And lastly, Lord Chelmsford speaks of rumours “that the troops were deceived by a simulated retreat,” and thus “drawn away from the line of defence.” The _facts_ prove the exact contrary. The only person deceived by a “simulated retreat” was Lord Chelmsford himself, whose troops _during three hours_ had advanced “against a Zulu force that fell back from hill to hill ... giving up without a shot most commanding positions.” And where was _their_ “_line of defence_?” We do not find one word of Lord Chelmsford’s own want of the most ordinary precautions—his want of “intelligence,” and neglect to obtain it—of his seeing the enemy’s mounted scouts on the left front, and intending (but not making) a reconnaissance in that direction—his fixed belief that the enemy _could_ only be in force in his front—the transparent way in which he was drawn off farther from the camp—the absence of any attention to the signs that something _was_ wrong at the camp—the prevention of assistance reaching the beleaguered camp when one of his officers _had_ recognised the emergency, etc.; to which must be added that we do not find one word of regret for the untimely fate of the gallant men who fell doing _their_ duty. In justice to Colonel Glyn, commanding No. 3 Column, it must be remarked that the General himself gave the orders for the various movements, etc. And in justice to Lord Chelmsford also, we note it is asserted that the shock he experienced told severely upon him at the time; and he may not have very carefully studied the despatch, which was the work of his military secretary. Before finally leaving the events of the 22nd January, we must fully notice an important episode that occurred, and which had a serious bearing on the disaster we have to lament. We have seen that “the guns with an escort” were ordered to retrace their steps ... to join Colonel Glyn at the rendezvous near the Mangane Valley. We will now follow their movements.