their ground. Riding up the mile or two to camp, I found the
whole dusty plateau astir. Tents were melting away like snow. Kits lay
all naked and revealed upon the earth. The men were falling in. The
waggons were going the wrong way round. The very headquarters and staff
were being cleared out. The whole camp was, in fact, in motion. It was
coming down into the town. In a few hours the familiar place was bare
and deserted. I went up this morning and stood on Signal Hill where the
heliograph was working yesterday, just above the camp. The whole plain
was a wilderness. Straw and paper possessed it merely, except that here
and there a destitute Kaffir groped among the _debris_ in hopes of
finding a shiny tin pot for his furniture or some rag of old uniform to
harmonise with his savage dress. In one corner of the empty iron huts a
few of the cavalry were still trying to carry off some remnants of
forage. It was a pitiful sight, and yet the rapidity of the change was
impressive. If the Boers came in, they would find those tin huts very
luxurious after their accustomed bivouacs. Is it possible that tin huts
might be their Capua?

The camp was thought incapable of defence. Artillery could command it
from half a dozen hills. Whoever placed it there was neither strategist
nor humanitarian. It is like the bottom of a frying-pan with a low rim.
The fire is hot, and sand is frying. But, indeed, the whole of Ladysmith
is like that. The flat-topped hills stand round it reflecting the heat,
and in the middle we are now all frying together, with sand for
seasoning. The main ambulance is on the cricket ground. The battalion
tents are pitched among the rocks or by the river side, where Kaffirs
bathe more often and completely than you would otherwise suppose. The
river water, by the way, is a muddy yellow now and leaves a deep deposit
of Afric's golden sand in your glass or basin. The headquarters staff
has seized upon two empty houses, and can dine in peace. The street is
one yelling chaos of oxen in waggons and oxen loose, galloping horses,
sheep, ammunition mules, savages, cycles, and the British soldier. He,
be sure, preserves his wonted calm, adapts himself to oxen as naturally
as to camels, puts in a little football when he can, practises
alliteration's artful aid upon the name of the Boers, and trusts to his
orders to pull him through. His orders are likely to be all right now,
for Colonel Ward has just been put in command of the w