A strong reconnaissance of ours the other day (January 9th) in the
direction of Jacobsdal was a very dignified and solemn exhibition. Our
guns rumbled forward with their eight-horse teams across the plain,
while our cavalry, stretched out in open order at fifty yards apart,
traversed the country in long strings that might have been seen and
admired by the enemy at a distance, I daresay, of twenty miles. Chester
Master took us forward on the left close to the river, where a party of
the enemy, stealing up from the river-bed, tried to cut us off--there
were only six or eight of us--and chivied us back to the main body as
hard as we could go, two miles _ventre a terre_ through the pelting
rain, blazing away from horseback all the time at us, but naturally
doing no harm. We thought we should lead them into a trap when we lifted
the rise, but our troops had all halted far back in the plain, and our
pursuers turned as soon as they saw them. However, we got some men to
join us, and set to work to chase them as they had done us. It was
really quite exciting; little bent figures of horsemen with flapping
hats on ahead, bundling along for dear life, each with its spot of dust
attending, we following, whooping and spurring. But bustled as they
were, the Boers knew the way they were going. There are some narrow
belts of bush that run out from the river into the plain, and as we
neared one of these, crick-crack, crick-crack, the familiar croaking
voices of Mausers warned us against a nearer approach.
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