We have a picture of little parties of them found lying with their fifty or sixty rounds of spent cartridges beside their dead bodies, to give colour to the Zulus’ story that they “could not make way against the soldiers until they ceased firing.” Then, and then only, could the deadly assegais finish their work, as the warriors leapt in with the fierce death-hiss.

And we have another picture given us of Captain Younghusband, of the same regiment, standing erect in an empty waggon with three privates, and keeping a crowd of the enemy at bay. The others fall at last, shot or assegaied by the Zulus who clamber up the sides, but the tall, soldierly figure holds the warriors off. Then, his last cartridge gone, he leaps down, sword in hand, to cut his way through to liberty if it be possible.

It was not possible. But he died fighting like a lion. Said a Zulu who took part in the attack, “All those who tried to stab him were knocked over at once. He kept his ground for a long time, until someone shot him.”

Very few escaped alive from that camp of death. Of the gallant eight hundred all but six lay stretched lifeless around the waggons and overturned tents, or on the rough ground to the rear, where a line of corpses marked the path to the river.

Lieutenant Teignmouth Melvill, Adjutant of the 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment, was among those who got away when all hope of rescue was given up. To him Colonel Pulleine confided the Queen’s colours, telling him to make the best of his way back to safety. For himself, and those with him, said the colonel, their duty was plain. There was no thought of flight. “Men, we are here, and here we must stop!” was his brief address to the remnant of the 1st Battalion; and stop they did, till they and their brave colonel had fallen.

Meanwhile, with the flag rolled and cased and firmly gripped in his hand, Melvill spurred his horse through the press and dashed for the river. After him panted a score or more of Zulus, pausing only in their pursuit to stab any of the other fugitives whom they passed.

For six miles the adjutant galloped on his ride for life, gradually leaving the Zulus behind, though their shots continued to follow him. He had now been joined by Lieutenant Nevill Aylmer Coghill, of his own regiment, who had cut his way through the circle of Zulus. Then the tossing waters of the Buffalo came in view, and how the fugitives’ hearts must have risen at the sight. For on the other side of the river lay Natal and safety.

A last desperate spurt and the bank was gained. Down the steep slope scrambled horses and riders, and plunged into the swirling stream. The Buffalo runs swiftly between its high banks, the water being broken up by large rocks, dotted here and there. Exhausted after its flight, Melvill’s horse failed to make headway against the swift current, and in its struggles the adjutant was swept out of his saddle.

Not far away from him, on another rock, was an officer of the Native Contingent, named Higginson.

“Catch hold of the pole!” cried the adjutant; and the other, leaning over, made a grab at it as the colours came within reach. But he, too, was carried away.

By this time the foremost of the Zulus had come up, and they at once opened fire upon the helpless men in the river. Lieutenant Coghill, meanwhile, had swum his horse across the stream and gained the opposite bank in safety. Reining up on the top of the slope, he looked back and saw Melvill struggling in the water below.

There was a chance of life for him. His horse was still fresh, and the road to Helpmakaar stretched away behind him. But Coghill gave no thought to himself, or if he did he banished it instantly from his mind. Riding down the bank again, he plunged into the river with a cheery call to Melvill to “hold on.”

Then, just as he reached the other two, his horse was shot. The current carried it swiftly down the stream, as a few moments later it bore the colours which it had wrenched from Melvill’s grasp.

The three were now still more at the Zulus’ mercy. Bullets splashed the water round them, and several of the warriors were scrambling down the bank towards them. By making great efforts, however, Coghill being hampered by an injured knee, they reached the Natal side. Here, before they had gone far, the Zulus caught them up, and the two lieutenants turned to make a fight for it.

I need not dwell on the last sad scene. Higginson—and we may think no shame of him for doing so—had gone on alone. He had no revolver or weapon of any kind with which to defend himself. Coghill and Melvill had their revolvers.

Standing in front of an enormous rock, the two officers faced their foes, to sell their lives as dearly as possible. And when their bodies were discovered days later the stiffened corpses of a dozen Zulus lying almost in a circle round them bore eloquent witness to the gallant stand for life that they had made. They were buried side by side on the spot where they had fallen, while a simple granite cross was raised to mark their grave and tell to future generations the story of how Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill died to save the colours of their regiment.

The flag itself, it may be added, was found by a search party some distance down the river. It was brought back to England at the close of the war and presented to her Majesty the Queen, who tenderly placed upon it a wreath of immortelles in remembrance of the gallant pair whose lives had been given for it.

At about the same time an announcement appeared in the London Gazette to the effect that had Melvill and Coghill lived they would have received the V.C. And so their names, too, are added to the glorious roll of honour.

On the same day that Merrill and Coghill won fame, Samuel Wassall, a private of the 80th Regiment who had been serving with the Mounted Infantry, earned the third Cross that is associated with Isandhlana. Having escaped from the Zulus, he too turned his horse towards the Buffalo River. He was pursued, but managed to outdistance his enemies, and gained the river unharmed at a point farther east than the ford.

Just as he was about to enter the water Wassall saw another soldier—Private Westwood—battling vainly with the current and evidently on the point of being drowned. To jump from his horse was the work of a moment. Then, throwing himself into the stream, he swam to the sinking man’s rescue, brought him out, got himself and the exhausted Westwood on to the horse, and plunged once more into the river.

Some Zulus had appeared on the rocks above him as he was in the act of mounting, and their bullets came perilously close, but neither he nor his burden was hit. The horse needed no urging to get across the stream, and ere long Wassall was out of reach of his discomfited pursuers.

The Staffordshire private takes an honoured place among the wearers of the Cross for Valour, for his courage in turning to the rescue of his drowning comrade stamps him a true hero.

CHAPTER XXI.
ZULULAND.—HOW THEY HELD THE POST AT RORKE’S DRIFT.

The story of Rorke’s Drift is the story of one of the most heroic defences in our military annals. At this small post on the Buffalo River one hundred and thirty-nine men of the 24th (South Wales Borderers) Regiment, Durnford’s Horse, and the Natal Mounted Police, kept off a huge army of three thousand Zulus all through the afternoon and night following the disaster at Isandhlana.

Modern history, I believe, contains no parallel to this brilliant feat of arms, which stands for all time as an example of the splendid courage and devotion of which Englishmen are capable when duty calls.

At three o’clock in the afternoon of that fateful January 22nd an officer of the Royal Engineers was down at the drift watching the working of some pontoons. This was Lieutenant John Rouse Merriott Chard, now on active service for the first time after seven years spent at various dockyard stations. He had reason enough to be thoughtful, as he paced slowly along the bank, for the drift was a position of extreme importance. At this spot, where the river was most easily fordable, the Zulus might be expected to cross if they attempted the invasion of Natal. And to stay them if they came was only a small garrison of less than a hundred and fifty men.

