l, one would think. Anyhow, he sticks to his work like a
glutton. The shells burst over them. The lyddite blows them up in smoke
and dust, the sun grills, the dead bodies reek, our infantry creep on
them day and night; foul food, putrid water, death above and around,
they grin and bear it day after day to gain the precious hours. And all
the time we on our side know perfectly well that no relief they could
possibly bring up would serve our army for rations for a day.

LETTER XII

PAARDEBERG--THE SURRENDER

_March 5_, 1900.

Well, that is over, and I hope you are satisfied. We have got Cronje.
His victories are o'er. We have also got Mrs. Cronje, which was a bit
more than we bargained for. They cut her an extra deep hole, I hear, to
be out of shell-fire, and she sat at the bottom all day long, receiving
occasional visits from Cronje, and having her meals handed down to her.
One can fancy her blinking up at her "Man," whom she always, I am told,
accompanies on his campaigns, and shaking her head sorrowfully over the
situation. There is nothing very spirit-stirring about a mud hole and an
old woman sitting at the bottom of it, but the danger and the terrible
hardships were real enough. That is always the way with these Dutch.
They have all the harsh realities and none of the glamour and romance.
Athens, with their history and record, would have made the whole world
ring for ever. But they are dumb. It seems such a waste.

Albrecht too is among the prisoners, the famous German "expert," who
designs their works for them and manages their artillery; and we have
taken 4000 prisoners, and several guns and one detested "pompon." Come,
now, here is a little bit of all right at last.

I was one of a party that rode down with the Major on the morning of
the surrender to the laager and saw the prisoners marched in. They
seemed quite cheery and pleased with themselves. They were dressed in
all sorts of ragged, motley-looking clothes; trousers of cheap tweed,
such as you see hung up in an East End slop-shop; jackets once black,
now rusted, torn and stained, and battered hats. They reminded me more
of a mob of Kent hop-pickers than anything else, and it was a matter of
some surprise, not to say disgust, to some of us to think that such a
sorry crowd should be able to withstand disciplined troops in the way
they did.

I talked to several of them. They all agreed in saying that they had
been through the most ghastly time