The appointment of “Fighting Mac”—as he is popularly called—to the command of the Highland Brigade was full of romantic interest. As a sergeant in the Gordon Highlanders he was one of those who took part in the disastrous fight at Majuba. He was unluckily taken prisoner, but so great was his valour and dash that he even excited the admiration and appreciation of the enemy. This was testified to this remarkable man in a remarkable way. General Joubert, to show his esteem for his fine qualities as a soldier, decided on restoring to him the sword which he had necessarily surrendered. As the sword was not immediately forthcoming, the Boer commander offered a reward for it, so that it should be returned to the gallant fellow who had so nobly striven to defend it. The picture of Colonel Macdonald and his Khedivial Brigade at Omdurman was made ever present to us all through the vivid word-painting of Mr. Steevens in his book “With Kitchener to Khartoum”; and now it is easy to realise that the kilted warrior was at the moment the right man in the right place. The men wanted him. Some were sick and sore and fretted to get a chance to distinguish themselves in the field. Tradition demanded it, and tradition was dear to them; strangely and absurdly dear, some thought. Here were men exposed to the fierce sun in what the layman calls “petticoats,” suffering agonies in the muscles of their scorched legs, yet enduring anything rather than part with the external attributes of their warrior land. Though the kilt and the sporran had to be extinguished under a hideous apron of kharki, and though the heat and weight of wool pleats surmounted by cotton was overwhelming, they preferred these sufferings to any change in their gear. Suggestions were offered on every side, but it was certain that nothing would overcome the conservative devotion of the Highlander for the warlike insignia of his race. Yet their plight was sometimes pitiable, particularly on occasions when, as a Scot described it, he had to take a barbed wire entanglement at “the double” and emerged “a bleeding mass, with his kilt hard a starboard, his kharki flap half left turn, and his sporran dangling on the wire.” Anyhow the men of the kilt meant to hold on to all their traditions, and to take the taste of Majesfontein out of their mouths. And they were truly glad of “Fighting Mac” to help them.

Camp routine was occasionally varied and upset by locust swarms. These descended persistently for a space of about three hours, making the atmosphere dense, as though thick with snowflakes. It was a snowstorm in mourning. Down came the creatures in myriads, gobbling every blade of grass, every crumb, every edible fragment, and then, swiftly as they had come, disappearing on the wings of the wind. They were useful at times, however, for on one occasion, just as a party of troopers had almost fallen into a trap laid by the enemy, the air became suddenly dark, and presently a veil of locusts descended, entirely cutting off the British from the Boers, and enabling the former to scuttle campwards in the sudden obscurity. Not so convenient or comforting was the dust-storm, with which the troops were becoming well acquainted. The dust-storm or dust-spout is analogous to a waterspout. Columns of dust rise vertically to a height of about 150 feet in the air and promptly descend with alarming velocity, sweeping over the earth at the rate of five or six miles an hour, and making life for the time being into a state of chaos. But everything may be turned to account, and the British, being tired of Boer tricks, utilised even the sand-storm with pleasing results. One of the great difficulties of our gunners in shelling the enemy consisted in the fact that the Boers, at the first sign of fire, rushed to bomb-proof trenches. They employed lookout men to give a signal of warning. On the 29th of January, however, when the Naval gunners saw a storm brewing, they bided their time. No sooner had the whirl descended than they set to work and plumped lyddite with great success into the enemy’s lines.

Coming events now began to cast their shadows before. Activities around the railroad showed that the influence of Lord Kitchener was already at work. The Royal Engineers commenced to build a strong and permanent bridge across the Modder at its confluence with the Riet. This bridge was constructed about fifteen feet above water, to insure it against the flooding of the river during the rainy season in the Free State, and enable the heaviest traffic to be carried to the scene of action. This promised shortly to be situated in the direction of Jacobsdal. Here the Boers kept a species of headquarters; and here, in the open plain dividing them from Kopjesdam, they set fire to the veldt for two miles. The conflagration began in the afternoon of Wednesday, the 31st of January, and continued throughout the night, illuminating earth and sky with weird reflections. The smoke of these fires served to act as a screen for Boer movements, for at this time the hostile armies were reinforced by troops from Barkly and Koodoesberg districts. The burning of the grass might also have been arranged with the object of procuring a black background against which the approach of winding, snake-like columns of kharki could be more distinctly visible.