The post itself was about a quarter of a mile distant, an old Swedish mission-station converted into a commissariat depôt and hospital for the use of Lord Chelmsford’s force. From where he stood Lieutenant Chard could see the two low buildings of which it consisted, with a small cluster of trees in front and at one side, and behind the white tents where the soldiers were. It looked a poor means of defence indeed.

From the mission-station his thoughts wandered to the little force which had crossed by that same ford eleven days previously and disappeared into the Zulu country. What had been happening behind those distant hills? He was not to be left long in doubt. Suddenly two horsemen appeared in sight on the other side of the river, spurring furiously towards the ford. As they dashed up, the pontoon was pulled across and the two were ferried over to the Natal bank.

The new-comers were Lieutenant Adendorff, of Lonsdale’s corps, and a carabineer who had escaped with him from the Zulus. The lieutenant was in his shirt-sleeves and hatless, his only weapon being a revolver strapped round his breast. As soon as he reached Chard’s side he poured out his breathless tale of horror, the tale of the Isandhlana massacre. He himself had come straight from the camp of death to tell the news of the disaster and to warn the little garrison at the drift that a large body of Zulus was advancing upon it.

Sending the carabineer on to Helpmakaar, twelve miles away, where Major Spalding, the commandant of the post, had gone to fetch another company of the 24th Regiment, Chard proceeded with Adendorff to the mission-station. Here he found his brother-officer, Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead, who commanded the company of the 24th, then encamped close by, already engaged in putting the mission-house, or store-building as it may more properly be called, and the hospital in a state of defence. Barricades were being prepared, and loopholes made in the walls. Bromhead had a few minutes before received a similar message of alarm.

As quickly as possible the tents were struck, and all who were able were set to work to build up a wall of mealie-bags, about four feet high, from one corner of the stone cattle-kraal to the wall of the hospital building. This afforded a protection to the front of the post. The waggons, which all the morning had been unloading the stores they had brought from Helpmakaar, were called into requisition and made to form a barricade between the two buildings.

Everything that was possible was done to render the position safe against attack, but the proximity of a high hill (the Oscarberg), and a large patch of bushes which there was no time to cut down, gave an enemy a decided advantage.

Having seen that his directions were being carried out, Chard, who succeeded to the command in Major Spalding’s absence, went back to the drift to bring up the pontoon guard. To the honour of these brave fellows, a sergeant and six men, it is said that they offered to moor the boats in the stream and defend the ford as long as they could; but the lieutenant would not permit such a sacrifice. So the party went up the bank together to the station.

Half an hour had now elapsed. The next thing to be done was to send out scouts to watch for the Zulus, and some of Durnford’s Horse rode out on this duty. Their officer dashed back hastily soon after four to report that an impi was marching rapidly towards the drift, and further that his men were bolting along the road to Helpmakaar.

With the cowards went a detachment of the Natal Native Contingent, their “gallant” officer, Captain Stevenson, flying with them. This desertion so enraged the others that they fired a round after them, killing a European non-commissioned officer of the Native Contingent. The garrison was now sadly reduced, but there were no more desertions. Every man at the post was prepared to stand by it to the last.

The line of defence appearing to Chard to be too extended for his few defenders, he constructed an inner breastwork of—biscuit boxes! “We soon had completed,” he says in his brief report, “a wall of about two boxes high.” Behind this frail barrier was to be fought as fierce a fight as history has ever recorded.

At about twenty minutes past four the leading files of the Zulus hove in sight, and the garrison of Rorke’s Drift flew to their several stations. Some went to the rampart of mealie-bags, others to the windows of the store-building, and others to the hospital where there had been forty-five men when the alarm first came, but where only twenty-three now remained. Among those told off to guard the wounded were Privates Henry Hook, Robert Jones, William Jones, and John Williams, of whom more hereafter.

Following the few hundred Zulus who came leaping and dancing round the base of the hill came a host more, their ox-hide shields in different colours marking the regiments to which they belonged. In true Zulu fashion they tried to “rush” the place at once, but a heavy volley drove them back. Then they began to take up positions on the hillside, where many rocky ledges and caves afforded them vantage-points, while others dropped behind ant-hills and bushes, or sought cover in the two little outhouses of the hospital.

“From my loophole,” says Hook, “I saw the Zulus approaching in thousands. They began to fire, yelling as they did so, when they were five hundred or six hundred yards off. More than half of them had muskets or rifles. I began to fire when they were six hundred yards distant. I managed to clip several of them, for I had an excellent rifle, and was a ‘marksman.’”

Hook in his account recollects particularly one Zulu whom he “clipped” at four hundred yards while running from one ant-hill to another. The warrior made a complete somersault and fell dead. Another Zulu who sheltered himself behind an ant-hill gave Hook some trouble, for the Gloucester man had to sight his rifle three times ere he got his enemy’s range. The Zulu never showed his head round the heap again, and when Hook went round to look at him after the fight was over he found the warrior lying there with a bullet hole in his skull.

The hospital was the first building to receive the attack, but at the outer wall of defence a fierce hand-to-hand struggle soon ensued. Lieutenants Chard and Bromhead were fighting hard at the front, the latter being conspicuous in many a bayonet charge at the dark-skinned figures that climbed again and again over the mealie-bags. Prominent, too, in repelling the Zulus at this position was one Corporal Schiess, a Swiss, who left the hospital to join in the fight, and distinguished himself by creeping along a wall to shoot a Zulu who was firing from the end.

At last it was recognised that the defenders could not hope to hold this rampart long. They fell back accordingly behind the inner defence of biscuit boxes, after two hours of fighting.

We may leave them there for a little time while we take note of what is happening at the hospital. Here the gallant six defenders have been quickly reduced to four, two of the number having been killed out on the verandah. Four men to get the patients safely out of the building which the Zulus have rendered untenable by firing the thatch!

Hook and John Williams come to the front first with William and Robert Jones (the last two not being related, by the way). As the Zulus burst in the outer doors the two Jones guard these entrances with their bayonets, their cartridges being expended. It is quick work; stabbing and thrusting until the pile of corpses in the doorway itself helps to check the rush. This gives time for Hook and Williams to carry the patients from the first room to an inner one.

There are four apartments to be gone through before the sick men can be carried out to the shelter of the barricade, for the inner rooms do not communicate directly with the outside. Holes have to be made in the partitions, and the poor sufferers passed through these in turn.

Driven back and back, Hook finds himself suddenly in a room where there are several patients. Then a wounded man comes in with a bullet hole in his arm which has to be bound up. A minute later John Williams appears—John Williams who has just seen his brother Joseph hauled out and assegaied before his eyes, and who is now a still more dangerous man to deal with.

