y the defenders upon the other, while the British
guns fired over the heads of their own infantry to rake the further
slope.

It was on the Waggon Hill side, however, that the Boer exertions were
most continuous and strenuous and our own resistance most desperate.
There fought the gallant de Villiers, while Ian Hamilton rallied the
defenders and led them in repeated rushes against the enemy's line.
Continually reinforced from below, the Boers fought with extraordinary
resolution. Never will any one who witnessed that Homeric contest
question the valour of our foes. It was a murderous business on both
sides. Edwardes of the Light Horse was struck down. In a gun-emplacement
a strange encounter took place at point-blank range between a group of
Boers and of Britons. De Villiers of the Free State shot Miller-Wallnut
dead, Ian Hamilton fired at de Villiers with his revolver and missed
him. Young Albrecht of the Light Horse shot de Villiers. A Boer named de
Jaeger shot Albrecht. Digby-Jones of the Sappers shot de Jaeger. Only a
few minutes later the gallant lad, who had already won fame enough for
a veteran, was himself mortally wounded, and Dennis, his comrade in arms
and in glory, fell by his side.

There has been no better fighting in our time than that upon Waggon Hill
on that January morning, and no better fighters than the Imperial Light
Horsemen who formed the centre of the defence. Here, as at Elandslaagte,
they proved themselves worthy to stand in line with the crack regiments
of the British army.

Through the long day the fight maintained its equilibrium along the
summit of the ridge, swaying a little that way or this, but never
amounting to a repulse of the stormers or to a rout of the defenders. So
intermixed were the combatants that a wounded man more than once found
himself a rest for the rifles of his enemies. One unfortunate soldier in
this position received six more bullets from his own comrades in their
efforts to reach the deadly rifleman behind him. At four o'clock a huge
bank of clouds which had towered upwards unheeded by the struggling men
burst suddenly into a terrific thunderstorm with vivid lightnings and
lashing rain. It is curious that the British victory at Elandslaagte
was heralded by just such another storm. Up on the bullet-swept hill
the long fringes of fighting men took no more heed of the elements than
would two bulldogs who have each other by the throat. Up the greasy
hillside, foul with