When our cavalry reconnaissance was pushed forward after the successful night attack on Gun Hill, the Hussars got into a very tight place, from which they extricated themselves by a dash that cost many lives, and some wounded were left on the field with their dead comrades. Ambulances were sent out for them under a flag of truce. As one Hussar was being carried on a stretcher, a young Boer jeered at him, using epithets that were so coarse and cowardly that they roused the ire of a bearded veteran who probably fought against our troops nineteen years ago. With one blow he felled the youngster, and thereby gave him an object-lesson in the treatment that is meet for those who abuse a helpless foe. To chivalry of a similar kind Captain Paley owed his life when wounded after the night attack on Surprise Hill, according to the story told by one who heard it while the wounded officer was being brought back to camp next day. In the confusion and darkness Captain Paley's men did not see him fall directly after he had given the order for them to charge. He was left there sorely wounded, and one of the many foreigners now fighting against us in the enemy's ranks levelled a rifle at him, but was stopped before he could pull the trigger by a blow from the butt-end of a rifle that sent him reeling. Again it was a grey-bearded veteran who had come so timely to the rescue of an Englishman. If many such stories are told we must either come to the conclusion that the older Boers do not entertain against us the hatred with which they are credited, or that there is one of their number who goes about the battlefield from fight to fight seeking opportunities to succour British soldiers in distress. At any rate, all this is simply history repeating itself. Mr. Carter, in his impartial narrative of the former Boer war, tells us:—
"Similar evidence was furnished after every encounter our troops had with the Dutch. It was the young men—some mere boys of fifteen—who displayed, with pardonable ignorance, bragging insolence. The men of maturer years, with very few exceptions, behaved like men, and in the hour of victory in many instances restrained the braggarts from committing cowardly acts. In this fight at the Nek, Private Venables of the 58th, who was one of the prisoners taken by the Boers, owed his life to Commandant De Klerck, who intervened at a moment when several Boers had their guns pointed at the wounded soldier."
It is not, however, very reassuring to find that but for such timely intervention wounded men might possibly be shot or ill-treated, and therefore our soldiers will not be restrained from risking their lives to rescue a fallen comrade merely by the announcement that "we are at war with a civilised foe, to whose care the wounded in battle may be confidently left." We may be thankful for the fact that saving life under fire is still regarded as an act worthy of the Victoria Cross "for valour."
In other respects, we do not owe much gratitude to the Boers. If we were dependent upon them for anything that could help to make life in a bombarded town tolerable, Ladysmith's plight to-day would be pitiful. They have tried their hardest—though not successfully—to make every house in the place untenable between sunrise and sunset, doing infinitely more damage to private property than to military defences; and they have thrown shells about some parts of the long open town with a persistence that would seem petty in its spitefulness if we could be sure that the shots strike near what they are aimed at. So long as the Boers do not violate any laws of civilised warfare nobody has a right to blame them for trying the methods that may seem most likely to bring about the fall of Ladysmith. They have, however, simply wrecked a few houses, disfigured pretty gardens, mutilated public buildings, destroyed private property, and disabled by death or wounds a small percentage of our troops, without producing the smallest effect on the material defences, or weakening the garrison's powers of endurance in any appreciable degree. Such a bombardment day after day for seven weeks would doubtless get on the nerves if we allowed ourselves to think about it too much; but happily the civilians—men and women—who resolved to "stick it out" here rather than accept from their country's enemies the questionable benefits of a comparatively peaceful existence under the white flag at Intombi Spruit have shown a fortitude and cheerfulness that win respect from every soldier. Shelters are provided for them and their children, but they do not always take advantage of these, even when a bugle or whistle from the look-out post warns them that a shell is coming. Ladies still go their daily round of shopping just as they did in the early days of bombardment, indeed more regularly, and with a cool disregard of danger that brave men might envy. Though more than 5000 shells have been thrown within our defensive lines, and a vast number of these into the town itself, only one woman has been wounded so far, and not a single child hit. For all this we have every reason to be thankful.
When the sun goes down people who have taken shelter elsewhere during the day return to their homes, and have pleasant social gatherings, from which thoughts of Boer artillery are banished by innocent mirth and music. Walking along the lampless streets, at an hour when camps are silent, one is often attracted by the notes of fresh, young voices, where soft lights glow through open casements, or the singers sit under the vine-traceried verandah of a "stoup," accompanying the melody with guitar or banjo. Occasionally stentorian lungs roar unmelodious music-hall choruses that jar by contrast with sweeter strains, but sentiment prevails, and who can wonder if there are sometimes tears in the voices that sing "Swanee River" and "Home, Sweet Home," or if a listener's heart is deeply moved as he hears the words, "Mother come back from the Echoless Shore," sung amid such surroundings in the still nights of days that are hoarse with the booming of guns. Few of us, however, despise comic songs here when time and scene fit. We have them at frequent smoking-concerts that help to enliven a routine of duty that would be dull without these entertainments. There are no regimental bands to cheer us, but the Natal Volunteers have improvised one in which tin whistles and tambourines make a fair substitute for fifes and drums. The pipes of the Gordon Highlanders we have always with us, too.