Williams breaks a hole in the partition with his bayonet, and whilst he does this Hook takes his stand at the door. A few moments later the rush comes. There is a fierce hammering at the door, it gives way, and the sturdy Gloucester private drops the first man to enter. Shooting and lunging with his bayonet, he soon accounts for four or five. Assegais fly past, but only one touches him, inflicting a scalp wound. One Zulu seizes his rifle and tries to drag it away, but while they are tussling Hook slips in a cartridge, pulls the trigger, and another body is added to the heap at his feet.

Every now and then a Zulu makes a rush to get through, for the narrow entrance admits one man only at a time; but none pass the grim figure on guard there. And when all the patients have been got out save one who has a broken leg, Hook makes a jump for the hole himself, and gets through, dragging the last wounded man after him—“in doing which,” he says, “I broke his leg again!”

From this last room a window opens out on to the biscuit-box defences. The patients are quickly passed out to willing hands below, the while Hook with his reddened bayonet stands by the hole in the wall to see that no Zulu follows. Then, still sticking to his particular charge, he drags him out and takes up a position behind the barricade to do some more useful work there before the morning dawns. Of the twenty-three wounded who were in the hospital twenty have been saved. The remaining three are believed to have wandered back, delirious from fever, into the rooms that had been cleared.

Although Hook and Williams have escaped injury of any serious nature, the gallant Welshman, Robert Jones, has not been so fortunate. Three assegais have struck him in the body. He and his namesake William, as I have said, have been most busy in the front of the building, and how many Zulus they have put to their account is not known, but the number is large judging from the heaps of dead warriors whose bodies are found in the ruins of the building next day.

In this last stage of the rescue of the wounded William Allen and Frederick Hitch, fellow-soldiers of the 24th Regiment (to which, by the way, the four brave privates above-named belong), make good their claim to glory. Taking up an exposed position on some steps leading to a granary, these two men keep the ground clear between the burning hospital and the barricade, their accurate fire making it certain death for a Zulu to venture near.

By their courageous stand, for which they pay dearly, every one of the rescued twenty is brought into safety. And even when incapacitated by their wounds from taking part in the fighting, the two brave fellows stand by all night to serve out ammunition to their comrades.

At the rampart of biscuit boxes were several vacant places ere the first beams of light showed in the sky. Where Hook knelt three men had previously been shot. But under the cool direction of Chard, Bromhead, and Assistant-Commissary Dalton, another of the garrison, the line of defenders kept up a deadly fire against the Zulus which stayed the rushes time and time again, and drove back the picked warriors of Cetewayo’s army to the shelter of their rocks and ant-heaps. Thirteen hours in all the fight lasted, until the Zulus drew off, baffled, beaten.

Several times they had seemed to be retiring, but after renewed war-dances and that stamping of the earth peculiar to Zulu warriors, accompanied with much shouting and waving of assegais, they came on again with a fierce yell of “Usutu!” which is a far more fearsome cry to hear in battle than the war-whoop of the painted Sioux. At last, just after four a.m., there was a long pause, and then the impis were seen to sullenly roll back out of sight behind the Oscarberg.

The grim, smoke-blackened defenders peered wonderingly after them from behind the barricade, hardly believing that the host was actually in retreat. But such was the case. After some time, those who went out to reconnoitre and look for the wounded saw no signs of the enemy. The Zulus had gone, leaving some 350 dead behind them. On our side the losses were but fifteen, though two of the wounded died afterwards.

With the fear of a renewed attack later on, the weary soldiers laid their rifles aside, and at once began to strengthen the defences where they had been broken down. Lest the store-building itself should be threatened with fire, they set to work to remove the thatch from its roof, and while engaged in doing so the watchers announced that another large body of Zulus were in sight some distance to the south-west. Immediately the men flew to their stations, but the alarm fortunately turned out to be a false one. The enemy, after advancing a little way, swung round and disappeared behind the hills. They had seen the column under Lord Chelmsford marching towards the drift, and had had their stomachful of fighting.

A little later the British force, which had seen the flames of the burning hospital as far off as Isandhlana and had marched from the fatal camp to relieve their comrades at Rorke’s Drift, came round the Oscarberg, to be greeted with wild cheers and waving of helmets.

“Men,” said the General, as he surveyed the group before him and heard the story of their great stand, “I thank you all for your gallant defence.”

It was not a moment for fine speeches. The hearts of all present were too full to find utterance in words. But every man knew what was in Lord Chelmsford’s heart as he thanked them simply for himself and for his country.

For that defence, gallant indeed, eleven Crosses were awarded, to Lieutenants Chard and Bromhead, to Assistant-Commissary Dalton, Corporals Allen and Schiess, Privates Hook, Williams, Hitch, and W. and R. Jones, and to Surgeon-Major Reynolds, whom I have not mentioned in my account, but who showed great devotion to the wounded under fire.

Private Henry Hook, one of the principal heroes of the defence, was called up at once before Lord Chelmsford, just as he was, in shirt sleeves and with his braces hanging down behind, to receive the General’s praise for his conduct. He was the only one of the eleven to receive his V.C. at Rorke’s Drift, on the very scene of his gallantry, Sir Garnet Wolseley pinning the little bronze Cross on to Hook’s breast with his own hands on the following 3rd of August.

Until a few years ago Hook was a familiar figure to frequenters of the British Museum Reading Room, where, on retiring from the service, he obtained an appointment.

Of the rest, Lieutenant Bromhead died in 1891, and Lieutenant (afterwards Colonel) Chard in 1897. I find only the names of Brigadier-Surgeon Lieutenant-Colonel J. H. Reynolds, and Privates J. Williams, F. Hitch, and W. Jones, in the list of surviving recipients. To those who have the opportunity I would say, seek out these heroes while they are still in the land of the living and hear from their lips, if they can be led to speak, the full story of Rorke’s Drift, which I feel I have told but baldly here.

CHAPTER XXII.
SOME OTHER ZULU AND SOME BASUTO CROSSES.

The progress of the Zulu campaign was marked by many ups and downs before reinforcements arrived to strengthen Lord Chelmsford’s force and a crushing defeat could be inflicted upon the enemy at Cetewayo’s capital, Ulundi. But, though our troops sometimes found themselves in a tight corner, the disaster of Isandhlana was fortunately not repeated. The lesson of that fatal blunder had been learned.

Of the columns besides that which Lord Chelmsford himself led into Zululand, the one commanded by Colonel Pearson had met with some success. This officer had been despatched to a post near the mouth of the Tugela, in the south-east corner of Zululand. Marching into the country, he fought a decisive action by the Inyezani River, and occupied Eshowe.

The remaining column under Colonel Evelyn Wood, marching to a station on the Upper Blood River, established its base on the Kambula Hill. From this force a small garrison was provided for the town of Luneberg, and it was in connection with this post that another V.C. was pluckily won on the 12th of March.

