might be their Capua?

The camp was thought incapable of defence. Artillery could command it
from half a dozen hills. Whoever placed it there was neither strategist
nor humanitarian. It is like the bottom of a frying-pan with a low rim.
The fire is hot, and sand is frying. But, indeed, the whole of Ladysmith
is like that. The flat-topped hills stand round it reflecting the heat,
and in the middle we are now all frying together, with sand for
seasoning. The main ambulance is on the cricket ground. The battalion
tents are pitched among the rocks or by the river side, where Kaffirs
bathe more often and completely than you would otherwise suppose. The
river water, by the way, is a muddy yellow now and leaves a deep deposit
of Afric's golden sand in your glass or basin. The headquarters staff
has seized upon two empty houses, and can dine in peace. The street is
one yelling chaos of oxen in waggons and oxen loose, galloping horses,
sheep, ammunition mules, savages, cycles, and the British soldier. He,
be sure, preserves his wonted calm, adapts himself to oxen as naturally
as to camels, puts in a little football when he can, practises
alliteration's artful aid upon the name of the Boers, and trusts to his
orders to pull him through. His orders are likely to be all right now,
for Colonel Ward has just been put in command of the whole town, and
already I notice a method in the oxen, to say nothing of the mules. What
is it all but a huge military tournament to be pulled together, and got
up to time?

This morning most people expected the attack would begin. I rode five
miles out before breakfast to see what might be seen, but there were
only a few Lancers pricking about by threes, and never a Boer or any
such thing. So we have waited all day, and nothing has happened till
this afternoon the rumour comes with authority that a train has been