For almost three complete months had the Boers surrounded Ladysmith on
every side, and shelled it persistently, and yet here were the British
troops, seemingly as steadfast as during the early days of the siege.
But wounds and disease had slowly thinned their ranks, and against the
20,000 or more of the enemy there were scarcely 8000 to man a huge
circle of trenches. What could they do against the odds opposed to
them? It was almost an impossible feat that was expected of them, but
for all that, each and every one of our sturdy lads, as he sat in the
trenches that night, listening intently and vainly endeavouring to
pierce the gloom, swore solemnly to himself that the task should be
accomplished. For many weeks they had laughed at and kept a horde of
Boers at bay, and now, when they were in a tight corner and in
difficulties, they would teach the enemy that they yet had teeth to
show, and good strength to use them.
And down beyond the flats stretching away from the heights of Caesar's
Camp, and in all the laagers surrounding the beleaguered garrison, bands
of stern, resolute Boers collected together in absolute silence in the
darkness. There was no need for words. Their plans had long since been
arranged. They were the pick of all the forces from the Transvaal and
the sister republic, and for the most part they had volunteered to
attack and capture the camp, or die in the attempt. Rough, bearded men
of middle age, they numbered amongst their ranks commandants,
field-cornets, and officers of the Boer army. At a peremptory order
from Pretoria, and because they could no longer put up with the
humiliation of thus being laughed at by a handful of men, they had set
themselves the dangerous task of a grand assault. It would be warfare
after a method hateful to them one and all, for the comfortable shelter
of a big boulder was more to their liking. But a desperate position
called for stern measures, and, like the brave men they were, they
prepared for the work, determined to do or die in the attempt.
Collecting together in silence, they for the most part removed their
boots, and just before the darkness lifted they set out across the
grassy plain, and without so much as a sound commenced to scale the
heights of Wagon Hill and Caesar's Camp. Without firing a shot those at
the western end of the heights clambered up till they were almost upon
the trenches, when they were discovered by an outpost of the
Manchesters, who gave the alarm. Instantly a hail of lead was poured
into the night, and the guns opened fire, tearing the elopes and the
flats below with bursting shrapnel.
But the darkness aided the Boers, and in a few moments they were upon
our men.
They had got so far, but they were not to make another step forward, for
by now the Gordon Highlanders and the Rifle Brigade had arrived, and,
rushing forward with fixed bayonets, they dashed pell-mell at the enemy,
and after a fierce and bloody conflict broke them, and hurled them
shattered and bleeding down the steep hillside.
It was desperate work. As the night lifted, and the grey haze of dawn
lay upon the grassy slopes of Caesar's Camp, Briton and Boer stood face
to face and fought for supremacy. Every man of ours had need of all his
courage and strength, and not one failed to do his duty to his queen.
Magnificently the brave fellows kept up the reputation of the army, and
in spite of the havoc wrought by Mauser bullets, pressed the enemy still
closer, and when they fled sent a taunting cheer after them, and stood
ready and willing to meet them again.
Jack and Guy took a full share in the work. Deafened by the reports of
the field-artillery and the incessant tat, tat of the rifles, they stood
shoulder to shoulder in the trench, and when their comrades charged,
rushed forward with them and helped to hurl back the Boers. But that
was the least difficult part of the task. Some minutes before the
much-needed reinforcements arrived they were closely pressed, and barely
held their own. The Boers swarmed up the hill, and now that the alarm
was given, opened a hot fire upon them. Then they rushed at them, and
surrounded the small party of defenders.
Standing back to back, Jack and his friend, with Mr Hunter, beat off a
determined assault, but a second which followed parted them, and the two
young fellows found themselves alone and cut off from their friends,
while Mr Hunter had been forced back amongst the Highlanders.
Side by side Jack and Guy thrust fiercely at the Boers, parrying the
swinging blows aimed at them, and escaping the flying bullets by a
miracle.
"Surrender, and lay down your arms!" shouted a big, bearded man,
presenting his rifle at Jack's head. "You are surrounded and cut off
from your friends."
"Never!" cried Jack, hoarsely. "Come and take us it you can!"
"Very well, then," the Boer answered roughly, and at once pulled his
trigger, falling himself in a heap upon the ground at the same moment
and rolling down the hill, his head almost smashed in by a shell which
had struck him. But his bullet took effect. Swishing close by Jack, it
hit Guy with a dull thud in the thigh, causing him to stumble and crash
down upon the grass.
"All right, old boy!" cried Jack immediately, standing across his body
and plunging his bayonet deep into the chest of a young Boer.