News coming of a convoy of supplies being on its way to Luneberg, Captain Moriarty went out to meet it with a detachment of the 80th (2nd Batt. S. Staffordshire) Regiment. The convoy, or rather the first part of it, was met by the Intombi River. Here a laager was formed, and the escort was divided into two sections, one on each side of the river. Seventy-one men were on the left bank with Captain Moriarty, while on the opposite bank were thirty-five under Lieutenant Harward.

During the night of the 11th of March, while both of the little camps were sleeping soundly in their tents, a thick fog rolled up, and with it came a Zulu impi. Soon after daybreak a sentry in Moriarty’s camp gave the alarm. Orders were promptly given for the soldiers to stand to their arms, but ere this could be done the Zulus were upon them. Nearly all the men on the left bank were massacred as they came flying from their tents, their captain being almost the first to fall.

On the other side of the river the soldiers had had time to arm, and they quickly opened fire upon the enemy. A number of the Zulus now swam across the river, although it was much swollen by the rains, and seeing this Lieutenant Harward did what has always been characterised as a very cowardly thing. He left his men to take care of themselves, and galloped off to Luneberg. His defence at the court-martial which was subsequently held upon him was that he rode away for help, and on some technicality he was acquitted. Lord Chelmsford, however, plainly showed that he disagreed with the Court’s decision.

In the meantime, while their officer took to his heels, Sergeant Booth rallied the men and assumed command. For three miles the sergeant fell back slowly with his little company, fighting the enemy all the time and keeping them at a respectful distance. And he brought the whole of the thirty-five safe into Luneberg, not a single man of them having been killed! For this conspicuous action Booth was soon afterwards decorated with the Cross for Valour.

At the storming of the Inhlobane Mountain near Kambula, a fortnight after the above event, several more V.C.’s were won in an exceptionally gallant manner. Colonel Wood, as has been said, had his camp on the Kambula Hill. Anticipating an attack from the Zulus, who were on the Inhlobane, he decided to strike first, and despatched a little force under Colonel Redvers Buller with instructions to surprise the enemy and dislodge them. The attack was delivered on the night of the 27th and the morning of the 28th of March.

Leading his men, who were mostly colonials of the Frontier Light Horse, and loyal natives, Buller climbed up the steep side of the mountain in the mist, and with a brilliant rush drove the Zulus from their little stone forts. The stronghold was captured, but the flying warriors took refuge in the numerous caves with which the place abounded, and great difficulty was experienced in routing them out of these.

One party, whose fire caused some havoc among the troops, had found a particularly well-sheltered position. It was clear that they would have to be dislodged. Certain orders, it is said, were given for this cave to be stormed, but, chafing at the delay that occurred, Captain the Hon. Robert Campbell of the Coldstreams, with Lieutenant Henry Lysons of the Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) and Private Edmond Fowler, of the Perthshire Light Infantry, dashed forward to undertake the difficult task. Many fallen boulders and thick clumps of bushes impeded their path, and, to add to the hazard of the attempt, the approach to the cave led between two walls of rock where the passage was so narrow that they had to walk in single file.

Campbell took the post of honour at the head of the dauntless three and was shot at the mouth of the cave. Leaping over his lifeless body, the Lieutenant and Fowler sprang into the gloomy cavern, killing several Zulus with their first shots. A number of subterranean passages opened out from the entrance, and through these the majority of the cave’s occupants escaped to a chasm below. Here they found themselves exposed to the fire of the two marksmen above, and in quick time retreated down the hill.

Their mission accomplished, Lysons and Fowler returned to their comrades to be congratulated on their success and recommended for the V.C., which was in due course bestowed upon them.

While these clearing operations were being performed, however, the Zulus had received large reinforcements, and Colonel Buller saw that he was in danger of being trapped on the mountain top. So he ordered his force to return down the hillside to rejoin the main body.

But for their colonel’s exertions and noble disregard of self, the retreat might soon have become a rout. As the soldiers fell back, the Zulus swarmed up and over the top of the mountain and threw themselves desperately upon the handful of white men in the endeavour to cut them off. Many deeds of valour were now performed, Buller himself saving no fewer than six lives, among those he rescued being Captain D’Arcy of the Frontier Light Horse, Lieutenant Everitt, and a trooper of the same company. For each of these three the brave colonel had to ride back towards the advancing Zulus, and, while assegais and shots sped past him, carry off the dismounted man upon his horse.

Redvers Buller is “Sir Henry” now, a General and a G.C.B. among other distinctions, but I think he is prouder of none of his honours more than the bronze Maltese Cross which he wears on his breast for his bravery that day at Inhlobane Mountain. And seldom, indeed, has the V.C. been better deserved.

At the same time Lieutenant E. S. Browne (a South Wales Borderer) and Major William Leet, of the Somersets, gained the decoration for acts of heroism of a similar nature, Browne having two lives placed to his credit.

The seventh of the Zulu Crosses which I have space to note in this chapter was awarded to that truly gallant soldier the late Lord William de la Poer Beresford. Wherever there was fighting going on Beresford of the 9th Lancers was bound to be in it. Only eight months previously, during the Afghan campaign, he had joined Sir Samuel Browne (another V.C. hero) in the famous march through the Khyber Pass, having obtained a month’s leave from the Viceroy, on whose staff he served as aide-de-camp.

How he won his Cross in Zululand was characteristic of Lord William’s impetuous courage. With a scouting party he had ventured across the White Umvolosi River to discover what the enemy’s movements were in the neighbourhood of Ulundi. They made their way safely for some distance through the long grass when suddenly a number of Zulus, who had been lying in ambush, sprang to their feet and poured a deadly volley into the party.

Two of the troopers were killed instantly, but a third man who fell (Sergeant Fitzmaurice) was seen to raise himself up from the ground where he lay by the side of his dead horse. Of the retreating scouts Lord William Beresford was the nearest to the Zulus, and without a moment’s hesitation he turned his horse and galloped back to the fallen man.

The story goes—and there is no reason whatever to disbelieve it—that Beresford flung himself from his horse and bade Fitzmaurice mount. The sergeant refused to do so, telling his would-be rescuer to save himself. Then the plucky Irishman seized Fitzmaurice by the shoulder and swore that he would punch the other’s head if he didn’t do as he was told; whereupon with some difficulty the sergeant was hoisted up into the saddle, Beresford mounting after him.

During the altercation the Zulus had come within a few yards of the couple, and Beresford’s horse only just managed to get away in time. Even as it was, it is possible that they would both have been assegaied had not Sergeant O’Toole, another Irishman, ridden out towards them and with his revolver checked the Zulus’ rush.

