“Are you not afraid?” asked one of her companions, whispering to Violet.
“Afraid?” she answered. “Oh no, not afraid,—only sorry! Sorry with my whole heart and soul for what these poor soldiers will have to suffer! I am thinking of them all the while—not of myself.”
The hammering of the guns continued, and far away, from the heights, invisible cannon thundered and boomed. As the day advanced the combat grew more closely contested, and wounded men were beginning to be rapidly carried to the “donga,” or shelter, at the rear of the British forces. Disaster followed disaster; and presently a word was whispered that turned the hearts of the waiting women in the tents cold—“defeat.” Defeat! For the British? Surely there was no such possibility! Defeat! While they were whispering together in low awestruck voices, the great surgeon suddenly entered with some of his assistants, his sleeves rolled up, his whole manner emphatically declaring work—and work too of the promptest and smartest character. Violet moved at once to his side.
“Do as I tell you,” he said, “and—you must not shrink! You will see some horrible sights. Are you prepared?”
“Quite!” she replied tranquilly. He gave one glance at her calm face and steadfast eyes—nodded approvingly, and went on with his preparations. A young lieutenant suddenly rushed in.
“They’ve shot the Colonel!” he exclaimed wildly. “He wouldn’t leave the guns! They wanted him to, but he said ‘Abandon be damned! We never abandon guns!’” And away he rushed again.
On went the crash of the Maxims behind the Boer trenches,—the earth was torn up in every direction by the bursting of lyddite shells—dead and wounded were brought in by their comrades, or carried on ambulances by the Army Medical Corps. The nurses were soon more than busy,—Violet Morrison did her best to soothe the frantic ravings of many of the men who, growing delirious with pain, fancied themselves still fighting on the field, and filled the air with their shoutings. “Look to the guns! Splendid! Splendid work! Don’t leave the guns!” And the hospital tent she controlled, so quiet and orderly some hours previously, was now transformed into a scene of breathless horror and interest.
The hot suffocating day went on, till, as the afternoon lengthened towards evening, there came the appalling news that the young and gallant Lieutenant Roberts, the only son of one of the most heroic of English generals, had been killed in a brave attempt to rescue the guns. This awful fatality seemed to create something of a panic among the bravest,—some of the steadiest heads lost account of what they were doing for the moment, and by a fatal forgetfulness on the part of the Staff, orders were never given to the Devons and Scots Fusiliers to leave the “donga” where they, with many wounded, were sheltered. Faithful to their duty, these unfortunate and valiant men remained where they were, waiting till they were told to move,—with the dire result that as the evening closed in the enemy crossed the river and treacherously surrounded them under cover of the white flag. Cruel slaughter followed,—but in the very midst of the fire and the falling men, a young officer on horseback suddenly dashed out from behind a hillock, galloping with all his might and bearing a wounded comrade across his saddle. A rain of shots greeted his appearance, but he seemed to bear a charmed life, for he raced on and on through the hail of bullets and never stopped till he reached the first field hospital tent, where his horse suddenly reeled and fell dead, bringing himself and his wounded burden to the ground.
Some of the medical staff were round him in an instant, and as soon as he could get breath he spoke.
“I’m not hurt,” he explained, “but this chap is. I found him wounded—and a rascal Boer making a barricade of his body to hide himself behind while he fired at our men. I shot the Boer, and took away this fellow—he’s a young private—I’m afraid he’s done for. I should like to know who he is, for he gave a sort of cry when I took hold of him, and called me ‘Alister,’ and swooned right off. Alister’s my name—so he must know me.”