Not till the evening did the conflict cease. Then there was an armistice, and our ambulance bearers went out to bring in their fallen comrades. The Rev. J. Robertson, chaplain of the brigade, mentions in a letter: 'I was with Wauchope when he fell. I think he wished me to keep near him, but I got knocked down, and in the dark and wild confusion I was borne away, and did not see him in life again, though I spared no effort to find him, in the hope that he might be only wounded.' This statement is confirmed by the Anglican chaplain with Lord Methuen, who, after describing the battle of Magersfontein, thus refers to the Highland Brigade: 'Being chiefly Highlanders, they were in Robertson's charge. He, good-hearted fellow, was risking his life in the trenches and under fire to find General Wauchope's body. Why he was not killed in his fearless efforts I cannot tell.' The General's body was found next morning from twenty to thirty yards off the Boer trenches, 'riddled with bullets,' and was carried reverently back into camp, amidst the unmistakable grief of every soldier.
'Lochaber no more'
The exigencies of war brook no delay, and so the funeral was arranged for the day following. Three hundred yards to the rear of the township of Modder River, just as the sun was sinking in a blaze of African splendour, on the evening of Tuesday the 13th December, a long shallow grave lay exposed in the breast of the veldt. To the westward the broad river fringed with trees ran unconsciously along; to the eastward the heights still held by the enemy scowled menacingly; north and south stretched the long swelling plain. A few paces to the north of the grave, fifty dead Highlanders lay, dressed as they had fallen. They had followed their chief to the field, and they were to follow him to the grave. It was an impressive sight, and as one who saw it has said: 'The plaids dear to every Highland clan were represented there, and, as I looked, out of the distance came the sound of the pipes. It was the General coming to join his men. There, right under the eyes of the enemy, moved with slow and solemn tread all that remained of the Highland Brigade. In front of them walked the chaplain, with bared head, dressed in his robes of office; then came the pipers with their pipes, sixteen in all, wailing out "Lochaber no More"; and behind them, with arms reversed, moved the Highlanders, in all the regalia of their regiments; and in the midst, the dead General, borne by four of his comrades.' Many a cheek was wet with tears, and many a heart throbbed with emotion as the last kind offices were performed. Right up to the grave they marched, then broke away into companies until the General was laid in the shallow grave, with a Scottish square of armed men around him. The simple Presbyterian service of the Scottish Church was led by Mr. Robertson, the chaplain, amid profound silence. No shots were fired. Only the silent farewell salute of his sorrowing men as they marched campwards in the gathering darkness, and the black pall of an African night was drawn sadly over the scene.
THE GRAVE ON THE BATTLEFIELD.
From a Photograph by H. C. Shelley of "The King."
There, among his men, Wauchope's body might have been left to rest on the open veldt, and the spot would doubtless ever afterwards have been consecrated in the heart of every patriot Briton, lonely and wild though it be. But the kindly sympathy of a brother Scot found for him a last resting-place four hundred miles farther south in Cape Colony, at Matjesfontein. On receipt of the news of Wauchope's death, the Honourable J. D. Logan, a member of the Cape Legislative Council, who owns an extensive estate there, on which there is a small enclosed private burying-ground, promptly asked permission to bring the body for reinterment there. Permission having been granted by General Lord Methuen, Mr. Logan proceeded to Modder River, and returned with the body in a zinc-lined coffin on the 18th December. The remains of the gallant General were buried next morning with full military honours, in presence of a considerable number of people. Those present included Captain Rennie, A.-D.-C. to the General, Mr. Logan and his family, Major Stuart, and Colonel Schrembrucker. The escort consisted of eleven officers and 195 non-commissioned officers and men of various detachments, including some of the Highland Brigade, and a fife band with pipers. The coffin was borne on a gun-carriage, which was covered with many beautiful wreaths, one bearing the inscription, 'With the Logans' deepest sympathy. In memory of one of Scotland's brave ones.' And on another was inscribed, 'A token of admiration and respect for one of Scotland's heroes, from his fellow-countrymen at Matjesfontein.' The favourite charger of the General followed the coffin, and the service, conducted by the Revs. Messrs. Robertson and Price, army chaplains, was of a deeply impressive character. Thus passed from sight, at the age of fifty-four, the man whose career it has been our privilege to sketch.
After the battle
Few episodes in the Transvaal war—and there have been many striking ones—have made such an impression on the public at large, or on those immediately concerned, as the fall of the leader of the Highland Brigade on that disastrous 10th of December 1899.
The one man best qualified to speak of its effects upon the soldiers at the front, has in touching letters referred to the sadness that overspread the camp, and the deep religious feelings which were awakened. The Rev. J. Robertson says: 'Of the seven who formed our original mess—General Wauchope's brigade staff—only Colonel Ewart and myself remain. He is an old campaigning friend, so also is General Macdonald, who has now joined us. I am glad I knew the Brigadier before. It makes all the difference, messing and living together. I am not to refer to General Wauchope. Mere acquaintances mourn his loss, how much more one who was honoured with his friendship and confidence? As for the Highland Brigade—there is but one heart, and it's sore, sore. A strange fatality befell all my best-known friends. Whenever I let myself think of them, there's a painful tug at my heart's strings. God knows what lies before. To give some idea of how hearts have been touched, on the last Sunday of the year I had communion. I thought it better to take it then than on the first Sunday, when the year would be a week old and the good start perhaps lost. I did not make intimation the Sunday before, as I did not think I would be able to get communion wine in time. I just stated at the ordinary parade service that I purposed having it after the benediction was pronounced. I invited any and every one to come forward, even though they had not partaken it before, saying that in the circumstances I took it upon me to dispense with the usual preparatory forms of procedure. To my great surprise, but to my heart's joy, knowing how backward young men are—Highlanders especially—in coming to the Lord's Table, over 250 stepped out, and many more would have come had it not been for the fact that they had to go at once on picket duty. In fact, they had strained a point to attend parade service, coming all ready to go on outpost, heavily accoutred. With a full heart, I thanked God and took courage.' In another letter the chaplain says: 'We were a sad, a very sad brigade, for though we tried to hide it, we took our losses to heart sorely; for "men of steel are men who feel." But out of evil came good. The depth of latent religious feeling that was evoked in officers and men was a revelation to me, and were it not that confessions, and acknowledgments, and vows are too sacred for repetition, I could tell a tale that would gladden your hearts—not that I put too much stress on what's said or done at such an impressionable, solemnising time, but after-proof of sincerity has not been wanting.'