On the south side were the masses of our columns, with the
squadrons of Mounted Infantry now detaching themselves from the main
body, and beginning to stream across the level plain towards the same
hills; all with heads bent one way, horses prancing and pulling, and
with all the signs of eager excitement, as though they divined, though
as yet they could not see, the presence of the enemy. Over the dusty
plain they canter, but they are too late by a few minutes. The Boers are
there already, and as the Mounted Infantry come along, passing close
beneath us, an outbreak of rifle-fire occurs, and the dry plain, which
is of perfectly bare earth, is dotted with little white puffs of dust as
the bullets strike along it. The fire is a bit short, but schooled by
this time in "kopje tactics," and realising what is coming, our
squadrons very prudently pull up and wait for the guns. They haven't
long to wait. I always love to see the guns come up. Over stones and
rocks and bushes, six strong horses at the gallop, the drivers lashing
the off horses, the guns jumping and rumbling and swinging; then the
yell, "Action front," and round come the teams with a splendid sweep;
next instant they are cast off and jingle to the rear, and the little
venomous guns are left crouching like toads, looking towards the enemy;
the gunners are upon them before they are at a standstill (everything
happens simultaneously); there is an instant's pause while the barrel
rises, and then comes the naked spurt of fire, no smoke, and the officer
steps clear of the dust and glues his glasses to his eyes as the shell
screams on its way.
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