On the night of Sunday, October 29th, they tramped out of Ladysmith, a thousand men, none better in the army.
Little they thought, as they exchanged a jest or two with the outlying pickets, that they were seeing the last of their own armed countrymen for many a weary month.
The road was irregular and the night was moonless.

On either side the black loom of the hills bulked vaguely through the darkness.

The column tramped stolidly along, the Fusiliers in front, the guns and Gloucesters behind.

Several times a short halt was called to make sure of the bearings.

At last, in the black cold hours which come between midnight and morning, the column swung to the left out of the road.