"That's it, Jack. Keep them off!" Guy answered weakly; "I'm hit in the
leg, but can fire my rifle."
Next second both were hotly engaged, for the enemy, who had drawn back
for the moment, rushed upon them again, and while some fired their
rifles, others swung theirs over their heads and bit with all their
strength. But the keen, gleaming bayonet, darting angrily here and
there, kept them at arm's-length, and not content with that, Jack gave a
defiant shout, and, springing forward, threw himself upon them,
transfixing one with his murderous blade, and knocking a second
senseless with the butt of his rifle.
Meanwhile Guy had calmly opened his magazine, and as the burghers
returned to the attack he picked them off one by one. But it was an
uneven contest, and another minute would have seen both of them killed
or captured, when there was a roaring cheer from behind, and down the
hill, careless of the pelting bullets, swept the brawny, kilted sons of
Scotland and the fearless and lithe little riflemen, their bayonets at
the charge and the light of battle in their gleaming eyes.
At the sight the Boers drew back for one brief moment, and Jack and Guy
regained their friends, the latter forgetting the agony of his wound in
the excitement of the moment. Then, plucking up their courage and
remembering their desperate resolve, the burghers turned to face the
oncoming line of bayonets with a bravery which none of their fellows had
ever shown before. With one fierce shout they ranged themselves
together, poured in a volley, and rushed like a tide up the hill to meet
the avalanche of terrible steel now pouring down it. A minute later the
two forces met with a crash, but the result was never for a moment
doubtful. The British onrush was not even checked. There was a fierce
lunging of rifles, a succession of awful groans, and the Boers were
gone, all swept to the ground, save a few who were now racing away for
their lives. And after them the gallant English troops sent a scathing
volley, and then stood watching them, shouting hoarsely to them, and
more than half-longing that they would return again ere the flush of
victory had died down in their hearts. But one such bitter experience
was sufficient for the moment. The Boers hastily rejoined their
friends, and, diving into cover, opened up a galling fire upon the
heights of Caesar's Camp.
Meanwhile other parts of the town had been attacked, to draw off
attention from the heights to the south, the position which was of such
vital importance. But the main strength of the enemy was directed
against Caesar's Camp, and while to the west of it one commando of
staunch men had been hurled backward down the slopes, another had
advanced on Wagon Hill, and had occupied it before the three detachments
of the Imperial Light Horse stationed near were aware of it. The Boers,
however, were raked by a murderous fire of Lee-Metford bullets, for the
gallant colonists stuck to their posts with dogged persistence.
As the day dawned and it was seen that the enemy had possession of the
hill, the Highlanders, Devons, and 60th Rifles charged them in company
with the Imperial Light Horse. There was no denying this old and
supremely British method of settling a conflict. One crash, one
murderous flash of fire, and the hearts of the Boers were inspired with
terror, and they fled precipitately to cover, whence they kept up a
sullen fusillade.
For many long hours the Boers poured a storm of bullets upon the heights
of Caesar's Camp from a long ridge of which they had taken possession,
and then, at noon, they made a second desperate onslaught, only to be
shattered by the field-artillery and mown down by our riflemen.
Late that memorable afternoon, in the midst of a blinding storm of sleet
and rain which only Natal could produce, a third and last attempt was
made, but proved a signal failure, for by now the artillery, which had
already done such excellent service, had ranged their guns to rake the
open ground, and those of the enemy who escaped retired to their laagers
to rest and recover from the terrors of an awful day. They were a sad
gathering, for they had many comrades to mourn, and in addition their
dearest hope had been frustrated. From behind a barrier of rock, and
concealed in carefully-prepared trenches on the ridges north of the
Tugela, they and their long-range guns had proved too formidable for
Buller's army, despite a stubborn and gallant attack. But here, when
the position had been reversed, when a handful of British manned a
trench on the summit of a hill which sloped easily and was not too steep
to be assailed, they, in spite of their superior number, had been
shattered and defeated.
It was humiliating, bitterly humiliating; but that desperate conflict
served, if it did nothing else, to banish the mistaken ideas which each
side had for the other. England now knew that she was fighting valiant
men, who would be perfect as enemies, and equally chivalrous as her own
soldiers, did not many of their number sully a good name by dastardly
acts, such as firing upon the red cross and the wounded and making a
scandalous use of the white flag. And on the Boer side, where
previously scorn and worse for the bravery of the "Rooineks" had been
shown, ungrudging praise for their dauntless courage was now given;
while those who had stood to face the desperate charge upon the heighs
of Caesar's Camp shivered, and swore silently to themselves that
nothing, not even their cherished independence and the longing for a
Dutch South Africa, should prevail upon them to commit such an act of
madness again.
