Proceeding on my journey I crossed the Ingagane, passed the forts in course of erection by our soldiers close to the river, the heliograph twinkling in the sun, and after a long, tiring journey arrived at Newcastle in the afternoon. Newcastle lies on a large grassy plain and in the centre of a district containing no less than 1,350 square miles of workable coal[68] close to the surface; and in the near future destined to keep up the credit of its name when the mines have been properly opened up, it will be noted for this production, and then no doubt a railway to the coast being by that time _un fait accompli_ will supply the traffic of the eastern seas.[69] Newcastle was in the zenith of its commercial prosperity during the late war, and even when I visited it its glory had not quite departed. Wishing to proceed and see Majuba without loss of time, I found this would be an impossibility, at least for some days, had not Mr. Greenlees, an old resident, kindly given me his assistance and offered to drive me there himself the next day. As a pleasurable interlude, especially in a place like Newcastle, a grand concert was advertised, which took place on the evening of my arrival, and the band of the 97th put forward as a special inducement. I went and saw a sight that I shall not soon forget. The “gods” were very uproarious and demonstrative, and not at all reticent in expressing their opinion. One singer, well known as a notorious bouncer about the power of England and the valor of her troops, on coming on was most cynically received. To me it was a mystery, but this was explained when he commenced to sing: “In days of old, when knights were bold, And barons held their sway; A warrior bold, with spurs of gold, Sang merrily his lay,” for a terrific burst of pent-up anger seemed to thrill the “gods.” “Loop,” “Verdomde Englishman,” “Go and fight the Boers,” “Why did you run?” were the cries all round the hall, until the poor fellow slid away amidst the jeers and laughter of the audience. Starting early in the morning, we were lucky enough to have as a companion a young colonial volunteer named Maclean, a relative of a former governor of Natal, who was one of the brave men who, after the day’s slaughter, stayed all night with the wounded on the battle field of Ingogo. Crossing the Incandu, our road lay past Fort Amiel, built during the Zulu war, and a twelve miles’ journey, ending in a precipitous rise, landed us on the plateau where the battle of Schuin’s Hooghte was fought. Then crossing the drift of the Ingogo, we breakfasted at Virmstone’s roadside inn on the bank of the river.