemy's fire."
Scarcely had he spoken when a shrapnel shell burst overhead, and three
horses were lying on their backs, snorting and kicking. Then came
another and another. Both went wide. The animals were quickly led behind
the hill, and the three wounded put out of their pain.
Taking the best shelter possible, we gazed upon the drama being unfolded
before us.
The attack was now in full swing. The grating British volleys, the
ceaseless mill of independent firing, the sharp flash of the British
guns, the fierce whirr of our French shells, the deep boom of Long Tom
resounding through the valleys. Who can describe it all?
Yet hardly a single combatant could be discerned. Attacked and attackers
alike were invisible. One soldier only stood in plain view on the crest
of the hill, signalling with a flag. Our men reached the crest, and the
soldier disappeared. Whether in response to his signals or not,
reinforcements presently reached the hill.
In long, thin lines of yellow they ran across the plateau to the crest,
hoping to drive the Boers back the way they had come. As it approached
the line grew thinner and thinner, until there was nothing of it left.
And so on, for hour after hour, the yellow lines of gallant men flung
themselves into the open, only to fall beneath the raging fire poured
upon them from the sternly held mountain crest.
Down the hill our wounded dribbled, thirsty men, pale men, men covered
with blood and weeping with rage. How grim must be the fire they have
just passed through! One man is brought down lying across a horse. His
face hangs in strips, shattered by a dum-dum bullet. Thank goodness,
some of ours are using buckshot to-day!
A Boer mounts on a waggon.
"Who will take in ammunition?"
No response.