On the heights of Caesar's Camp, when the tide of battle had been turned
back and the dusk of evening was beginning to fall, there were many poor
fellows sleeping their last long sleep upon the grass. They had chosen
a soldier's life, and their reward had been to die for the sacred cause
of their country. It was a sad and heart-rending scene, and Jack, as he
looked on and endeavoured to help the wounded, fully realised the misery
of it all. At his feet lay Guy Richardson, roughly bandaged and waiting
to be carried off, while close at hand was the lifeless body of a little
rifleman, the face turned upward to the sky, and smiling as though death
had laid its hand upon him painlessly.
It was a gruesome scene, but he had little time to brood upon it, for at
that moment he caught sight of a familiar figure a few yards away, and,
running across the grass, knelt down by the side of Rawlings, the brave
and jovial Highlander who had led the assault upon the Boer gun.
"Hallo, Jack!" he panted cheerfully; "not hit, I see. Prop me up, like
a good fellow."
Jack lifted him gently, and propped him up with his knee. Then he
unslung his water-bottle and gave the poor fellow a drink.
"Thanks, old man!" the wounded officer said in a weaker voice. "Those
beggars have done for me! I'm shot through the chest."
"Not done for, Rawlings!" Jack answered hopefully. "You've many a year
to live. You'll pull through, old chap, never fear."
"No, I'm going home, Jack," was the whispered reply. "I can feel the
life running out of me. Hold me tight and stay by me, will you? It's
lonely work to die without a friend."
Jack's eyes filled with tears, for from the very first he had feared
that his poor friend was mortally hit and upon the point of death. He
propped him up still higher, and having moistened his lips again, put
his arms round him and held him firmly.
There was a long and painful pause, and then the young Highlander spoke
again, this time in a stronger voice:
"Jack," he said earnestly, "I'd have given more than I possess to live
to the end of this struggle; but we shall win. Mark the words of a
dying man--England shall come out victorious. The cause of freedom and
justice shall triumph above all others, and Victoria, God bless her!
shall rule this continent."
He was silent again for a few moments, and then continued in a voice
which was scarcely as loud as a whisper:
"Bend down, old chap," he said. "I'm off to the other land. Remember
me, Jack, when I've gone, and when you get back to dear old England
again, look the people up and tell them that Angus met the end like a
soldier and a man. They'll be sorry. Yes, Mother and Father and the
boys and girls will miss me. But they'll he proud, too, that I died
like this--Put your hand in mine, Jack. Ah, now I know you're there!
Good-bye! God bless everyone! My love to you, Dad and Mother! Good--"
There was a deep sigh, and the head of the gallant young officer fell
back upon Jack's shoulder, and the tears which were streaming down the
latter's cheeks fell upon the pale face of as brave a man as Britain had
ever known.
Jack laid him gently on the grass, and, rising sorrowfully to his feet,
looked for the last time upon this stalwart young Highlander. He
beckoned to some Highlanders who had looked on tearfully all the while,
and who now approached and carried their officer away. Then he joined
Mr Hunter, and all night long helped to gather the wounded.
When morning dawned again--the morning of the Sabbath--the awful havoc
wrought by our shell was for the first time seen. Down the slopes of
the hill, and away across the flats, Boer and Briton lay cold and
motionless, separately and in groups; sometimes huddled together as if
still engaged in a deadly tussle, and sometimes side by side in seeming
friendship. Farther away, near the long ridge which the enemy had held,
scores of mangled bodies were found, and at once handed over to the
Boers, while the poor wounded wretches were tended to by our surgeons.
Then, when human skill and care had done all that was possible for the
living, the troops formed up and in long lines carried their dead to the
cemetery. The rifles rang out the regulation volleys, the bugles wailed
the "Last Post", and all was over, save that each and every soldier bore
away with him from that scene a lasting memory of those brave comrades
who but a few hours before had been full of life and energy.
After that they thronged into the church, and joined earnestly in the
prayer of thanksgiving offered up for their glorious victory.
At the close of the service the men joined with such a will in singing
the National Anthem--a loyal ceremony never neglected in a garrison
church--that the strains were heard far away by the lonely pickets and
patrols, and set each one of them singing blithely as he trudged up and
down on his beat.
Jack Somerton sat amongst the officers in the church, and when the
service was over he walked across to the hospital marquees and enquired
for Guy Richardson. Even now, though the wounded had all been
collected, the surgeons had their hands more than full, for typhoid
fever and dysentery, those scourges which ever dog the footsteps of an
army, had claimed many victims, and these required the most careful
attention.
