Here during the afternoon a number of Boers hiding among the boulders and dense scrub made themselves obstreperous; but their fire was overcome by our artillery, and before long they were dislodged.
Little happened for two days save some artillery duelling, then an appreciable advance was made. A wooded hill called Cingolo, part of the range east of Hlangwane, was the next to be seized by an adroit flanking movement of the infantry. They gained and kept the top of the hill with but few casualties owing to the dense cover.
At dawn on the 17th a general advance was ordered. Consequently soon after midnight the business of movement began. At daybreak the cavalry under Lord Dundonald marched to discover the enemy’s left flank through the tangled and rugged country to the east—country so broken and wooded that on occasions it was impossible to ride, and all that could be done was to lead the horses through thicket, and thorns, and over boulders by the light of intelligence rather than military regime. And while this was going on the artillery was performing a boisterous symphony on seventy instruments, an aubade to awaken such Boers as might still be dozing in rock, ravine, or ridge in the regions of Hlangwane.
At last the troopers had wormed and torn and scrambled their way up the ridge, where, on arriving, the Boers accosted them with the music of musketry in tolerably fast time. Bullets whizzed and commenced to send the now well-known cataracts over the advancing troops, and for the moment it seemed to be a toss up as to whether the toil of gaining the position would be in vain. However, the Boers were in small number, and very soon they fell back, leaving the top of the hill before the advance of the Imperial Light Horse and the Natal Carabineers, who slew or captured some Burghers and horses. In their attack they were supported by the Queen’s, the right battalion of Hildyard’s attack, who had taken a short cut and came up in the nick of time, so that the Boers promptly scurried off and left the troops in undisturbed possession of Cingolo Hill.
The Scene of the Fighting at Monte Cristo Hill on February 19.
(From sketches taken during the action by Captain P. U. Vigors, 2nd Devon Regiment.)
Further important movements took place on the 18th. Through the operations of the day before, the Boers had been hunted along towards Monte Cristo, and from thence at daylight they commenced to pour Creusot shells on the British troops. The Queen’s, who had bivouacked on the northern slope of Cingolo, and came in for a good deal of fire, valiantly crossed the nek, and, supported by the rest of the 2nd Brigade under General Hildyard, assaulted and finally took the southern end of Monte Cristo. The 4th Brigade occupied the left or western slope. Operations were begun very early, and the long precipitous climb in a baking sun occupied till midday. The advance over country that is trellised with spruits, dongas, thorn-bush, and scrub at times was painfully slow, and the scrambling and stumbling, sometimes on all fours, to the roll and rattle of musketry and the banging of unseen and unlocatable guns occupied some hours. The words of the Scripture, “Eyes have they and see not,” might have been applied to this nerve-trying assault against hidden men with smokeless weapons. No sooner had the troops reached the top of Monte Cristo than they were assailed by a well-directed artillery fire from the direction of the invisible foe, shrapnel, Maxim, and Nordenfeldt guns pouring over the men as they advanced. But they steadily pushed on and up till at last they entirely routed the Boers. These, finding themselves in a desperate situation, took to their heels, leaving tents, food, biltong, lard, potatoes, onions, clothing, bridles, blankets, and Bibles behind them in disarray. In their retreat they were fired on by the cavalry, but they made small reply. Quantities of ammunition were captured, and, unfortunately for those who still maintained their respect for the enemy, several forms of expanding bullets. The Royal Welsh Fusiliers, supported by the rest of the 6th Brigade, assailed the eastern flank of the enemy’s position. The 2nd Brigade of Cavalry on the extreme right watched the eastern slopes of Monte Cristo, and drove back those of the enemy who scurried there to escape the artillery fire. They had been completely taken by surprise; they had expected the British to begin a frontal attack on Green Hill, a smooth grassy eminence sliced with the gashes of Boer entrenchments, some of these six feet in depth, others blasted in the solid rock. Assaulted now by big guns in front and flank, attacked in flank and rear, the enemy, without offering much resistance, evacuated their strong positions and fled across the Tugela. That their flight was precipitate was testified by the fact that they even left letters behind. One of these was from General Joubert in answer to a request for supports, in which he said these could not be sent; the position was sufficiently garrisoned with the men they had.
The crest of Monte Cristo gained, all at once took heart. This hill was the hinge on which all the subsequent movements turned. By means of it Green Hill and the frowning eminence of Hlangwane could become ours. From Hlangwane the whole western section of the great Colenso position could be rendered untenable by the enemy. This the Boers well knew, and this was the reason for their tough resistance on the dreadful 15th of December. Now, seeing us masters of Monte Cristo, they wisely decided to make themselves scarce. The British guns once mounted on Monte Cristo made a complete difference in the situation. It was now possible to enfilade many of the choice positions which for two months had been the snug hiding-places of the enemy. Now, in the distance, was visible—the subject of many dreams, many nightmares—Ladysmith. Around it, here and there, were dotted the enemy’s camps and hospitals—only eight miles away—a comfortable walking distance—eight miles ahead of our advanced lines! Ladysmith—an austere queen to be wooed, a fainting beauty to be won—so she had seemed, with lives risked and sacrificed like mere handfuls of sand for the sake of her, for a few yards of approach near to that cestus which engirdled all the grand British blood that had palpitated for our coming, so long, so very long. It was glorious merely to know that Ladysmith was now in sight of the British picquets: there was a sense of exhilaration in the thought of real progress after the ghastly six days at Spion Kop, the fluctuating four at Vaal Krantz, the fourteen in and out and round about the precincts of fatal Colenso. Success was now almost within a stone’s throw, and all hearts throbbed with expectation and confidence. All were in some way longing for the handclasp of those beleaguered men. There, in that cup of the hills were kindred; if not kindred, friends; if not friends, comrades in arms—comrades who had belonged to the same old regiments or “ground” with the same “crammers” at the same schools. And even for complete strangers there was a thrill of excitement, almost of exultation, at the prospect of coming in touch with these men, of grasping hands with renowned warriors, every one of whom had helped to illuminate one of the most sumptuous pages of the history of the nineteenth century.
The intense heat, the terrific toil, the unparalleled hardships were forgotten. The energy and dash of the troops, hitherto unfailing, were now redoubled. They had now taken possession of the most important ridge which pointed towards the frowning guardian eminence of the beleaguered concave—Bulwana Hill—and hopes were high and spirits exuberant. There remained but Pieter’s Hill between them and the imprisoned multitude. They now saw that the turn of the tide had arrived, and already they looked towards the distressed town, veiled in the haze of distance, and pictured the hour when their long spell of strain and turmoil should meet its reward. In this day’s fight, the Queens, the Scots Fusiliers, the Rifle Brigade, and the irregular cavalry had especially distinguished themselves. It was the distinction of endurance rather than of display. The dogged perseverance with which they launched themselves at the positions to be taken, toiling through scrub and thorn, “potting away” at an invisible foe, was more to be applauded than more demonstrative feats of heroism. Colenso and Spion Kop had been showy in their tragedy, but the “fighting march,” as it was called, was a feat of superb endurance, of obdurate pluck. A perpetual stumbling and tearing, an eternal pushing up and on against opposition the more terrifying because unseen; the sound of booming, smokeless murderous guns; the sight of maimed or mutilated human beings dropping suddenly under the serene and smiling sky were experiences to test the grit of the toughest and most stoical. A bolt from the blue! That was all. Yet presently there were dead men littered about, and far away, unconscious of their woe, were widows and orphans.