of Boers cloaked in mackintosh. I explained that I was a
Special Correspondent, and asked to see General Joubert. But in the
throng it was impossible to tell who were the superiors. My credentials
were taken from me by a man who said he was a Field Cornet, and who
promised that they should be laid before the General forthwith.
Meanwhile we waited in the rain, and the Boers questioned us. My
certificate as a correspondent bore a name better known than liked in
the Transvaal. Moreover, some of the private soldiers had been talking.
'You are the son of Lord Randolph Churchill?' said a Scottish Boer,
abruptly. I did not deny the fact. Immediately there was much talking,
and all crowded round me, looking and pointing, while I heard my name
repeated on every side. 'I am a newspaper correspondent,' I said, 'and
you ought not to hold me prisoner.' The Scottish Boer laughed. 'Oh,' he
said, 'we do not catch lords' sons every day.' Whereat they all
chuckled, and began to explain that I should be allowed to play football
at Pretoria.

All this time I was expecting to be brought before General Joubert, from
whom I had some hopes I should obtain assurances that my character as a
press correspondent would be respected. But suddenly a mounted man rode
up and ordered the prisoners to march away towards Colenso. The escort,
twenty horsemen, closed round us. I addressed their leader, and
demanded either that I should be taken before the General, or that my
credentials should be given back. But the so-called Field Cornet was not
to be seen. The only response was, 'Voorwaerts,' and as it seemed
useless, undignified, and even dangerous to discuss the matter further
with these people, I turned and marched off with the rest.

We tramped for six hours across sloppy fields and along tracks deep and
slippery with mud, while the rain fell in a steady downpour and soaked
everyone to the skin. The Boer escort told us several times not to hurry
and to go our own pace, and once they allowed us to halt for a few
moments. But we had had neither food nor water, and it was with a
feeling of utter weariness that I saw the tin roofs of Colenso rise in
the distance. We were put into a corrugated iron shed near the station,
the floors of which were four inches deep with torn railway forms and
account books. Here we flung ourselves down exhausted, and what with the
shame, the disappointment, the excitement of the morning, the misery of
the present, and physi