EXPECTATION
King’s Post, the Entrenched Position of 2nd Batt. Rifle Brigade at Ladysmith.
(Reduced facsimile of sketch by Melton Prior.)
“Gloom, gloom, gloom, unending gloom!” So said one on the 26th of February, one who was fast sinking in the slough of despondency into which so many had slipped lower and lower, till they were sucked down and ended their troubles with fever and the grave. Some few days before all hearts had leapt with joy at reading of hopeful signals, listening to booming guns, which all thought to be bursting the gates of their imprisonment. So certain were they that the joyful hour of freedom was at hand that the force was placed on full rations. “We can afford to have a blow-out now,” some one had said, and began to arrange what menu he should chose when he at last came face to face with civilisation. Then had come gloom—gloom blacker than Erebus—for it was gloom without and within. The guns—the welcome guns—not the obstreperous ones of Bulwana and the companion hills—had ceased their clamour. Hope was gone, and even the “helio” refused its communications. The sky was overcast, and rumours, that had always been prolific as flies, now began to breed apace. The air of Ladysmith was thick with them. No word from Buller’s column. Kaffirs hinted that for the fourth time the relief column had retired at the back of the Tugela. Doubt, anxiety, suspense set in with renewed terrors. Quarter rations—the more trying because temporarily dropped—again became the order of the course. This in spite of the fact that Buller had now signalled “Everything progressing favourably.” It seemed that they had heard that message before, those poor, half-hopeful, half-sceptical sufferers.
Some said that on Tuesday, Majuba Day, the spirits of the community arrived at their nadir. When the barometer of fate registers its lowest, it is bound to rise. It rose in skips and jumps. There came the grand news that Cronje had surrendered to Lord Roberts. It was evident that the Boers too had heard, understood, and decided that they must scuttle the next morning. Signs of disturbance were evident. Long serpentine lines of trekking waggons were throwing up dust columns in the roads leading to Modder Spruit and Pepworth; droves of oxen were hurried along as fast as hoofs would carry them. Guns—the terrible guns which for 118 days had bayed and barked and rumbled and thundered—were in course of being dismantled. What did it all mean? Time was when the “braves” in Ladysmith would have sallied forth with their inherent dash and turned the retreat into a rout. But things were changed. Men and horses were now almost too weak to enter into sustained conflict with a mosquito, had a mosquito deigned to look at them. But most of them were past even the attentions of mosquitos. All they could do was to send a salvo at the heels of their tormentors, and hope that one or two shells at least might serve to “speed the parting guest.” This was all they could attempt. They also flashed to Monte Cristo a message—a deplorable message—full of their despair and despondency. It said, “Garrison bitterly disappointed at delay of relieving force.” This was at twelve o’clock. Then, as though Fate, with a full appreciation of the picturesque, had placed her highest light against her deepest dark—then, within the hour, came back glorious news!
| King's Post. | Rifleman's Ridge. | Direction of Colenso. | Spion Kop. | Boer Laager. |
IN BELEAGUERED LADYSMITH—WATCHING FOR BULLER FROM OBSERVATION HILL.
From a Sketch by Melton Prior.
“Have thoroughly beaten the enemy. Believe them to be in full retreat. Have sent my cavalry to ascertain which way they have gone.” Surprise, rapture, prolonged jubilation! Cheer on cheer rose on the clear midday air and rang for miles, till the sick in Intombi camp lifted pallid heads and strained their ears and wondered. Then came the rolling National Anthem and “Rule Britannia,” and Sir George White and those around him who had grown old within the spell of those awful 118 days, began to grow young again. And soon the Jack Tars set to work and the Naval guns pounded away with a reckless disregard for ammunition and a zest that did them credit. “One more go at him!—only one more!—only one more!” and “Long Tom,” which was in act of being dismantled, was the subject of boisterous farewells.