When Lord William heard that the V.C. was to be awarded him for that exploit he asked whether the sergeant had been recommended for the distinction, and on learning that this was not the case refused to accept the honour unless it was also given to the other. This made due impression at headquarters, and soon after O’Toole’s name appeared in the Gazette together with that of Beresford.

Lord William met with a sad end to his career. As may be remembered, he died in 1900 from the effects of an accident received in the hunting-field.

With the V.C.’s won in Zululand I may well couple those which were gained in the brief Basuto rebellion of 1879. The Basutos, an offshoot of the Bechuanas and a very warlike race, believed themselves to be threatened with a British invasion from Natal, and took up arms. A punitive force from the colony had therefore to restore them to order.

One or two encounters with the rebels taught the latter a severe lesson, but retreating to the hills they made a determined stand upon a mountain called after their chief, Moirosi. This stronghold the Basutos made almost impregnable by a long series of stockades on the one side of the mountain that was accessible. On the other three sides it was perfectly perpendicular.

After several vain attempts this stronghold was successfully stormed, Moirosi himself being shot and large numbers of Basutos captured. What a terrible task the Colonials had in fighting their way up the steep slope will be understood when I say that the troops had to storm some twelve or fourteen of the high stone walls, or stockades, which the Basutos had erected, the walls being loopholed for rifles.

In the ascent Trooper P. Brown and Sergeant Robert Scott, both of the Cape Mounted Rifles, did deeds of daring which singled them out from their comrades for distinction. The former left his cover under a most heavy fire to carry his water bottle to some wounded men who were crying piteously for water. He was wounded twice as he was in the act of stooping over the sufferers, one of the enemy’s bullets shattering his right arm and rendering it permanently useless.

Sergeant Scott was a no less brave man, though his exploit was of a different kind. At one barricade that the troops reached the fire was so merciless that it seemed impossible to advance against it. But the sergeant thought of a way out of the difficulty. The enemy must be dislodged from their position by fuse shells. Volunteering for the dangerous work, he took some shells and ran swiftly towards the barricade. As has happened often before when one desperate man takes his life thus in his hands and braves a hundred, he escaped being hit. Then, crouching under the wall, he tried to throw a shell over into the midst of the Basutos.

The first attempt failed, but the second succeeded. Taking a third shell, he flung this after the others, but owing to some faulty adjustment of the fuse it burst almost immediately after leaving his hands. The explosion was terrible. One hand of the sergeant—his right one—was completely shattered, and he received a severe wound in his right leg. Fortunately for his comrades, he had ordered his party to retire under cover, a precaution which undoubtedly saved many lives.

The sergeant’s daring feat enabled the troops to drive the Basutos from the position without much further difficulty, and when he recovered from his wounds the V.C. was awarded him.

With Scott and Trooper Brown must be bracketed a third V.C. hero of that attack on Moirosi’s Mountain—brave Surgeon-Major Edmund Baron Hartley, of the same corps. His Cross was won for particular gallantry in tending the wounded under fire, and in going out in the open to bring in Corporal Jones, who, poor fellow, was lying badly hit only a few yards from the Basutos’ stockade. Surgeon Hartley worthily upholds the traditions of that noble brotherhood we have already seen doing their duty in the Crimea, in India, and elsewhere. All honour to the brave Army doctors!

CHAPTER XXIII.
SOUTH AFRICA.—AGAINST BOERS AND MATABELE.

The first Boer War of 1881 reflected little credit on the British arms, with its disastrous reverses at Laing’s Nek and Majuba; but it added some names to the roll of V.C. heroes which call for special mention.

I do not propose to enter into the history of the war here or discuss its justness. Briefly, it arose from the refusal of the Boers to surrender the Transvaal as a part of the projected South African Federation. Far from being reconciled to British rule, the Boers were united in wishing to maintain their independence, and at the end of 1880 they resorted to arms, proclaiming a Republic.

The command of the British force which was sent into the field was given to General Sir George Pomeroy Colley, a veteran of many wars. On January 28th, 1881, a large force of Boers invaded Natal, and were encountered at Laing’s Nek, a frontier mountain pass some twenty-four miles from Newcastle, with the result that General Colley was repulsed with heavy loss.

Laing’s Nek, which takes its name from a deserted farm on the heights above the upper stream of the Buffalo, forms a most important position, a large tableland at the summit giving the command of the plains below. It was to this particular point that the British general advanced. But the Boers had taken advantage of the mountain spurs and the low hills which flanked the steep winding road leading to the summit, and were able to concentrate a murderous fire upon our troops. Every effort was made to continue the advance, Major Brownlow leading a splendid charge of the Mounted Squadron, in which he had his horse shot under him, but it was in vain. Very slowly, for the Boers pressed hard upon them, the troops fell back.

Then it was that Lieutenant Alan Hill won his V.C. for a gallant action. Out in the open ground, knocked over by a Boer bullet, lay Lieutenant Baillie of his own regiment (the 58th). Running to the wounded man, Hill tried to lift him into his saddle, but finding this too difficult a feat he carried him in his arms along the narrow road, until another bullet put Baillie out of his misery. A little later the lieutenant turned to face the heavy fire of the Boers again, and this time succeeded in bringing back two wounded privates to safety, himself escaping as if by a miracle.

Very cool and brave, too, was Private John Doogan of the 1st Dragoon Guards. Servant to Major Brownlow, he rode close to that officer in the charge of the Mounted Squadron. When the major was dismounted and almost surrounded by Boers, Doogan rode up and jumped off his horse.

“Take my horse, sir,” he said, “and ride off while there’s time.”

The major refused, and with still more determination when Doogan was wounded as he stood urging his master to mount; but although the enemy were close on them both men escaped capture. For that act of devotion Private Doogan was decorated in due course.

Just a month later occurred the fight on Majuba Hill. Colley’s object in occupying this position was to render the Boers’ occupation of Laing’s Nek untenable, but he was again unsuccessful, losing his own life in the attempt. The story of his night march up the hill and the death-trap into which he fell need not be retold. It is a disaster one does not care to dwell upon.

Against the gloom, however, one or two isolated acts of bravery shine out prominently. That gallant soldier Hector Macdonald, then a sergeant in the 92nd Highlanders, won a commission through his prowess there, and Lance-Corporal Farmer, of the Hospital Corps, a V.C.

When Surgeon Arthur Landon stopped behind the retreating soldiers to dress the wounds of the fallen men around him, Corporal Farmer and another man stood by his side to assist. To their shame, be it said, the Boers fired upon the little group, hitting the surgeon, the wounded man, and Farmer’s comrade.

Thinking to stop the cowards, the corporal waved a bandage in the air to show that he was engaged in an act of mercy. But it had no effect. Their rifles cracked again, and the bandage fell as Farmer’s right wrist was struck.

