n considered the most
terrible in British history--the battle of the Modder River. For twelve
hours the battle continued. They had had a long and wearying march and
were looking forward to a good breakfast, but instead they had to go
straight into the fight, and it was twelve hours before that breakfast
came. Men who fought at Dargai and Omdurman tell us that these were mere
child's play compared with the fight of the Modder River. Hour after
hour the firing was maintained, until in many cases the ammunition was
all expended. And yet there was no relief. The pitiless rain of bullets
from the Boer fortifications continued, and it was impossible to carry
ammunition to our lads through such a fire. Our men could in many cases
neither advance nor retire, and men who had expended all their
ammunition had just to lie still--some of them for six hours--while the
bullets flew like hail just above them. To raise the head the merest
trifle from the dust meant death. Many a godless lad prayed then, who
had never prayed before, and many a forgotten vow was registered afresh
in the hour of danger.

Let Sergeant Oates again give us his experience:--

'It was a terrible battle. I had two very narrow escapes there. A tiny
splinter took a small piece of skin off the end of my chin, and another
larger one just caught my boot and glided off. It almost went through.
Again I got away unharmed. That day was a long prayer-meeting to me.
Wherever I went and whatever I did, these words were on my lips:--

'"What a wonderful Saviour is Jesus, my Jesus.
What a wonderful Saviour is Jesus, my Lord."

'Once and only once I grew weak, and almost wished myself wounded and
out of it all, when this text came in my mind: "The eternal God is thy
refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms." Oh! how ashamed I felt
that I should be so weak and faithless!

'The third day was the fiercest, and to me it was a day of prayer. Ten
long hours did the conflict last; the din was awful! The spiteful bizz
of the Remington bullet, the swish of the Martini, and the shriek of the
Mauser, coupled with the unearthly booming of the Hotchkiss quick-firer,
and the boom, roar, and bursting of the shrapnel on both sides, all this
intermingled with voices calling out orders, and shouting for
stretchers, went on until the shades of evening fell over a day which,
Lord Methuen says, has never had an equal. Yet above all this din, I was
able to hear that voice which