omes and their families. Some of the
commandos had gone south to assist Cronje in his stand against Methuen,
and the siege languished more and more, until it was woken up by a
desperate sortie on December 26th, which caused the greatest loss which
the garrison had sustained. Once more the lesson was to be enforced that
with modern weapons and equality of forces it is always long odds on the
defence.

On this date a vigorous attack was made upon one of the Boer forts
on the north. There seems to be little doubt that the enemy had
some inkling of our intention, as the fort was found to have been so
strengthened as to be impregnable without scaling ladders. The attacking
force consisted of two squadrons of the Protectorate Regiment and one of
the Bechuanaland Rifles, backed up by three guns. So desperate was the
onslaught that of the actual attacking party--a forlorn hope, if ever
there was one--fifty-three out of eighty were killed and wounded,
twenty-five of the former and twenty-eight of the latter. Several of
that gallant band of officers who had been the soul of the defence were
among the injured. Captain FitzClarence was wounded, Vernon, Sandford,
and Paton were killed, all at the very muzzles of the enemy's guns. It
must have been one of the bitterest moments of Baden-Powell's life when
he shut his field-glass and said, 'Let the ambulance go out!'

Even this heavy blow did not damp the spirits nor diminish the energies
of the defence, though it must have warned Baden-Powell that he could
not afford to drain his small force by any more expensive attempts at
the offensive, and that from then onwards he must content himself by
holding grimly on until Plumer from the north or Methuen from the south
should at last be able to stretch out to him a helping hand. Vigilant
and indomitable, throwing away no possible point in the game which
he was playing, the new year found him and his hardy garrison sternly
determined to keep the flag flying.

January and February offer in their records that monotony of excitement
which is the fate of every besieged town. On one day the shelling was
a little more, on another a little less. Sometimes they escaped
scatheless, sometimes the garrison found itself the poorer by the loss
of Captain Girdwood or Trooper Webb or some other gallant soldier.
Occasionally they had their little triumph when a too curious Dutchman,
peering for an instant from his cover to see the effect of his shot,
was