Part 7 (2/2)

[Footnote 4: _Scotsman_, May 26, 1900.]

='Prepare to meet your G.o.d!'=

A few more words may serve to complete the picture.

When all at once the Highland Brigade stumbled upon the Boer trenches, and speedily all the officers of his company was struck down, Colour-Sergeant McMillan (we believe a member of the Salvation Army) found himself in charge, and, waving his arm, shouted to his men, 'Men of A Company, prepare to meet your G.o.d! Forward! Charge!' The next moment a bullet went through his brain, and he fell dead. But surely that was not the time to prepare for such a dread meeting. Thank G.o.d that _he_ was ready. We have heard him singing for Jesus in the old camp at home, and now he is singing in heaven.

=A Christian Hero.=

Many hours pa.s.sed ere the wounded could be relieved. They lay under the fierce rays of the African sun, suffering agonies from thirst, and no succour could reach them. At last there were those who ventured to their help. But the wounded were many, and the helpers were few. The water-bottles were soon exhausted, but there was one soldier who had a few drops left. He saw two lads lying side by side in the agonies of death. He went to the first and offered him the water still remaining in his bottle. The dying man was parched with thirst, and he looked at the water with a strange, sad longing, and then feebly shook his head.

'Nay,' he said, 'give it to the other lad. _I_ have the water of life,'

and he turned round to die. _That_ was Christian heroism!

But we will not linger longer over this tragic and pathetic tale.

Suffice it, all was done for the wounded that could possibly be done; and that Christian ministers committed reverently to the earth 'until the morning' those who fell so bravely and so suddenly at Magersfontein.

Mr. Robertson shall close the chapter for us, in words as eloquent and as pathetic as any we have read for many years, and with his sad _requiem_ we will let the curtain drop on the tragedy of Magersfontein.

[Ill.u.s.tration: REV. JAMES ROBERTSON.

(By permission of the publishers of _St. Andrew_.)]

=The Scottish Dead at Magersfontein.=[5]

'Our dead, our dear Scottish dead! How the corpse-strewn fields of the Modder, Magersfontein, Koodoosberg, and Paardeberg sorrowfully pa.s.s before me! Let me picture the scene, sad, yet not without its solace to those whose near and dear ones lie buried there, otherwise I would not paint it or reproduce my comments thereon, even by request. 'Tis only a miniature, with a few details, that I attempt to draw. One field--nay, one corner of the field--is descriptive of the rest, so I lift but a little of the dark-fringed curtain.

'Reverently, tenderly, lovingly handle them, and carefully identify them, for their own brave sakes, and that of the bereaved ones far away. There, you will find the ident.i.ty card in the side-pocket.

No, it's missing. Well, then, what's this? A letter; but the envelope's gone. Let me see the signature at the end. Ah, just as I thought, ”Your loving mother!” G.o.d help her, poor body! Ah, boys, don't forget the dear mother in the old home. She never forgets you, but morning, noon, and night thinks and prays for her soldier-son. Mindfulness of her brings G.o.d's blessing; forgetfulness bitter remorse, when too late--after she's gone.

There's something more in the breast-pocket. His parchment probably. No; something better still--a small copy of St. John's Gospel, with his name thereon. Let us hope that its presence there, when every extra ounce carried was a weighty consideration, is more than suggestive of thoughts of higher things. Pa.s.s on. No ident.i.ty card on this body either, but another letter--a sweetheart's one. Oh, the poetry and pathos, the comedy and tragedy of love's young dream! Please see this burnt, sergeant; I don't wish others to read what was meant for his eye alone. Poor la.s.sie!

She'll feel it for a while; but Time is the great healer, and the young heart has wonderfully recuperative powers. There are only two kinds of love, men, that last till death and after--your mother's love and your G.o.d's--and both are yours, yearning for a return.

'Oh, here's a sad group--seven, eight, nine, close together. Who's that in front? An officer. I thought as much. _n.o.blesse oblige_.

Yes, I know him. Are we to bring him with the others? did you ask.

Certainly. What more appropriate resting-place than with the men he so n.o.bly led, and who so gallantly followed him--all alike faithful to the death, giving their life for Queen and country! Pa.s.s on.

Here are three, one close after the other, as they moved from the cover of this small donga. I saw them fall, vieing with one another for a foremost place, for here ”honour travelled in a strait so narrow that only one could go abreast.” All three mere boys, but with the hearts of heroes. A book, did you say, in every one of their pockets? _Prayers for Soldiers_--well marked, too. My friend was right, dear mothers. There _is_ some comfort in the sadness--a gleam of suns.h.i.+ne showing through the gloom.

'Ah, how thick they lie! What a deadly hail of Mausers must have come from that rock-ribbed clump on the kopje. Three--and--twenty officers and men, promiscuously blent; and fully more on that little rise over there, as they showed in sight. G.o.d help their wives and mothers, and strengthen me for this sacred duty! Nay, men, don't turn away to hide the rising sob and tear. I'm past that. I've got a new ordination in blood and tears. It's nothing to be ashamed of--so far the opposite, it does you honour, for ”men of finest steel are men who keenest feel.” Look at this man with the field-dressing in his hand, shot while necessarily exposing himself, trying to do what he could for a wounded comrade. n.o.ble, self-sacrificing fellow! Such deeds illumine the dark page of war.

Of a truth, some n.o.ble qualities grow under war's red rain.

Methinks I hear the Master's voice, ”Well done, good and faithful servant, inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto Me.” Yes! Get these two groups together; we'll make a trench midway. More Gospels and prayer-books, and friendly words for soldiers, and Christian mottoes! I thank G.o.d for that. The sight of them cheers me. Perhaps it should not, but it does. They knew, at least, of the Father's forgiving love, and in their better moments must have thought thereof, otherwise these books would not be there at such a time; and though it does not do to presume too much thereon, who can set a limit to G.o.d's mercy? Who can say what pa.s.sed in those closing moments, while the life-blood was ebbing away? Often in the field I think of Scott's dying soldier--

”Between the saddle and the ground, He mercy sought and mercy found.”

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