“I’ve got another arm!” he shouted, stooping to pick up the bandage with his left hand and raising it on high. But the Boers shot at him yet once more and with deadly effect, shattering the elbow joint of his arm. After which the brave fellow gave up trying to teach humanity to such savages.

There were other Crosses gained in that brief but inglorious campaign against the Transvaal Boers—at Elandsfontein and at Wesselstroom; but I must pass on to tell of some acts of valour performed in another South African war of rather later date. In 1896 a serious rebellion broke out among the Matabele, who had been living peaceably under the rule of the Chartered Company for three years, and but for the prompt action of the Colonials in Rhodesia the consequences might have been far more terrible than they were.

The causes of that rebellion are not hard to seek. Generally speaking, it is said to have originated in the stringent measures enforced against the cattle plague, the rinderpest, which was sweeping through the country; but there were other and deeper reasons why the Matabele rose. Since their subjection in 1893, after Lo Bengula was defeated, the natives had been compelled to perform a certain amount of labour—paid labour—annually, and had had to pay a very large fine in cattle. All this bore heavily upon them. They chafed under the disgrace of being a conquered people, they who had been a great warlike nation; and only awaited a favourable opportunity to throw off the yoke.

The opportunity came in 1896, after Dr. Jameson, starting on his famous Raid, had withdrawn the police force of Rhodesia, with most of the big guns and munitions of war. Believing the white settlers to be at their mercy now, the Matabele chiefs, who had been maturing their plans, gave the signal to rise, and immediately the civilised world was horrified by a series of terrible massacres, far exceeding any that had taken place in the 1893 rebellion. Within the short space of a week not a white person was left alive in the outlying districts of Matabeleland. Men, women, and children, whole families in some instances, were wiped out.

Prompt action was necessary to deal with the rising. As quickly as possible a strong laager was formed at Bulawayo, the chief town, and a corps of mounted men enlisted. The nucleus of this force was a little company of twenty-three Rhodesians, got together by Captain Grey and known throughout the war as Grey’s Scouts. The rest of the body comprised troopers from the Africander Corps and various Rhodesia Horse Volunteers.

Fine fellows were these; hard as nails, and the best riders and best shots in the colony. For three months, until the arrival of imperial troops, they harried the Matabele without mercy, holding their own against tremendous odds. In this campaign the fighting was very different from that experienced in the former war. The natives had learned the futility of attacking fortified places, and the engagements were fought out in the bush.

Many a tale is told of gallant rescues of isolated settlers who were in danger of being annihilated at this time, and many an instance is recorded of splendid devotion shown to each other by the Colonials. “Never desert your comrade,” was the motto of the troopers, and faithfully did they live up to it. Witness the story of Trooper Henderson.

Hearing that a party of whites at Inyati, about forty miles from Bulawayo, were in peril, Captain Pittendrigh rode out with a few men to the rescue, but on their way they learned that their errand was vain; the party had been massacred. A body of Matabele having been encountered during the journey, and news coming of a large impi being in front, the little force halted at a store by the Impembisi River near the Shiloh hills. Here they fortified themselves against attack while two daring despatch riders hastened back to Bulawayo for reinforcements.

The much-needed help came. Early the next morning thirty men of the Bulawayo Field Force galloped up. They had to report passing through a number of Matabele at Queen’s Reef, in the vicinity, and further that two members of their party were missing, Troopers Celliers and Henderson. The mystery of their disappearance was not cleared up until three days later, when both men came into Bulawayo, Celliers wounded, on horseback, and Henderson, much travel-stained, on foot.

Celliers told the story of their adventures. In the affray with the Matabele at Queen’s Reef his horse had been shot in five places and he himself badly wounded in the knee. Becoming separated from their comrades in the darkness, the two men had hidden in the bush. Then, Celliers’ horse having dropped dead and his wound making it impossible for them to think of following the others, Henderson placed his comrade on his horse and set off with him for Bulawayo.

Their way led through a difficult piece of country which was known to be overrun with Matabele, and Henderson had to exercise the greatest caution in proceeding. Long detours had to be made; now and then, as natives were sighted, they had to conceal themselves among the hills. But though some parties of Matabele warriors passed unpleasantly close, the two men escaped discovery. For three whole days they wandered thus, without food, save a few sour plums, Celliers’ wound all the time causing him great agony; and never was sight more welcome than when the white buildings of Bulawayo greeted their eyes.

That plucky rescue brought a well-deserved Victoria Cross to Trooper Herbert J. Henderson, making him the eighth Colonial to receive the decoration. Celliers, it is sad to record, died from the effects of the amputation of his injured leg.

This affair of the Shiloh patrol occurred in March. In April there was a brisk action fought on the Umguza River by Bisset’s Patrol, among whom were twenty of Grey’s Scouts. Mr. F. C. Selous, who accompanied this force and had a narrow escape of being killed by the Matabele, tells the story of how Trooper Frank Baxter, of the Scouts, here won the V.C., though he lost his life in doing so.

The enemy had been driven from their position with considerable loss, and the troops were retiring from the Umguza, when a party of Matabele warriors who had been lying in ambush to the left of the line of retreat suddenly opened a brisk fire upon them. The foremost of the Scouts galloped past, while Captain Grey and a few of those in the rear halted to return the fire. Trooper Wise was the first to be hit, a bullet striking him in the back as he was in the act of mounting. His horse then stumbled, and breaking away galloped back to town, leaving Wise on the ground.

Seeing the other’s peril, Baxter immediately reined in his horse, sprang down and lifted the wounded man into the saddle. Captain Grey and Lieutenant Hook now went to his assistance, and got Baxter along as fast as they could; but the Matabele came leaping through the bush and closed in upon them.

Firing at close range, they wounded the lieutenant and almost did for Grey, the captain being half stunned by a bullet. As Baxter, left unprotected for the moment, ran on, another Scout, with the picturesque name of “Texas” Long, went to his assistance, bidding him hold on to the stirrup leather. In this fashion Baxter was making good progress towards safety when a bullet struck him in the side, and as he fell to the ground the savages pounced out upon him with their assegais. He was killed before Long or any other could have saved him.

If to lay down one’s life for a friend is the test of true heroism, then Trooper Frank Baxter has surely won a high place in the roll of our honoured dead.

At this same fight on the Umguza other deeds of valour were performed of which no official recognition was taken, but they are enshrined in the memory of the colonists. John Grootboom, a loyal Xosa Kafir and a very famous character, did wonders; and Lieutenant Fred Crewe saved the life of Lieutenant Hook in a gallant manner.

Hook’s horse was shot and its rider thrown to the ground, causing him to lose his rifle.

“Why don’t you pick it up?” asked Crewe, as the other came hobbling towards him.

“I can’t; I’m badly wounded,” was the answer.

“Are you wounded, old chap?” said Crewe. “Then take my horse, and I’ll try and get out of it on foot.”

