nfantry continued to run down the line in the direction of
the houses, and, in spite of their disorder, I honestly consider that
they were capable of making a further resistance when some shelter
should be reached. But at this moment one of those miserable
incidents--much too frequent in this war--occurred.

A private soldier who was wounded, in direct disobedience of the
positive orders that no surrender was to be made, took it on himself to
wave a pocket-handkerchief. The Boers immediately ceased firing, and
with equal daring and humanity a dozen horsemen galloped from the hills
into the scattered fugitives, scarcely any of whom had seen the white
flag, and several of whom were still firing, and called loudly on them
to surrender. Most of the soldiers, uncertain what to do, then halted,
gave up their arms, and became prisoners of war. Those further away from
the horsemen continued to run and were shot or hunted down in twos and
threes, and some made good their escape.

For my part I found myself on the engine when the obstruction was at
last passed and remained there jammed in the cab next to the man with
the shattered arm. In this way I travelled some 500 yards, and passed
through the fugitives, noticing particularly a young officer, Lieutenant
Frankland, who with a happy, confident smile on his face was
endeavouring to rally his men. When I approached the houses where we had
resolved to make a stand, I jumped on to the line, in order to collect
the men as they arrived, and hence the address from which this letter is
written, for scarcely had the locomotive left me than I found myself
alone in a shallow cutting and none of our soldiers, who had all
surrendered on the way, to be seen. Then suddenly there appeared on the
line at the end of the cutting two men not in uniform. 'Platelayers,' I
said to myself, and then, with a surge of realisation, 'Boers.' My mind
retains a momentary impression of these tall figures, full of animated
movement, clad in dark flapping clothes, with slouch, storm-driven hats
poising on their rifles hardly a hundred yards away. I turned and ran
between the rails of the track, and the only thought I achieved was
this, 'Boer marksmanship.' Two bullets passed, both within a foot, one
on either side. I flung myself against the banks of the cutting. But
they gave no cover. Another glance at the figures; one was now kneeling
to aim. Again I darted forward. Movement seemed the only chance. Again
tw