Nothing could save him.

He was packed in cold sheets, fanned, and watched day and night.
For a few moments he knew me, and reminded me of a story we had laughed over.

But yesterday evening, after struggling long for each breath, he died--one of the best and most useful men in camp.
If it was fated that I should be laid up for a fortnight or more of the siege it seems that this was about the best time fate could choose.

From all the long string of officers, men, telegraph clerks, and civilians, who, with unceasing kindliness have passed beside my bed bringing news and cheering me up, I have heard but one impression, that this has been the dullest and deadliest fortnight of the siege.

There has been no attack, no very serious expectation of Buller's arrival.