There was some excitement in camp as to the reported capture of Mr. Jourdaan, the private secretary of Mr. Rhodes, who had endeavoured to pass from the beleaguered town with messages from the “Colossus” relating to the critical affairs of the moment.

On the 31st of January the British occupied Prieska unopposed. The Boers had been in possession of the place in all about five days, and had left, taking with them two prisoners, one of whom they subsequently released. Commandants Olivier and Snyman were busy recruiting, and finding themselves at a loss for combatants, were now forcing Dutchmen all and sundry to serve with the Transvaal colours. “There is no such thing as a loyal Dutchman,” declared Olivier, and promptly commandeered young and old on pain of fine or imprisonment.

CHAPTER V
CHRISTMAS AT LADYSMITH

Prices at Ladysmith had now gone up, but still those whose purses were plethoric could treat themselves to a few luxuries. Jam, for instance, was 3s. 6d. per lb., a possible price but a tantalising; while eggs were sold at about half a guinea a dozen. Whisky fetched from £5 to £7 a bottle, so there was little fear of dipsomania; and small packets of cigarettes were worth 3s. 6d. a piece. On the 23rd of December there was a grand auction. The Mayor at one time had instituted periodical auctions for the sale of the town produce, but finding competition too brisk, and fearing prices would never return to their normal level, the plan had been dropped. However, in face of Christmas there was a great sale, and the soldiers eagerly competed for bargains in the way of chickens and ducks and etceteras of the meal. In default of Covent Garden or Leadenhall, a long table at an angle of the main street was set out with inviting fare tantalizing to all but the most stoical. One Gordon was seen dragging off another in act of making an extravagant bid—“Come awa, mon! we dinna want nae sour grapes.” Poultry was fetching from 8s. to 10s. a bird; while vegetables, in proportion, were more costly still. Vegetable marrows were sold for 2s. 9d. each; and carrots, homely and almost despised carrots, fetched over 3s. a bunch! As a great luxury a turkey, a goose, a sucking-pig now and then appeared on the Ladysmith board; but the ordinary domestic meal was composed of trek beef and “goat” mutton. But even these were becoming beautifully less.

Christmas passed off well. Hope revived. News of Lord Methuen’s earlier victories refreshed the ears of the community, and a series of sports of various kinds helped to impart to the day a suitable air of festivity. Quantities of popular people set to work to make the day merry. Colonel Dartnell, Major Karri Davies, Colonel Rhodes—the delight of all from the Tommies to the babes—arranged a Christmas Tree. It was decorated with gifts and mottoes, “Imperial to the core,” and attended by children of all sizes and degrees, even to a siege baby aged three days! But behind the scene enteric fever and dysentery flourished, and languishing in Intombi camp, two miles out, were pathetic remnants of the hale and hearty regiments who had marched to the front in October. The other gallant warriors were now nothing more than a mob of badly-dressed scarecrows, lean and wizened, but, as one of them said, “good enough food for powder.” The horses, too, had grown thin and spiritless, their anatomy was grievously obvious, and in their eyes—those erstwhile fiery eyes—there seemed to dwell the melancholy foreboding of a strange hereafter—the hereafter when sausages should be served out to the hungry, and the poor equine devotees would have spent the last of themselves to keep the British flag flying.

The message of the Queen warmed the hearts of the weary garrison. It was pleasant to know that the Sovereign, in thought, lived in the shadows as in the sunlight of Empire. Still, none but those experiencing it could plumb the depths of monotony and wretchedness. It was enough to kill the martial spirit of the most valorous, though none would own that bellicosity was exuding little by little from their wasted finger-ends. Far from it.