ushes to cover nearer to the British lines than that they
had previously occupied! The fighting began, and, for the small body
of British troops, continued disastrously. At last, when darkness
came on, both sides were forced to cease firing. Now and then, only
when a flash of lightning lit up the terrible scene, the firing of
bullets demonstrated that the Boers were still thoroughly on the
alert.

The darkness descended, and in the middle of the pouring rain and
the murky obscurity the noble British dead were counted. The wounded
were also tended as well as it was possible to tend them when water
and restoratives were wanting, and the only relieving moisture had
to be sucked from the storm-drenched grass. Finally, the General,
viewing the deplorable state of the men, decided to withdraw the
force from the field. It was plain that any renewal of attack on the
morrow by the reinforced Boers could but mean annihilation or
surrender. So the remnants of the force started on their return
journey. This was now a terrible task, the Ingogo, which had been
crossed at knee-depth, had swollen dangerously; the gentle stream
had become a torrent. The bed of the river being full of holes, it
was in some places some ten to twelve feet deep.

Of the perils by field and flood it would be impossible to speak at
length. Mr. Carter, who was present at the melancholy fight and a
witness of all connected with the reverse, gives in his wonderful
narrative of the Boer war an interesting description of the misery
of that return march:--

"Knowing that moments were precious in the then state of the river,
I went ahead with the advance guard and crossed the stream; it was
then nearly up to my armpits, and running very swiftly. By holding
my rifle aloft, I managed to keep it dry, but every cartridge in my
pockets was under water. Only with the greatest care, and thanks to
a knowledge of the whereabouts of the treacherous hole in the
drift, did I manage to keep on my legs. On gaining the opposite
bank, I scooped up and drained off a helmetful of the precious
fluid, and then urging on through the next ford--an insignificant
one compared to the first--gained admission at Fermistone's hotel,
after being duly cross-questioned through the keyhole of the door.
Some hot tea and whisky was recommended by the host, and palatable
it was. In a short time the other "Correspondent" arrived, _minus_
his rifle. He had been carried down the stream like a cork,