ft in its front and the stretch of
plain behind. It is fifteen miles away. From Observation Hill one could
see the British shells bursting along this ridge all morning, as well as
in the midst of the Boer tents half-way down the double peaks, and at
the foot of the hill. The firing began at 3 a.m., and lasted with
extreme severity till noon, the average of audible shells being at least
five a minute. We could also see the white bursts of shrapnel from our
field artillery. In the afternoon I went to Waggon Hill, and with the
help of a telescope made out a large body of men--about 1,000 I
suppose--creeping up the distant crest and spreading along the summit. I
could only conjecture them to be English from their presence on the
exposed ridge, and from their regular though widely extended formation.
They were hardly visible except as a series of black points.
Thunderclouds hung over the Drakensberg behind, and the sun was
obscured. Yet I had no doubt in my own mind that the position was won.
It was five o'clock, or a little later.

Others saw large parties of Boers fleeing for life up dongas and over
plains, the phantom carriage-and-four driving hastily north-westward
after an urgent warning, and other such melodramatic incidents, which
escaped my notice. The position of the falling shells, and the movement
of those minute black specks were to me enough of drama for one day's
life.

In the evening, I am told, the General received a signal from Buller:
"Have taken hill. Fight went well." No one thought or talked of anything
but the prospect of near relief. Yet (besides old Bulwan's violent
bombardment of the station) there was one other event in the day
deserving record. Hearing an unhappy case of an officer's widow left
destitute, Colonel Knox, commanding the Divisional Troops, has offered
twelve bottles of whisky for auction to-morrow, and hopes to make L100
by the sale. I think he will succeed, unless Buller shakes the market.

_January 25, 1900._

Before 6 a.m. I was on Observation Hill again, watching. One hopeful
sign was at once obvious. The Boer waggon-laagers were breaking up. The
two great lines of waggons between the plantations near Pinkney's farm
were gone. By 6.30 they were all creeping away with their oxen up a road
that runs north-west among the hills in the direction of Tintwa Pass. It
was the most hopeful movement we had yet seen, but one large laager was
still left at the foot of Fos Kop, or Mou