found the officer writing.
“Oh, I see you are busy,” said Brandon, turning to go away.
“Oh no, come in,” cried Captain Sinclair. “I have just finished a letter to my wife in Glasgow. We shall, I hear, have a brush with the enemy tomorrow, and as the Boers shoot straight, it is just as well to get my correspondence done beforehand.”
“Glasgow!” repeated Brandon. “I did not know you came from Glasgow.”
“Yes, I do. I have a charming little wife there, and a comfortable house, but I don't suppose I shall ever see them again. But as you are a Glasgie 'chiel let us have a talk over old times.” They talked till the bugle sounded “Lights out.” Brandon had not mixed much in society, and knew but few of the Captains' friends, nor did it strike him that it was a Mrs. Sinclair who had met with that strange adventure in the Scotch Express.
Early the next morning which was a Friday, all the troops were under arms to dislodge the Boers from their position on the mountain above Glencoe (1).
(1) The scene of that Friday's great battle was a hill between Dundee and Glencoe. The Boer Artillery occupied the top of the hill. Their Artillery was silenced by ours, and then the hill was stormed by a gallant charge of the Dublin Fusiliers and the King's Royal Rifles. Our list of killed and wounded was estimated at 214. The Boers are said to have lost 800. The Boers approached Glencoe Camp from Landman's Drift, the border pass to the right of Dundee. Glencoe itself is on a high table land. It is forty-two miles N.W. of Ladysmith, where General While had a force of 9.000 strong.
The Boer plan of campaign was devised with considerable skill, and provided for a simultaneous attack upon Glencoe by three different columns aggregating about 7.000 men.
General Joubert's instructions to the commanders of the various columns were, it is understood, distinctly to the effect that Erasmus was to lure the whole British forces on to the northern road towards Hattingspruit. While the British were engaged in the apparently easy task of wiping out Erasmus's column, Viljoen and Meyer were to fall upon them in rear and in flank and annihilate them.
Of all this General Symons was well aware, and he took his measures accordingly.
But the Boer plan of campaign came to grief. Being unable to keep in telegraphic touch with each other, the three commanders blundered on with no thought for the all-important question of time. The result was that Meyer's force precipitated the battle before even the Hattingspruit column was within striking distance, and While Viljoen and his Free Staters were a long way to the south. There was therefore no simultaneous attack and Meyer's force, numbering about 4.000 men, with six guns, had to bear the whole brunt of battle.
Not more than half our force advanced to the attack, for other dangers, believed to be imminent, had to be guarded against. The Boer column under Erasmus had been found by our scouts at Biggars drift to the south, only a few miles away, and the Hattingspruit contingent were reported to be moving from the north with the knowledge that the engagement had commenced without their indispensable co-operation. These two Columns would have brought the strength of the enemy up to 9.000 men. Therefore the 18th Hussars, the Leicester Regiment, the volunteers, and mounted infantry still remained in and near the camp.
Just before eight o'clock there came a diversion for our gunners. Hundreds of Boers were suddenly observed to be lining a hill to the west of the camp. They were the advanced detachments of the Hattingspruit column, but they had arrived on the scene too late to be of service to Lucas Meyer and his men.
As soon as the new-comers came well into view, the 67th Battery, stationed behind the camp, opened fire upon them. Several shells burst amongst them. This was sufficient for the Hattingspruit contingent, which very speedily betook itself into a safer position out of reach of the terrible guns.
All this time, while the two batteries were pounding pitilessly at the Boers on Smith's Hill, the infantry were advancing steadily to close quarters with them. Three fine regiments were passing over the ground in almost faultless style — the Dublin Fusiliers, the King's Royal Rifles, and the Royal Irish Fusiliers. Encouraged by their officers, who too often belied their advice by their example, the men advanced in perfect order in skirmishing line, taking advantage of every bit of cover, halting only to fire by sections as they came within easy range of the enemy. For over an hour this steady advance continued, while the artillery gave the Boers not one moment's rest.
The Mounted Infantry were comfortably ensconced under the shelter of a large and thick plantation at the foot of the hill to the right, and just under Smith's Nek. The 18th Hussars had also moved out from the camp, and were working round the hill preparing a surprise for the Boers busily engaged in front.
In these positions all the men remained for a time, to take breath and prepare for the final onslaught upon the enemy. Then the advance was resumed over most trying and difficult ground. The critical moment had come.
The Boers poured down lead from Maxims and rifles, and, despite the clever manner in which our men took cover, they began to fall quickly.
By toilsome and steady work the Fusiliers and Riflemen at length secured good positions high up on the hillside, whence it would be feasible to make the final rush.
Suddenly the artillery ceased firing. Another moment, and at the word of command our men fired two volleys, and then with wild battle cries their pent-up emotion and energy found vent in an irresistible rush up the remainder of the hill, and a swinging charge right amongst the enemy. For a quarter of an hour there was bloody work at short range and then at close quarters. Then the Boers fled in disorderly retreat, closely pursed by our men and the Mounted Infantry.
As the enemy stampeded down the hillside they found to their dismay that the whole regiment of hussars had forestalled them. The cavalry had got right to the enemy's rear, had captured many of their horses, and stampeded the others. One contingent of the enemy were thus perfectly helpless. The fought well enough for a little time and then those who were left surrendered.
Parties of men were sent out to bring in the wounded and report the dead. Brandon was in one of these parties, and as he was examining the dead and wounded which lay thickly strewn in front of the Boer entrenchments, he fancied he heard his name whispered. He turned and saw, lying under a gigantic Boer, his friend Captain Sinclair.
With the assistance of a comrade, Brandon pulled away the huge corpse, but one glance at his friend showed him that he was seriously, if not mortally, wounded.. Blood was slowly ebbing from a bullet wound in the breast, and he had also received a severe sabre cut from the gigantic Boer he had shot a moment later.
Brandon supported his friend's head, and told his comrade to run and fetch a litter if he could get one, in order to convey the wounded man to the field hospital.
“No, no,” said Captain Sinclair, with more strength than could have been expected considering his condition; “I've got my billet, and no doctor can do me any good, so he had better not waste time over me. But you stay with me Brandon, for I feel I have not long to live, and I have a message I should like to send — home.”
Brandon, of course, promised that he would perform any commissions the other charged him with.
“You will find in my tent,” said the dying man, “a letter to my wife which I wrote last night. I had a presentiment I should get hit to-day, and I wrote my last wishes to her. Poor little woman, I shall never see her again in this world. I don't want you to post that letter to her. The war will soon be over, and then you will return to Scotland, no doubt, and I want you to see my wife and give her the letter. Tell her that I died blessing her name.”
He paused a moment, exhausted, and Brandon gave him a sip of brandy.
“Tell her,” continued Captain Sinclair, “that her portrait never left me till I placed it in your hands.
With an evidently painful effort, the dying man put his hand in his breast, and drew out a small leather case which he gave to Brandon. “Give her I that, and the letter, with your own hands. Promise me that,” he added eagerly.
“I promise you that, — if I live, — the portrait and letter shall be placed in your wife's hands.
The wounded man smiled gratefully, then a film came over his eyes, his head dropped back and he was dead.
A week later Brandon also received a bullet, but it was in his leg, and in a month he was on his feet again, but incapable of further active service, the bullet having injured one of the bones, so that he walked with a slight limp. This was not insufficient to incapacitate him for the cavalry, but so many regulars were arriving from England, that his services were declined by the military authorities.
He was not altogether sorry, for the excitement of the war had driven out of his mind the melancholy which