"Well, Jack, old boy," said Guy cheerfully, "tell me all about
Saturday's affair. Of course I saw that part of the fighting which
occurred at Caesar's Camp; but elsewhere our fellows were hard pressed,
they tell me."
Jack told his friend all that he knew of the engagement, and mentioned
the names of the gallant officers who had fallen.
"What are you going to do now, Jack?" his friend asked, after they had
chatted for some minutes. "The surgeon who is looking after me says we
are likely to be cooped up here for some time longer, and I am sure that
will not suit you."
"No, I don't think I care much about sticking in Ladysmith while the
siege continues," mused Jack. "You see, the Boers, by all accounts,
have entrenched all the hills between this and the Tugela, and with the
heavy guns of position which they have been able to bring down by rail
from the Transvaal, have practically made their lines impregnable. An
officer told me that it would require an army of more than 100,000 to
break through them and relieve us, and that even then the job would not
be accomplished without frightful loss of life.
"I believe we shall have to wait. Buller and his forces will keep the
enemy busy while another army is massing in Cape Colony ready to invade
the Orange Free State. That would probably lead to the relief of
Kimberley and Mafeking, and possibly Ladysmith. But to get the army in
motion and prepare the commissariat is a gigantic undertaking, and will
require weeks yet. There will not be another assault here, at least not
for many a long day to come, as we have just given the burghers such a
smashing, but elsewhere there will be lots of fun. They tell me that
despatch-riders are being asked for, and I shall send in my name and
risk it. It would be fine to feel that one had been able to creep
through to Chieveley in spite of all those Boers."
"By Jove, Jack," Guy exclaimed, raising himself upon his elbows and
flushing with excitement, "you are the most adventurous beggar I have
ever come across! First of all, you have excitement sufficient to suit
most fellows for a year up there at Talana Hill; then you fight your way
through to Kimberley and Mafeking; and finally, through sheer daring and
pluck, save me from that beast of a lion. Then, of course, it was
mainly through you that we rescued Father and Mr Hunter, not to mention
that poor little woman whose husband had been commandeered. No wonder
the camp is ringing with your name. By now I expect the news of Piet
Maartens and the spies, and the manner in which you checkmated them, has
been heliographed across to Buller's signallers, and I dare say London
is reading the news, and every man in England rejoicing over it as he
drinks his breakfast coffee. Well, old man, go on a little further.
Many of our countrymen will make a name before this war is over, but if
Jack Somerton doesn't top the list--well--I'm a Transvaal burgher, which
is the very last thing I shall care to be."
"Oh, shut up, Guy!" Jack cried warmly, colouring with embarrassment.
"It's all been luck--sheer luck from beginning to end."
"Luck! Bosh, my dear old chap; bosh!" exclaimed Guy with a merry laugh.
"You're the only fellow who will ever say such a thing."
"Well, I think so," Jack answered. "But you've talked enough already,
Guy. The surgeon expressly told me that you were to keep silent, and
here you are chattering away as though there was nothing the matter with
you. I shall send in my name as a despatch-rider, and let you know what
happens. Now I'll say good-bye for the present. To-morrow I have to
give evidence against Piet Maartens, and after that I expect I shall
clear out of Ladysmith. So long, old chap, and mind you keep quiet, as
you have been told, or something will go wrong with your wound."
Pressing Guy's hand, Jack took his leave, after exchanging a few words
with the other wounded soldiers lying in the tent.
On the following morning he attended the court-martial upon the Boer
prisoners and gave formal evidence. It went much against his wishes,
but the stern necessities of war demanded that spies should be summarily
dealt with.
There was no doubt about their guilt. All had been caught red-handed,
and in a deathly silence sentence was passed upon them that at dawn on
the following morning they should be shot for their offence, in sight of
all the troops.
Piet Maartens was a pitiable sight. Unarmed and a prisoner, he was a
very different individual from the bumptious Boer who had been taught a
lesson by Jack only a few months before. At the reading of the death
penalty he turned white with terror, his limbs shook, and perspiration
rolled from his forehead. With a shriek of fear he fell upon his knees
and begged the president of the court to reconsider his decision. Then,
finding him obdurate, he turned to Jack and besought him to say
something for him.
Of very different moulding were his companions. Stern, sunburnt young
men, they held their heads erect and heard their doom like men, and even
harshly remonstrated with Piet Maartens for his cowardice.
Just as the sun rose on the following morning, and one of the loveliest
of lovely African days dawned, a dozen rifles cracked, and Piet Maartens
and his companions had paid the last penalty of all spies.