By permission of the "Daily Graphic."
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The cheerfulness, but not the determination. Baden-Powell wrote home in December, after some two months of the siege, saying that they were all a little tired of it, but just as determined as ever never to submit. And in order to keep up the spirits of the garrison in the hour when it seemed to many Englishmen that Mafeking was to be another Khartoum and he a second Gordon, Baden-Powell began to plan all manner of entertainments for the amusement of the women and children. The special correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette in Mafeking, who sent to his journal some of the most interesting letters received during the siege, bore witness to Baden-Powell's efforts in this direction. In one of his letters he said: "The Colonel does all in his power to keep up the spirits of the people. To-day we have quite a big programme of events—the distribution of flags in the morning, cricket afterwards, general field sports, plain and fancy cycle races, a concert in the afternoon, and in the evening a dance given by the bachelor officers of the garrison. We have no Crystal Palace or monster variety hall, but nevertheless we manage to enjoy ourselves on truce days, and it goes without saying that the institution of sports and pastimes has done wondrous things in the way of relieving the tension on the public mind, and keeping up the health of the population. It may shock the mind of some cranks to hear that we so spend our Sundays; but if such persons wish to test the worth and the wisdom of a rational Sabbath, transfer them here, and let them have a week of shell-fire. They will speedily become converts." During the Matabele campaign, it may be remarked, Baden-Powell always held divine service on Sunday, and even to those whose training makes them regard the playing of innocent games on Sunday an offence, this holiday of Sunday in Mafeking must surely be regarded as a holy-day, pleasing to the Father of men. The love of Baden-Powell for children, his intense eagerness to keep alive the flame of joy in their young hearts, and the spark of hope still burning in the hearts of their defenders, could not, we may be very certain, inspire any decision displeasing to high Heaven.
Baden-Powell's dauntless courage, his brisk unchanging hopefulness, and his unflinching determination to "stick it out," were the inspiration of the splendid little garrison. To many of them surrender would have meant nothing more than release from a diet of horse-flesh and the irritating confinement of a siege; but no man and no woman in Mafeking even breathed the suggestion that Baden-Powell should haul down his flag; and on the hundredth day of the siege Mafeking sent a telegram of loyal devotion to the Queen, whose anxiety for their safety was not concealed from the world. A hundred days have long since passed, and if the request of Lord Roberts that Baden-Powell should hold out to the middle of May turns out to be history, the siege will have lasted considerably over two hundred days. And during these long, long days men have been in the trenches night and day, children crying to their mothers to be taken away from the pitiless rain of Boer bullets and the terrifying scream of Boer shells; day by day fever has crept in to lessen the number of brave men whose faith in the Old Carthusian never once wavered, and to rob poor mothers of their little ones. And with all these distressing experiences to wear him down and sicken his heart, our hero found himself further hampered by treachery in his own camp.
Treachery it was that frustrated Baden-Powell's great effort to break the cordon pressing so relentlessly upon little Mafeking, and by that means open up communication with those marching to his relief. The battle of Game Tree fort, as it is called, is one of those events which thrill the heart with pride, and then at the conclusion bring tears into the eyes with the reflection that so much skill in the planning, so much valour in the execution, should be defeated by base treachery.
Baden-Powell's plans for the taking of this fort were perfectly understood by his officers. The little force entrusted with the work of carrying Game Tree moved out of the town in the dusk of early morning, and in a few minutes the roar of artillery announced the beginning of a desperate fight. The scream of the engine of the armoured train told the men at the guns to cease firing, meaning that Captain Vernon was ready to rush the position with the bayonet. The scene that followed was magnificent. Waving their hats and cheering like schoolboys after a football match, our men started to run through the scrub towards the silent fort. And then as they went, a pitiless fire suddenly poured in upon them, a hail of bullets tore up the ground at their feet, swept down their gallant ranks, like grass before the scythe, and the men realised amid that enclosing and remorseless fire that treachery had forewarned the Boers, that Game Tree was impregnable. But did they waver or turn back? Not them. They were many yards from the fort, and their orders were to storm it. On they rushed, the officers well in front, waving their swords in the air and shouting cheerfully to their men to follow. Three officers, Vernon, Sandford, and Paton, seem to have made a race of it. Through that terrible zone of fire these young Englishmen rushed forward with all the zeal of men striving to be first to touch the tape. Captain Vernon fell ten yards from the thundering fort, and Sandford and Paton were left to fight out that splendid race alone. With a shout from his parched lips, Paton leaped upon the redoubt, caught with his strong hand the corner of a sandbag, jerked it out of position, thrust his revolver through the loophole, and, panting like a man spent, fired into the enemy's midst till he fell, shot through his gallant heart. Sandford, too, had run a great race, and had almost tied with Paton on the post. He flung himself upon the piled wall that could only be broken by heavy artillery, and fell shot through, with his breast almost against the muzzles of the enemy's guns. Nor were the non-commissioned officers and men far behind their valiant leaders; one intrepid sergeant, who was twice wounded, and at some distance from the redoubt, continued the race across the bullet-swept scrub and reached the sandbags almost on the heels of Paton. The men went forward shouting and cheering, unafraid to look death in the face, afraid only to turn back with their faces from the sandbags where the smoke drifted, and from whence the hail of bullets rained. There was no coward among their ranks, and even when the gallant souls realised that the position was impregnable, there was not a single man among them who wavered, or dropped back in the race. From the moment when the order to charge had been given, the attack was an eagerly contested race, with Death sitting on the flaming fort with the crown of glory for their prize.