Strange things happen in war. Perhaps this is one of the strangest. And yet if there were more prayer there would be less war. May be the voice of prayer rising from our British army to the throne of God—rising also from friends in the homeland far away, is another Sacrament—a sign and a seal of the blessings foretold when the Prince of Peace shall reign.
The Struggle for Spion Kop.
Potgieter's Drift, Spion Kop, Pieter's Hill—these are names that will live in the memory of every British soldier with Sir Redvers Buller. Of all fights Spion Kop was perhaps the most terrible, as it was the most disastrous. It was called Spion Kop, or Spying Mountain, because it was from this eminence the old Boer trekkers spied out the land in the days gone by. It was more than a hill—it was a mountain, and a mountain with a most precipitous ascent. To climb it meant hauling oneself up from one rock to another. It was a task that required all a strong man's strength. Yet up it went our men without a moment's hesitation. It was almost like climbing a house side. But one man helped another, the stronger pulling up the weaker, until they halted for a moment breathless at the top. 'Charge!' and away they went. The bayonets were covered with blood after that awful charge, and then, their work for the moment accomplished, they lay down, for the bullets were whistling around them. In the dense darkness they began to build sangars as best they could. All night long they worked, and never for a moment were they allowed to work in peace. When morning broke they saw that their entrenchments were far too small, and though they held out all day, their position was commanded by the Boers on higher ground, and so became untenable. Shells burst behind every rock. Bullets like hail rained upon them, and although they fought as all true Britishers can, they were at last withdrawn—withdrawn, perhaps, when victory was almost within their grasp.
It is not our purpose to describe the fight; that we leave to others. What we have said serves but as a reminder. The question that concerns us is, How did our men hold themselves through that awful day?
Touching Incidents at Spion Kop.
We read of one, a Wesleyan local preacher,—Mr. W.F. Low,—wounded by a bullet through his collar bone and shoulder blade; wounded again by a fragment of shell striking his leg, worn out by excitement and fatigue—so worn out that he actually slept, notwithstanding the pain of his wound, until awoke by sharp pain of his second wound. We read of this man crawling over to the wounded lying near him, passing water from his water-bottle to one and another, gathering the water-bottles of the dead men round about, and giving them to those yet living. And yet the cry of 'Water,' 'Water!' was heard on every side, and there were many to which he could not respond. He tells how many of the men were praying, how their cries of repentance seemed to him too often cries of cowardice; though who would not fear to enter the presence of God all unprepared and unforgiven? Well might many of them cry for mercy.
One man spent his last moments in writing a letter to his chum, who had led him to Christ but the day before. 'Dear brother in Christ Jesus,' he wrote, 'I owe my very soul to you. If it had not been for you, I should not have been ready to die now. It seems hard only to give the last few hours of my life to His service, but I must say "Good-bye." The angels are calling me home. I can see them and the glorious city. Good-bye, and may God bless you!'
Says the one who in rough-and-ready fashion had so recently led his chum to Christ, 'It cheered me to know he was all right with the Master. Now I must look out for more work for Him.'