And, having got the lieutenant up into the saddle, Crewe slowly won his way back through the Matabele, keeping them off with his revolver, and being hit only by a knobkerry which caught him in the back.

The third V.C. of the campaign was won by Captain R. C. Nesbitt, during the fighting in Mashonaland. A party of miners in the Mazoe Valley having been attacked by the natives, a patrol rode to their relief from Salisbury, but was unable to bring them away. On the 19th of June Captain Nesbitt was out with a patrol of thirteen men when he met a runner from the leader of the refugees, with a note which stated that they were in laager and urgently in need of help. A relief force of a hundred men and a Maxim gun was asked for. The captain read the message out to his men and proposed that they should try and rescue the party, to which the troopers readily agreed. Sending the runner on to Salisbury, the patrol at once turned their horses in the direction of the Mazoe Valley, and fought their way through the cordon of Mashonas to the laager. Then, with the three women of the party in an armoured waggon, they started on the return journey, and after some desperate fighting brought them all safely in to Salisbury, with a loss of only three men.

Of such sons as these, Henderson, Baxter, Crewe, and Captain Nesbitt, Rhodesia is deservedly proud. And we “who sit at home at ease” while these outposts of Empire are being won for us, may well be proud too, remembering that they are of our own blood, Britons in that Greater Britain across the seas.

CHAPTER XXIV.
IN EGYPT AND THE SOUDAN.

Arabi Pasha’s rebellion in Egypt in 1882, which was quelled by the British army under Sir Garnet (afterwards Lord) Wolseley, was notable chiefly for the bombardment of Alexandria and the battle of Tel-el-Kebir. At Alexandria, as has been noted in a previous chapter, Gunner Israel Harding won the Cross for picking up a live shell and immersing it in water. At Tel-el-Kebir and at Kafrdour the two other V.C.’s of the campaign were earned in no less gallant style.

The Kafrdour hero was Private Frederick Corbett, of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps. During the reconnaissance upon this village the leader of his company, Lieutenant Howard-Vyse, was mortally wounded, and Corbett obtained leave to remain by the officer’s side while the others went on. The Egyptians were keeping up a pretty vigorous fire the while, but the plucky private calmly sat down and bound up the lieutenant’s wounds as best he could, afterwards carrying him off the field.

Lieutenant W. M. M. Edwards’ exploit at Tel-el-Kebir, where he captured a battery almost single-handed, is worthy of being related at some length. It was, perhaps, the most dashing thing done in the war. At this hard-fought battle four miles of earthworks which the Egyptians had thrown up in front of their position had to be carried at point of bayonet. To the Highland Light Infantry and the Royal Irish Fusiliers was given the post of honour, and as the word of command rang out both regiments dashed forward at the charge.

Determined not to let the “Faugh-a-Ballagh Boys” be the first in, Lieutenant Edwards of the Highlanders raced ahead with his storming party towards the nearest redoubt. He reached the parapet well in advance of the others, and pulled himself to the top. Then, jumping down among the Egyptian gunners, revolver in one hand and sword in the other, he shot the first who attacked him, an officer, through the head.

Another grappled with him, and this man, too, he shot; but while engaged in this struggle a third Egyptian ran up and knocked him down with a rammer. Three Highlanders leapt into the battery at this critical moment, and Edwards was soon upon his feet to lead his men in a charge upon the guns. His scabbard had been shot away in the fight, and his claymore broken in two, so after emptying his revolver the lieutenant took the sword of the artillery officer he had killed and carried on the fight with that. And in less time than it takes to tell the battery was captured with its four Krupp guns, all the Egyptian gunners being slain.

After which achievement Edwards sat down on the parapet to bind up the scalp wound he had received with a towel, in Indian “puggaree” fashion, afterwards marching to Tel-el-Kebir station, two and a half miles off, with this decoration on his head. A few months later he wore another decoration, the Victoria Cross having been bestowed upon him for his gallantry.

Although it is not a V.C. exploit, I am tempted to include a remarkable feat performed at Tel-el-Kebir by Major Dalbiac, of the Royal Artillery, that Dalbiac who fell at Senekal twenty years later.

During the battle the battery which he commanded ran short of ammunition and no more was to be had. In this dilemma the major resolved that at all events his guns should not stand idle, so, with a touch of humour characteristic of him, he ordered them to be limbered up, and took them forward at a gallop. One can imagine the surprise of the “Gyppies” when the entire battery came racing up one side of the earthworks and down the other into their midst, putting them fairly to rout!

In 1883 broke out the Mahdi’s rebellion in the Soudan, which was to give us endless trouble and to cost the life of Gordon. After Hicks Pasha had perished miserably at Shekan, and Colonel Valentine Baker with his Egyptians had been routed at Tokar, Gordon was sent out from England to conquer the Soudan, and with him went Sir Gerald Graham, who defeated Osman Digna, the Mahdi’s right-hand man, at El Teb and Tamai.

In the first of these battles, fought on February 29th, 1884, two V.C.’s were earned; one by a quartermaster-sergeant of the 19th Hussars, who saved his colonel’s life; and the other by a naval captain who is now the well-known Admiral Sir Arthur Knyvet Wilson, K.C.B. The latter won his Cross for conspicuous bravery, which his chief, the gallant Sir William Hewett, V.C., knew well how to appreciate.

The Naval Brigade contributed to form a huge square which moved steadily down upon the massed Arabs, to whom this was a novel form of fighting. As the troops approached closer little parties of the enemy dashed out to fling themselves bravely but vainly upon the bayonets of the front ranks or be shot down ere they could get so far. The principal Arab attack was directed against the side on which the sailors were with their Gardner guns and here Captain Wilson found his opportunity to distinguish himself.

So impetuous was the Arabs’ rush at one time that a slight gap was made in the square. Seeing this, a fresh party dashed up to break through the opening, but they had to reckon with Wilson. In a flash he recognised the danger, and, springing out to meet the enemy, he engaged them single-handed.

The first Arab he ran through with his sword, but with such vigour that the blade broke off at the hilt. Nothing daunted at being thus left weaponless, the stalwart captain clenched his fists and, as the other Arabs ran in upon him brandishing their spears, let drive right and left at them in true British style. One after another in quick succession the sons of the desert were sent rolling over on the ground, and then, some of the Yorks and Lancasters coming to his assistance, the enemy were dispersed.

Wonderful as it may appear, Captain Wilson received only a few slight wounds in this extraordinary pugilistic encounter. In all probability the surprising nature of his attack so disconcerted the Arabs that they were at a loss to know how to act.

At Tamai, which was fought on the 13th of the following month, there were likewise two V.C.’s gained. The first of these fell to the 60th Rifles. A private of the Royal Sussex having been badly hit, Lieutenant Percival Marling of the Rifles took him up on his horse, but the poor fellow fell off almost immediately. Dismounting, the lieutenant nobly gave up his horse for the purpose of carrying the wounded man off the field, and although it was a critical moment fought his way to safety on foot.

