"It was nearly five o'clock on that day," he said, "when it seemed to be growing curiously dark. And we soon saw the reason. As our men moved forward the heavens opened, and from the eastern sky swept a sheet of rain. With the first stabbing drops the horses turned their heads, and no whip or spur could bring them up to it. It drove through our mackintoshes as if they were blotting-paper; the air was filled with a hissing sound, and underfoot you could see the solid earth pounded into mud, and the mud flowing away in streams of slush. The rain blotted out hill and dale and enemy in one great curtain of swooping water. You would have said that the heavens had opened to drown the wrath of man. "Through it the guns still thundered, and the khaki column pushed doggedly on. The infantry got among the boulders and began to open out. The supports and reserves followed. Then, in a twinkling, on the stone-pitted hill-face, burst loose another storm--a storm of lead and death. In the first line, down behind the rocks, the men were firing fast, and the bullets came pelting round them. The men stooped, and staggered, and dropped limply, as if a string that held them upright had been cut. The line pushed on, and the colonel fell, shot in the arm. "The regiment pursued their way until they came to a rocky ledge twenty feet high. Here they clung to cover, firing, then rose, and were among the shrill bullets again. A major was left at the bottom of the ridge with a pipe in his mouth, and a Mauser bullet through his leg. His company rushed on. Onwards and upwards--down, fire again--up again, and on. Another ridge won and passed, and only one more hellish hail of bullets beyond. More men down. More men hurried forward into the firing line--more death-piping bullets than ever. The air was a sieve of them; they came with unceasing ping, and beat on the boulders like a million hammers; they ploughed the rocks and tore the turf like harrows. Another ridge crowned, another whistling gust of perdition. More men down; more men pushing into the firing line. Half the officers killed or wounded--the men panted and stumbled on--another ridge taken! God! would this cursed hill never end? It was sown with bleeding and dead behind us; it was edged with stinging fire before. 'Fix bayonets!' Staff officers rushed up, urging the men on. There was now no line, only a surging wave. Devonshires, Gordon Highlanders, Manchester, and Light Horse all mixed--subalterns commanding regiments, soldiers yelling advice, officers firing carbines--all stumbling, leaping, killing, falling--all drunk with battle. At length we gained the ridge, and saw the Boer camp below. The Boers were galloping out of it helter skelter, with Lancers and Dragoon Guards spearing and stamping them into the ground. Suddenly we