But the time wore on, and sickness came—far worse and more fatal than shell-fire. There were hundreds of fever patients in the hospital outside at Intombi Spruit.
Fever—typhoid, enteric—and no stimulants, no jellies, no beef-tea!
The only luxury was a small ration of tinned milk. Scores of convalescents died of sheer starvation. The doctors were overworked, and they, too, broke down.
No wonder that many in the garrison chafed at inaction, found fault with their superiors, and asked bitterly: “Are we to stay here till we rot?”
By New Year’s Eve Ladysmith had endured some 8,000 rounds of shell; many buildings had been hit half a dozen times. On New Year’s Day an officer of the Lancers was sleeping in his house, when a shell exploded and buried him in a heap of timber. When they pulled the mess off him, he sat up, rubbed the dust out of his eyes, and asked, “What o’clock is it?” He was unhurt.
There was a small bugler of the 5th Lancers who was the envy of every boy in the town. This boy was in the battle at Elands Laagte, and when a regiment seemed wavering he sounded the call, the advance, the charge. The result was that that regiment faced the music, and did valiantly. A General rode up to the bugler after the fight, and took his name, saying: “You are a plucky boy. I shall report you!”
For this boy, after sounding the charge, had drawn his revolver, rode into the thick of the fight on his Colonel’s flank, and shot three Boers one after the other.
Scores of officers gave the boy a sovereign for his pluck, and he wore his cap all through the siege in a very swagger fashion.
Some of the regiments had their pet dogs in Ladysmith.