Private Thomas Edwards, the second hero of the fight, was a “Black Watch” Highlander who was on transport service with the Naval men, having in his charge two mules loaded with ammunition. His gun of the battery was under the command of Lieutenant Almack, R.N., “one of the bravest officers on the field that morning,” to use Edwards’ own words.

In a sudden rush of the enemy the gun—a Gatling—was surrounded, and of the three standing by it one, a sailor, was instantly speared. Two of the “Fuzzy-Wuzzies” then made for Edwards, who put his bayonet through both of them. The lieutenant, however, was less lucky. Attacked by several Soudanees, he succeeded in disposing of one with his sword, but before he had time to recover another nearly sliced his right arm off with a slashing cut.

In a twinkling Edwards shot the Soudanee dead. There then ran up, he says in his own account of the incident, three more Soudanees, who threw themselves upon the helpless officer as he leant against the gun-carriage and ran their spears through his body. Seeing that Almack was killed and that he could do nothing more, the brave Highlander, who, by the way, received a wound on the back of his right hand, took his two mules and retired, keeping up a fire upon the enemy as he fell back.

Yet another V.C. hero of the Soudan was Gunner Albert Smith, of the Royal Artillery, the scene of his gallantry being Abu Klea.

The story of this fierce battle makes exciting reading. Late in December of 1884, Sir Herbert Stewart with a “flying column” of 1500 men was marching across the Bayuda Desert to Metemmeh, on his way to relieve Khartoum and Gordon. He had under him a picked fighting force, including some of the Guards, and they started out from Korti with high hopes of a speedy march to their goal. They little dreamt of what lay before them.

The water-bottles of the men were soon emptied, and when it was necessary to refill them it was found that the wily Mahdi had dried up the wells along the line of route. Only after a toilsome journey of eighty miles was water reached, though even then it was hardly worth the name. Such as it was, however, it was priceless to the Tommies, who were half mad with thirst, and every available receptacle was filled with water.

Another march of a hundred and twenty miles brought the column in sight of the wells at Abu Klea, and in sight, too, of a strong force of the enemy. All through the weary night the men waited impatiently by their arms until morning came to give them a chance of getting at the wells. Then, in the form of a hollow square, the column advanced, “like some huge machine, slow, regular, and compact, despite the hail of bullets pouring in from front, right, and left, and ultimately from the rear.”

Altogether there were over ten thousand Arabs opposed to the little force, hemming them in all round. There was no avenue of retreat; the column had to go forward and cut its way through.

Then it was that for the first time in history a British square was broken. With the utmost fury the Soudanees swept down upon a corner of the phalanx and by sheer weight of numbers forced a way inside. It was indeed a critical moment. Colonel Fred Burnaby, of the Royal Horse Guards, was among the first to be killed, though not before he had slain several of his assailants; and as more spearsmen poured in, the slaughter was terrible. But in time the troops rallied. The square was re-formed, and not one of those daring black-skinned foemen who got inside escaped to boast of his valour.

It was in this desperate struggle of bayonet versus spear and sword that Gunner Smith saw his officer, Lieutenant Guthrie, prone on the ground and at the mercy of the enemy. The gunner had only a handspike for weapon, but with this he rushed forward, hurling himself like a thunderbolt upon the Soudanees. He was in the nick of time. One of the warriors was in the very act of plunging his spear into Guthrie’s breast when the handspike crashed upon his head and stretched him lifeless.

Standing over the fallen lieutenant’s body, Smith kept the enemy at bay, and he was still at his post when the ranks had recovered from the shock of the onset and filled up the gap in the square. Then he was relieved of his charge, but unfortunately his gallantry had not availed to save the lieutenant’s life. Guthrie had been mortally wounded when he fell.

Taking a leap of several years, I may fittingly tell here of how some more recent V.C.’s of the Soudan were won. At Omdurman, where on September 2nd, 1898, the Khalifa was finally routed, the 21st Lancers covered themselves with glory through a famous charge, and three of their number inscribed their names on the Roll of Valour.

It was after the Khalifa’s futile attempt to storm the zereba where the British troops lay strongly entrenched that the Lancers’ opportunity to distinguish themselves came. While the main body of the army marched steadily forward in the direction of Omdurman, the 21st, under Colonel R. H. Martin, were sent to Jebel Surgham to see if any of the enemy were in hiding there and to prevent any attempt on their part to occupy that position.

Away down the bank of the Nile rode the four squadrons, A, B, C, and D, meeting with scattered parties of dervishes who fired fitfully at them. Just south of Surgham, behind the hills, some seven hundred or more Soudanese cavalry and infantry were suddenly espied hiding in a khor, or hollow, and Colonel Martin passed the word that these were to be cleared out.

Forming in line, the Lancers galloped forward. As they neared the khor a sharp musketry fire broke out, which emptied a few saddles, and then to their dismay they saw that instead of only a few hundred of the enemy there were nearly three thousand Mahdists concealed there. There was no time for hesitation. Go forward they must. So, rising in his stirrups, with sword on high, the colonel cried “Charge!” and, closing in, the squadrons dashed into their foes.

They went down a drop of three or four feet, plunging into the thick of the Mahdists. Cutting and thrusting fiercely, they forged their way through, and with pennons proudly flying at last gained the steep ascent beyond. Many men, however, were left behind, and but for the devotion of some like Private Thomas Byrne the number must have been still larger. Byrne saw four dervishes pursuing Lieutenant Molyneux, who was wounded and on foot, and although he was himself crippled with a bullet in his right arm he rode back to the rescue. He tried to use his sword, but there was no strength in his arm; the weapon dropped from his limp grasp, and he received a spear wound in the chest. By this time Lieutenant Molyneux was out of danger, so Byrne galloped off to his troop, which he regained without further injury. The brave Irish private got the Cross for his pluck, and, as Mr. Winston Churchill comments in his account of the deed,[3] Byrne’s wearing it will rather enhance the value of the Order.

One of the officers to fall in the charge was Lieutenant Robert Grenfell. To save him, or at least recover his body, Captain P. A. Kenna and Lieutenant de Montmorency, accompanied by Corporal Swarbrick, dashed back into the midst of the enemy. They were unsuccessful, De Montmorency’s horse bolting as they tried to lift poor Grenfell on to it; but the attempt was a courageous one, and both officers were gazetted V.C. a little later, Corporal Swarbrick being awarded the Distinguished Service Medal. Just before this gallant action, I may mention, Captain Kenna had distinguished himself by saving the life of Major Crole Wyndham, whose horse had been shot under him, an act which alone entitled him to the distinction.